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THE 



POETICAL WOUIS 



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LOKD BYEON. 



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGED, WITH ILLUSTRATIVE, NOTES 



THOMAS MOORE, _ PR9.1JEaS01,!.' WJLS-^N, ' '^ ,\ 

LORD JEFFREY, ''.' ;J. t'J. P.'^'J^it.i^'i'.'* " 

SIR WALTER SCnTT' GEORGE ELLIS, 

BISHOP HEBER, THOMAS CAMPBELL, 

SAMUEL ROGERS, REV. H. H. MILMAN, 

&c. <kc. <tc. 



WITH A PORTRAIT, AND VIEW OF NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 



NEW-YOKK: 
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

443 &, 445 BROADWAY. 
18G7. 



<Qy-^ 



A 



\4 



^ ^'' 



CONTENTS. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Prkface to the First and Second Cantos 11 

ToIantiie 12 

Canto 1 13 

Canto II 2G 

Canto III 38 

Canto IV 51 

Dedication 51 

THE GIAOUR ; A Fragment of a Turkish Tale 72 

Dedication 72 

Advertisejient "2 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS ; A Turkish Tale ... 87 

Dedication . . .'. 87 

THE CO'RSAIR; A Tale 99 

Dedication 99 



LARA; A Tale. 



118 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 130 

Dedication 130 

Advertisement 130 

PARISINA 141 

Dedication 141 

Advertisement. 141 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON; A Fable..., 148 
Sonnet to Chillon 148 

BEPPO ; A Venetian Story 152 

HAZEPPA 163 

Advertisement 163 

THE ISLAND; Or, Christun and his Com- 
rades 171 

Advertisement 171 

MANFRED ; A Dramatic Poem 185 

MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE ; An 

Historical Tragedy 203 

Preface 203 

HEAVEN AND EARTH; A Myotery 242 

SARDANAPALUS ; A Tragedy 254 

Dedication 254 

Preface 254 

THE TWO FOSCARI ; An Historical Tragedy 287 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED ; A Drama 310 
Advertisement 310 



PAGE 

CAIN; A Mystery 326 

Dedication 326 

Preface 32S 

WERNER ; Or, The Inheritance : A Tragedy 351 

Dedication 351 

Preface 351 

HOURS OF IDLENESS; A Series of Poems, 

Original and Translated 385 

Dedication 385 

Preface 385 

On the Death of a Young Lady, cousin to the 

author, and very dear to him 386 

ToE 387 

ToD 387 

Epitaph on a Friend . 387 

A Fragment 388 

On leaving Newstead Abbey 388 

Lines written in " Letters of an Italian Nun and 

an English Gentleman ; by J. J. Rousseau : 

founded on Facts" 389 

Answer to the foregoing, addressed to Miss 389 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying 389 

Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam 389 

Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibul- 

lus, by Domitius Marsus 389 

Imitation of Tibullus. "Sulpicia ad Cerin- 

thum" 389 

Translation from Catullus. " Lugete Veneres, 

Cupidinesque," &c 389 

Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen, 389 

Translation from Horace. " Justum et tena- - 

cem," &c 390 

From Anacreon. "Oe\ia Xcyav XTpu&as." 390 

From Anacreon. "McaovvxTiais vod'' wpais"... 390 
From the Prometheus Vinctus of ^Eschylus. 

" Mtjiaji' 5 rrdvTa vinav, k. t. X." 390 

To Emma 391 

ToM.S.G 391 

To Caroline 391 

To the same 392 

To the same 392 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camoens. 393 

The First Kiss of Love 393 

On a Change of blasters at a great PubUc School 393 

To the Duke of Dorset 393 

Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage of 

Miss Chaworth 394 

Granta; a Medley 395 

On a Distant View of the Village and School of 

Harrow on the Hill 390 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

ToM 396 

To Woman 397 

ToM. S.G 397 

To Marv, on receiving her Picture 39t4-PI)E TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 470 



ToLesbia 397 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady, who was 
ahrmed at the Sotbid of a Bullet hissing near 

hor 398 

Love's last Adieu 39§ ' 

Damaetas 399 

To Marion 399 

To a Lady who prjesented to the Author a Lock 

of Hair, braided with his own 399- 

- Oscar of Alva. A Tale 400 

The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus 403 

Translation from the Medea of Euripides, 

'■ EfiiOTc; VTTCp jxtv ayav, k. r. X." 406 

Thoughts suggested by a College Examination. . 407 

To a beautiful Quaker 407 

The Cornelian 408 

An Occasional Prologue to " The Wheel of For- 
tune" 408 

On the Death of Mr. Fox 409 

The Tear 409 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on 

the Cruelty of his Mistress 410 

To the sighing Strephon 410 

To Eliza 410 

Lachin y Gair 411 

To Romance 411 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
Friend to the Author, complaining tliat one 
of his Descriptions was rather too warmly 

drawn 412 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey 412 

Childish Recollections 414- 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled "The 

Common Lot" , 41S^ 

To a Lady who presented tlie Author with the 

Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 420 ' 

Remembrance 420^. 

Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his 
advising the Author to mix more with So- 
ciety . 420 

The Death of Calmar and Orla, An Imitation 

of IMacpherson's Ossian 421 

L'Amitie est 1' Amour sans Ailes 422 

The Prayer of Nature 423 

To Edward Noel Long, Esq 424 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine ! 425 

I would I were a careless Child 425 

When I roved a young Highlander 426 

To George, Earl Delawarr 427 

To the Earl of Clare 427 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow .... . . 428 

Article on the " Hours of Idleness," from the 
Edinburgh Review 420 

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEW- 
ERS; A Satire 430 

Preface 430 

HINTS FROM HORACE; Being an Allusion, 
IN English Verse, to the Epistle "Ad Pi- 
soNESj de Arte Poetica" 447 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA 403 



faob 

THE WALTZ; An Apostrophic Hymn 467 

To the Publisher 467 



HEBREW MELODIES 473 

She Walks in Beauty 474 

Tlie Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 474 

Ifthat High World 474 

The wild Gazelle 474 

Oh ! weep for those 474 

On Jordan's Banks 474 

Jephtha's Daughter 474 

Oh ! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 474 

••■My Soul is dark '... . 474 

I saw thee weep , , . . 473 

Thy Days are done 475 

Song of Saul beicre his last. Battle 475 

Saul 475 

" All is Vanity, saith tlie Preacher". , 476 

When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay 476 

Vision of Belshazzar 476 

Sun of the Sleepless 476 

Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be 477 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne 477 

On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem by 

Titus 477 

By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and Wept 477 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 477 

A Spirit pass'd before me. From Job 478 

DOMESTIC PIECES-1816 478 

Fare thee Well 478 

A Sketch 479 

Stanzas to Augusta. " When all around grew 

drear and dark" ■. 480 

Stanzas to Augitsta. " Though the Day of my 

Destiny's over" 480 

Epistle to Augusta. " My Sister! my sweet Sis- 
ter! ifaName" 480 

Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill 482 

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 
HON. R. B. SHERIDAN 483 

THE DREAM 484 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO 486 

Advertisement 486 

ODE ON VENICE 490 

THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI.... 492 
Advertisement 492 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.... 506 

Dedication 500 

Preface 507 

Canto I 507 

Canto II 509 

Canto HI 510 

Canto IV 512 

FRANCESCA OF RIMINI 515 

THE BLUES; A Literary Eclogue .. 517 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 522 

Preface 522 

THE AGE OF BRONZE ; Or, Carmen Secolarh 

et Annus haud Miraeujs... 53(3 



CONTENTS. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES : 1807—1824. 

The Adieu. Written under the Impression that 

the Author would soon die 544 

~ To a vain Lady 545 

To Anne 545 

To tlie same 545 

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning, " Sad is 

my Verse, you say, and yet no Tear" 545 

On finding a Fan 545 

Farewell to the Muse 546 

To an Oak at Newstead 546 

On revisiting Harrow 547 

Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell, a Carrier, 

who died of Drunkenness '. 547 

To my Son : .... 547 

Farewell ! if ever fondest Prayer 547 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul 547 

When we Two parted 548 

To a Youthful Friend 543 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull 549 

Well, thou art happy ! 549 

luBcription on the Monument of a Newfoundland 

Dog 540-1 

To a Lady, on being asked my Resison for quit- 
ting England in the Spring 550 

Remind me not, remind me not 550 

There was a Time, I need not name 550 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 550 

Fill the Goblet again. A Song 551 

Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 553 

Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on board the 

Lisbon Packet 552 

Lines written in an Album at Malta 553 

To Florence 553 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm 553 

Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian Gulf. 554 

The Spell is broke, the Charm is flown ! 554 

Written after swinnning from Sestos to Abydos. 555 
Lines m the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus. . . 555 

Maid of Athens, ere we part 555 

Translation of the Nurse's Dole in the Medea of 

Euripides 556 

My Epitaph 556 

Substitute for an Epitaph 556 

Lines written beneath a Picture 556 

Translation of the famous Greek War Song, 

" AcvTC ira7Scs," &c 556 

Translation af the Romaic Song, "Mzsvot (its 

'to' itipt66\i,^' &c 557 

On Parting 557 

Epitaph for Joseph Blackett, late Poet and Shoe- 
maker 557 

Farewell to Malta 558 

To Dives. A Fragment 558 

On IMoore's last Operatic Farce, or Farcical 

Opera 558 

Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines ex- 
horting the Author to be cheerful, and to 

" banish care" 558 

To Thyrza. " Without a Stone," &c 559 

StEinzas. " Away, away, ye Notes of Wo" 569 

Stanzas. " One Struggle more, and I am free". 560 

Euthanasia. " When Time," &c 500 

Stanzas. " And thou art dead, as young as fair" 561 
Stanzas. " If sometimes in the Haunts of 

Men" 561 

On a Cornelian Heart which was broken . , 562 

Lines from the French , 562 



PAGE 

Lines to a Lady weeping 562 

" The Chain I gave," &c. From the Turkish. . 502 
Lines written on a Blank Leaf of "The Pleas- 
ures of Memory" 562 

Address, spoken at the Opening of Drury Lano 

Theatre, October 10, 1812 562 

Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary 563 

Verses found in a Summer-house at Hales Owen 564 

Remember Thee ! Remember Thee ! 561 

To Time 501 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song ' 565 

Stanzas. " Thou art not false," &c 565 

On being asked what was the "Origin of Love" 565 

Stanzas. " Remember Him," &c 565 

On Lord Thurlow's Poems 566 

To Lord Thurlow 566 

To Thomas Moore. Written the Evening be- 
fore his Visit to ]Mr. Leigh Hunt, in Horse- 

monger-Lane Jail 506 

Impromptu. When from the Heart where Sor- 
row sits" 5G7 

Sonnet, to Genevra 5G7 

Sonnet, to the same 567 

From the Portuguese. " Tu mi chamas" 567 

Another Version 567 

The Devil's Drive. An unfinished Rhapsody. . . 567 

Windsor Poetics 568 

Stanzas for Music. " I speak not, I trace not," 

&C 568 

Address intended to be recited at the Caledonian 

Meeting 568 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas 3Ioore 560 

Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jer- 
sey, on the Prince Regent's returning her Pic- 
ture to Mrs. Mee 569 

To Belshazzar ; .'. . . 570 

Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter Par- 
ker, Bart 570 

Stanzas for Blusic. "There's not a Joy the 

World can give," &c 570 

Stanzas for Music. . " There be none of Beauty's 

Daughters" 571 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba 571 

Ode from the French. " We do not ciurse thee, 

Waterloo" 571 

From the French. " Must thou go, my glorious 

Chief?" 572 

On the Star of "The Legion of Honor." From 

the French 572 

Napoleon's Farewell. From the French 573 

Endorsement to the Deed of Separation, in the 

April of 1810 573 

Darkness 573 

Churchill's Grave 574 

Prometheus 575 

A Fragment. " Could I remount," &c 575 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 575 

Romance muy Dolorbso del Sitio y Toma de 

Alhama .570 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and Con- 
quest of Alhama 576 

Sonetto di Vittorelli. Per Monaca 578 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun 578 

Stanzas for ivfusic. " Bright be the Place of thy 

Soul" 578 

Stanzas for Music. "They say that Hope is 

Happiness" 578 

To Thomas Moore. "My Bark is on the Shore". 578 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova 578 

Song for the Luddites 579 

To Thomas Moore. "What are you doing 

now ?" 579 

So, we'll go no more a roving 579 

Versicles 579 

To Mr. Murray. " To hook the Eeader" 579 

Epistle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori 579 

Epistle to Mr. Murray. " My dear Mr. Blur- 
ray," &C 580 

To Mr. Murray. " Strahan, Tonson," &c 580 

On the Birth of John William Rizzo Hoppner. . . 581 

Stanzas to the Po 581 

Sonnet to George the Fourth, on the Repeal of 

Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Forfeiture 582 

Epigram from the French of Rulhi^res 582 

Stanzas. " Could Love forever," &c 582 

On my Wedding Day 583 

Epitaph for WilUam Pitt 583 

Epigram. " In digging np your Bones, Tom 

Paine," &c 583 

Stanzas. " When a Man hath no Freedom to 

fight for at home," &c , 583 

Epigram. "The World is a Bundle of Hay"... 5S3 

The Charity Ball 583 

Epigram on my Wedding Day 584 

On my Thirty-third Birth Day 584 

Epigram on the Braziers' Company 584 



FACE 

Martial, Lib. L Epist. 1 584 

Bowles and Campbell 584 

Epigrams on Lord Castlereagh 584 

Epitaph on Lord Castlereagh 584 

John Keats 584 

The Conquest. A Fragment 584 

To Mr. Murray. "For Orford and for Walde- 

grave ," &c 584 

The Irish Avatar 585 

Stanzas written on the Road between Florence 

and Pisa 586 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air 587 

Impromptu. " Beneath Blessington's Eyes" ... 587 

To the Countess of Blessington :;87 

Stanzas inscribed—" On this Day I complete my 

Thirty-sixth Year" 587 

DON JUAN. 

Preface 588 

Testimonies of Authors ...,,, 588 

Dedication , , 598 

Preface to Cantos VI. VII. VIII 676 

Letter to the Editor of my " Grandmother's 

Review" 803 

Some Observations upon " Remarks on the First 
and Second Cantos of Don Juan," in Black- 
wood's Alagazine 605 

Appendix 771 



CHRONOLOGY OF LOED BYRON'S LIFE AND WORKS. 



1788. 
Jan, 22L Born, in Holies-street, London, 

1790 — (BBtat. 2.) 
Taken by his mother to Aberdeen. 

1798— (10.) 
May 19. Succeeds to the family title. 
Made a ward of chancery. 
Ilcnioved from Aberdeen to Newstead Abbey 
Placed under the care of an empiric at Nottingham for 
the cure of his lameness. 

1799 — (11.) 

Removed to London, and placed under the care of Dr. 

Baillie. 
Becomes the pupil of Dr. Glennie at Duhvich. 

1800 — (12,) 
Is sent to Harrow School. 

1803 — (15.) 

Passes the vacation at Nottingham and Annesley. — 
And forms an attachment to Miss Chaworth. 

1805 — (17.) 
Leaves Harrow for Trinity College, Cambridge. 

180G— (18.) 
Prepares a collection of his Poems for the press. 
Prints a volume of his Poems ; but, at the entreaty of a 
friend, destroys the edition. 



Oct 



Jan. 

Nov. 



Mar. 
Oct, 



Jan. 

Aug. 
Sept. 



Jan. 
March 



May 
June 

July 

Aug 

Sept 

Oct 



1807— (19.) 
' Hours of Idleness." 



See Fac Similes, 



Publishes 

No. I. 
Begins an epic, to be entitled "Bosworth Field." — And 

writes part of a novel. 

1808 — (20.) 

Passes his time between the dissipations of Cambridge 
and London. 

Takes up his residence at Newstead. — Forms the de- 
sign of visiting India. — Engaged in preparing "Eng- 
lish Bards and Scotch Reviewers" for the press. 

1809 — (21.) 

22. His coming of age celebrated at Newstead. 

13. Takes his seat in the House of Lords. 
6. Publishes "English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers." 

Engaged in preparing a second edition of "English 
Bards" for the press. 

11. Leaves London on his travels, accompanied by 
Mr. Hobhouse. 

30. Writes, on board the Lisbon packet, "Huzza! 
Hodgson, we are going !" 

2. Sails from Falmouth. 

7. Lands at Lisbon.— 17. Leaves Lisbon for Seville 
and Cadiz. 

6. Arrives at Gibraltar.— 19. Takes his departure for 
Malta. 

1. Lands at Malta.— 14. Writes "As o'er the cold se- 
pulchral stone." — "Oh, Lady! when I left the 
shore." — 21. Leaves Malta. — 29. Lands at Prevesa. 

1. Proceeds to Solara, Arta, and Joannini. — 9. Leaves 
Joannini for Zitza. — Composes, during a thunder- 
stoim, "Chill and mirk is the nightly blast." — 
11. Reaches Tepaleen.— 12. Is introduced to All 



Jan. 
Feb. 



April 

May 



July 



Jan. 
Feb. 



May. 

July. 
Aug. 
Oct. 



Pacha. — 26. Returus to Joannini.— 81. Begins the 
first canto of "Childe Harold." 

Nov. 3. Proceeds by sea to Prevesa. — 10. Driven on the 
coast of Siili. — 12. Writes, in passing the Ambracian 
gulf, "Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen." — 
13. Sails down the gulf of Arta. — 14. Reaches Utrai- 
key. — 15. Traverses Acarnania. — 21. Reaches Misso- 
longhi. — And, 25. Patras. 

Dec. 4. Leaves Patras. — 14. Passes across the gulf of Le- 
panto. — 18. Visits Mount I'arnassus, Castri, and Del- 
phi. — 22. Thebes. — 25. Arrives at Athens. 

1810 — (aetat. 22.) 
f Spends ten weeks in visiting the monuments of Athens ; 
making occasional excursions to several parts of At- 
tica. — Writes, "The spell is broke, the charm is 
flown!" — "Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orcho- 
menus." — And "Maid of Athens, ere we part." 
March 5. Leaves Athens for Smyrna. — 7. Visits the ruins of 
Ephesus. — 28. Concludes, at Smyrna, the second 
canto of "Childe Harold." 
11. Leaves Smyrna for Constantinople.— Visits the 

Troad. 
9. Writes " Lines after swimming from Scstos to 
Abydos." — 14. Arrives at Constantinople. 
June. Makes an Excursion through the liosphorus to the 
Black Sea and Cyanean Symplegades. 
14 Departs from Constantinople. — 19. Reaches Athens, 
—Visits Corinth. 

c "",■ ( Makes a tour of the Morea, and visits Velay Pacha. — 
Oct ) Returns to Athens. 

1811 — (23.) 

Takes lip his residence at the Franciscan Convent, 
Athens. — Writes " Dear object of defeated care !" 

Writes "Sons of the Greeks, arise !" — "I enter thy gar- 
den of roses." — And "Remarks on the Romaic or 
modern Greek Language." 
March 12. Writes "Hints from Horace." — 17. "The Curse 
of Minerva." — And "Lines on Parting." 

Leaves Athens for Malta. — 16. Writes "Epitaph for 
Joseph Blackett." — And, 20. " Farewell to Malta." 

Returns to England. 

I. Death of his Mother. 

II. Writes Epistle to a Friend, " Oh ! banish care — 
such ever be." — And Stanzas to Thyrza, " Without a 
stone to mark the spot." 

Dec. 6. Writes " Away, away, ye notes of wo !" 

1812— (24.) 

Jan. Writes " One struggle more, and I am free !" — " When 
time, or soon or late, shall bring." — "And thou art 
dead, as young as fair." 

Feb. 27. Makes his first Speech in the House of Lords. — 
29. Publishes the first two cantos of " Childe Har- 
old." 

Mar. Commits a new edition of " English Bards," &c., to 
the flames. — Writes " If sometimes in the haunts of 
men." — "On a Cornelian Heart which was broken." 
— " Lines to a Lady weeping." — And "The Chain I 
gave !" 

April 19. Writes " Lines on a blank leaf of The Pleasures 
of Memory." 

Sept. Writes " Address on the Opening of Drnry Lane The- 
atre." 

Oct. Writes "The Waltz; an Apostrophic Hymn." — And, 
"A Parenthetical Address by Dr. Plagiary." 

Nov. Writes "Address to Time." — And, "Thou art not 
false, but thou art fickle !" 



10 



CHRONOLOGY. 



1813 — (aetat. 25.) 
Jan. Writes "Renieniber him whom passion's power." 
Mar. Puhlishes "The Waltz" anonymously. 
May. Publishes "The Giaour." See Fac Similes, No. II. 
July. Projects a journey to Abyssinia. 
Sept. Writes " When from the Heart where Sorrow sits." 
Nov Is an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Miss Mil- 

banke. 
Dec. 2. Publishes "The Bride of Abydos."— 13. Writes 

"The Devil's Drive."— 17. And "Two Sonnets to 

Genevra."— 18. Begins "The Corsair."— 31. Finishes 

" The Corsair.' 

1814— (26.) 
Feb. Writes " Windsor Poetics." 
April. 10. Writes "Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte." — Resolves 

to write no more poetry, and to suppress all he had 

ever written. 
May. Begins "Lara." — Writes "I speak not, I trace not." — 

And " Address to be recited at the Caledonian Meet- 
ing." 
Aug. Publishes "Lara." — Writes "Condolatory Verses to 

Lady Jersey." 
Sept. Makes a second proposal for the hand of Miss Mil- 

banke, and is accepted. 
Oct. Writes "Elegy on the Death of Sir Peter Parker." — 

And "Lines to Belshazzar." 
Dec. Writes "Hebrew Melodies." 

1815 — (27) 
Jan. 2. Marries Miss Milbanke. See Fac Similes, No. IIL 
Feb. Writes "There be none of Beauty's Dai'^hters." 
Mar. Writes " Lines on Napoleon Bonaparte's Escape from 

Elba." 
July. Begins "The Siege of Corinth." — And writes " There's 

not a Joy the World can give." — And " We do not 

curse thee, Waterloo." 
Aug. Writes " Must thou go. my glorious Chief ?" — "Star of 

the Brave." — And "Napoleon's Farewell." 
Dec. 10. Birth of his daughter, Augusta Ada. 

1816— (28.) 

Jan. Publishes "The Siege of Corinth." 

Feb. Publishes "Parisina." — Lady Byron adopts the resolu- 
tion of separating from him. 

Mar. 17. Writes "Fare thee well I and if forever." — And, 
29. A Sketch, "Born in the garret." 

April IG. Writes " When all around grew drear and dark." — 
25. Takes a last leaveof his native country. — Proceeds, 
through Flanders and by the Rhine, to Switzerland. 

May. Fegins the third canto of "Childe Harold." 

June. Writes " The Prisoner of Chillon" at Ouchy, near 
Lausanne — Takes up his abode at the Campagne 
Diodati, near Geneva. 

July. Finishes the third canto of "Childe Harold." — Writes 
"Monody on the Death of Sheridan." — Stanzas to 
Augusta, "Though the Day of my Destiny." — "The 
Dream." — " Darkness." — " Churchill's Grave." — 
" Prometheus." — " Could I remount." — Epistle to Au- 
g\is(a, "My Sister, my sweet Sister." — And, "Sonnet 
to Lake Leman." 

Sept. Makes a tour of the Bernese Alps.— Writes "Lines on 
heMring that Lady Byron was ill." — And begins 
" Manfred." 

Oct. Leaves Switzerland for Italy. 

Nov. Takes up his residence at Venice. — Translates "Ro- 
mance Muy Doloroso," &c. ; and "Sonetto di Vitto- 
relli." — Writes " Lines on the Bust of Helen by Ca- 
nova." — "Bncht be the Place of my Soul." — And 
"They say that Hope is Happiness." — Studies the 
Armenian langu.ige. 

1817 — (29., 

Feb. Finishes "Manfred." 

Mar. Translates, from the Armenian, a Correspondence be- 
tween St. Paul and the Corinthians. 

April. Visits Ferrara for a day.— 20. Writes "The Lament of 
Tasso " 



May. Visits Rome for a few days— 5. Writes there a new 

third act to " Manfred." 
June. Begins, at Venice, the fourth canto of " Childe liar 

old." 
Oct. W^rites " Beppo." 

1818 — (aetat. 30) 
July, Writes "Ode to Venice." 
Sept. Finishes the first canto of "Don Juan." 
Oct. Finishes "Mazeppa." 
Dec. 13. Begins the second canto of " Don Juan." 

1819— (31.) 
Jan. 20. Finishes the second canto of "Don Juan." 
April Commences an acquaintance with the Countess Gtiic- 

cioli. — Writes " Stanzas to the Po." 
Aug. Writes "Letter to the Editor of my Grandmother's 

Review." — And " Sonnet to George the Fourth." 
Nov. Finishes the third and ii^th cantos of "Don Juan." 
Dec. Removes to Ravenna. 

1820— (32.) 
Jan. Is domesticated with the Countess Guiccioli. 
Feb. Translates the tirst canto of " Morgante Maggiore." 
Mar. Writes " The Prophecy of Dante."— Translates " Fran- 
cesca of Rimini." — And writes " Observations iipcn 
an Article in Blackwood's Magazine." 
April 4. Begins "Marino Faliero." 
July 16. Finishes " Marino Faliero.'' 
Oct. 16. Begins the tifth canto of " Don Juan." 
Nov. 20. Finishes the fifth canto of "Don Juan." — And 
writes "The Blues; a Literary Eclogue." 

1821 — (33 ) 
Jan. 13. Begins "Sardanapalus." 

Feb. 7. Writes " Letter to John Murray, Esq., on Bowles a 

Strictures upon Pope." 
Mar. 25. Writes " Second Letter to John Murray, Esq.," 

&c. 
May 17. Fir'shes "Sardanapalus." 
June 11. Begins "The Two Foscari.' 
July 10. Finishes "The Two Foscari."— 16. Begins "Cain; 

a Mystery." 
Sept, 9. Finishes "Cain." — Writes " Vision of Judgment." 
Oct. Writes "Heaven and Earth ; a Mystery " 
Nov. Removes to Pisa. — 18. Begins "Werner" — And "The 

Deformed Transformed." 

1822 — (34.) 
Jan. 20. Finishes " Werner." 

Feb Writes the si.xth, seventh, and eighth cantos of "Don 

Juan." 
Aug. Finishes "The Deformed Transformed." — Writes the 

ninth, tenth, and eleventh cantos of "Don Juan." 
Sept. Removes to Genoa. 

1823 — (35.) 
Jan. Writes "The Age of Bronze." 

Feb. Writes "The Island." — And more cantos of "Don 

Juan." 
April. Turns his views towards Greece. 
May. Receives a communication from the Greek Committee 

sitting in London. 
July 14. Sails for Greece. 

Aug. j Reaches Argostoli. — Makes an excursion to Ithaca. — 
Dec. S Waits at Cephalonia the arrival of the Greek fleet. 

1824— (36.) 
5. Arrives at Missolonghi. — 22. Writes "Lines oo 
completing my Th;rty-si.xth Year." — 30. Is appointed 
commander in-chief of an expedition against Le- 
panto. 
15. Is seized with a convulsive fit. See Ftc Similes 
No. IV. 
April 9. His last illness. 
April 19. His Death 



Jan. 



Feb. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



LORD BYRON. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
% Roinaunt. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J'en 
ai feuilletS an assez grand nombre, que j'ai trouv6 6galement mauvaises. Cet examen ne m'a point 6t6 
infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes Ics impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai v6cu, 
m'ont reconcili6 avec elle. Quand je n'aurais tir6 d'autre b6n6fice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regret- 
terais ni Ics frais ni les fatigues. Le Cosmopolite.i 



PREFACE 

[to the first and second cantos.] 

The following poem was written, for tho most part, 
amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were , composed from the author's ob- 
servations in those countries." Thus much it may 
be necessary to state for the correctness of the de- 
scriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched are 
in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. 
There, for the present, the poem stops : its reception 
will determine wliether the author may ventire to 
conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through 
Ionia and Phrygia : these two Cantos are merely ex- 
perimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connection to the piece ; which, however, 
makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been 
suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a 
high value, that in this fictitious character, " Childe 
Harold," I may incur the suspicion of having intend- 
ed some real personage : this I beg leave, once for all, 
to disclaim — Harold is the child of imagination, for 
tho purpose I have stated. In some very trivial par- 
ticulars, and those merely local, there might be grounds 
for such a notion ; but in the main points, I should 
hope, none whatever. 

. It is almost superfluous to mention that the ap- 
pellation "Childe," as "Childe Waters," "Childe 



1 [ParM. de Montbion, Paris, 1798. Lord Byron some- 
where calls it "an amusing little volume, full of French 
flippancy."] 



Childers," &c., is used as more consonant with the 
old structure of versification which I have adopted. 
The " Good Night," in the beginning of the first 
canto, was suggested by " Lord Ma.xwell's Good 
Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. 
Scott. 

With the different poems which have been publish- 
ed on Spanish subjects, there may be fomid some 
shght coincidence in the first part, which treats of the 
Peninsula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the ex- 
ception of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of thia 
poem was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our 
most successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. 
Beattie make« the following observation : — " Not 
long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of 
Spenser, in which I propose to give full scope to my 
inclination, and be either droll or pathetic, descrip- 
tive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humor 
strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the measure which 
I have adopted admits equally of all these kinds of 
composition."^ — Strengthened in my opinion by such 
authority, and by the example of some in the highest 
order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for at- 
tempts at similar variations in the following composi- 
tion ; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their 
failure must be in the execution rather than in tho 
design, sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thom- 
son, and Beattie. 

London, February, 1812. 



2 [" Byron, Joannini in Albania. Begun Oct. 3Ist, 1809. Con- 
cluded Canto 2d, Smyrna, March 28th, 1810. Byron."— MS.] 

3 Beattie's Letters. 



12 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical 
journals have distributed their usual portion of criti- 
cism. To the justice of the generality of their criti- 
cisms I have nothing to object ; it would ill become 
me to quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, 
when, perhaps, if they had been less kind they had 
been more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and 
each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point 
alone shall I venture an observation. Amongst the 
many objections justly urged to the very indiiferent 
character of the " vagrant Childe," (whom, notwith- 
standing many hints to the contrary, I still maintain 
to be a fictitious personage,) it has been stated, that 
besides the anachronism, he is very vnhnightly, as 
the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, 
and so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old 
times, when " I'amour du bon vieux tems, I'araour an- 
tique" flourishe(^ were the most profligate of all possi- 
ble centuries. Those who have any doubts on this 
subject may consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more 
particularly vol. ii. p. 69.' The vows of chivalry were 
no better kept than any other vows whatsoever j and 
the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, 
and certainly were much less refined, than those of 
Ovid. The " Cours d'amour, parlemens d'amour, ou 
de courtesie et do gentilesse" had much more of love 
than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the 
same subject with Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other 
objection may be urged to that most unamiable per- 
sonage Childe Harold, ho was so far perfectly knight- 
ly in his attributes — " No waiter, but a knight tem- 
plar."^ By the by, I fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir 
Lancelot were no better than they should be, although 
very poetical personages and true knights " sans peur," 
though not " sans reproche." If the story of the 
institution of the " Garter" be not a fable, tlie knights 
oi that order have for several centur'cs borne the badge 
of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifierent memory. So 
much for chivairy*. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though Marie-Antoinette was 
quite as chaste as most of those in whose honors 
lances a^greshivered, Bi'rfff'fenights unhorsed. 

Befgre the 'days of Bayard, and down to those of 
S»-Jt)seph Banks, (the most chaste and celebrated of 
ancient and modem times,) few exceptions will be 
found to this statement ; and I fear a little investiga- 
tion will teach us not to regret these monstrous mum- 
meries of the middle ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold" to live his day, such 
as he is ; it had been more agreeable, and certainly 
more easy, to have drawn an amiable character. It 
had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him 



1 [" Qu'on Use dans I'Auteur du roman de G6rard de 
Roussillon, en Provencal, les details tres-circonstanc6s dans 
lesquels 11 entre sur la' reception faite par le Comte Gerard 
a Tambassadeur du roi Charles • on y verra des particularit6s 
singulleres, qui donnent une ttrange id6e des mcEurs et de 
la politesse de ces siecles aussi corrompus qu'ignorans." — 
Memoires sur VAncienne Chevahrie, par M. de la Curne de 
Sainte-Palaye, Paris, 1781, loc. cit.1 

'^ The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. — [By Canning 
and Frere ; first published in the Anti-jacobin, or Weekly 
Examiner J 

3 tin one of his early poems — " Childish Recollections," 
Lord Byron compares himself to the Athenian misanthrope, 
of whose bitter apothegms many are upon record, though 
no authentic particulars of his life have come down to us ; — 

" Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen," &c.] 



do more and express less ; but he never was intended 
as an example, further than to show, that early per- 
version of mird and morals leads to satiety of past 
pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that 
even the beauties of nature, and the stimulus of travel, 
(except ambition, the most powerful of all excite- 
ments,) are lost on a soul so constituted, or rathoi" 
misdirected. Had I proceeded with the poem, this 
character would have deepened as he drew to the 
close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a 
modern Timon,' perhaps a poetical Zeluco.* 
London, 1813. 



TO lANTHE.* 



Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to the hetr displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language coii'.d they 

speak ? 

Ah ! mayst thou 'ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing. 
And guileless beyon'diHope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee,' thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the" rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri° of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
decreed. 



4 [It was Dr. Moore's object, in this powerful romance, 
(now unjustly neglected,) to trace the fatal effects resulting 
from a fond mother's unconditional compliance with the 
humors and passions of an only child. 'With high advan- 
tages of person, birth, fortune, and ability, Zeluco is repre- 
sented as miserable, through every scene of life, owing to 
the spirit of unbridled self-mdulgence thus pampered in in- 
fancy.] 

t [The Lady Charlotte ITarley, second daughter of Ed- 
ward fifth Earl of Oxford, (now Lady Charlotte Bacon,) in 
the autumn of 1812, when these lines were addressed to 
her, had not completed her eleventh year. Mr. Wesl all's 
portrait of the juvenile beauty, painted at Lord Byron's re- 
quest, is engraved in " Finden's Illustrations of llie Lifa 
and Works of Lord Byron."] 

^\Peri, the Persian term for a beautiful intermediate 
order of beings, is generally supposed to be another form 
of our own word Fairy.] 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



13 



Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as tlie Gazelle's,* 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
Tliat smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless hly blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse mtwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 
less require ? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



On, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth. 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will 1 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill • 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine.' 

II. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
All, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight. 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor iji his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 



1 [A species of the antelope. " You have the eyes of a 
gazelle," is considered all over the East as the greatest 
compliment that can be paid to a woman.! 

2 The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are 
the remains of sepulchres hewn In and from the rock. 
" One," said the gTiide, " of a king who broke his neck hunt- 
mg." His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for 
such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, sup- 
posed the Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it is 
paved, and now a cowhouse. On the other side of Castri 
stands a Greek monastery ; some way above which is the 
cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
nnd apparently leadmg to the interior of the mountain ; 
probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
From this part descend the fountain and the " Dews of Cas- 
talie."— [" We were sprinkled," says Jlr. Hobhouse, "with 
tlie spray of the immortal rill, and here, if anywhere, shouJd 
liave lelt the poetic inspiration : we drank deep, too, of the 
spring ; but— (I can answer for myself) — without feehng 
sensible ol any extraordinary effect."j 



III. 

Childe Harold* was he hight : — but whence his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame^ 
And had been glorious in another d^' : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honey'd lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
Disporting there like any other fly, 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into miser}^ 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell. 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. 

V. 

For he through Shi's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss. 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste. 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless revery. 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for wo. 

And e'en for change of scene would seek the sliadea 
below.^ 

VII. 
The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 
It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was piliar'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
Where Superstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen, 

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 



3 [This stanza Is not in the original MS.j 

4 [" Childe Buron."— MS.] 

' [In these stanzas, and indeed thioughout his works, we 
must not accept too literally Lord Byion's testimony agamst 
himself— he took a morbid pleasure in darkening every 
shadow of his self-portraiture. His interior at Newsteau 
had, no doubt, been, in some points, loose and irregular 
enough ; but it certainly never exhibited any thing of the 
profuse and Satanic luxury which the language in the text 
might seejn to indicate. In fact, the narrowness of his 
means at the time the verses refer to would alone have pre- 
cluded this. His household economy, while he remained 
at the abbey, is known to have been conducted on a very 
moderate spale ; and, besides, his usual companions, though 
far from being averse to convivial indulgences, were net 
only, as Mr. Moore says, " of habits and tastes too mtel- 
lectual for mere vulgar debauchery," but assuredly, quite 
incapable of playing the parts of flatterers and parasites.] 



14 



EYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood [brow, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below ; 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow. 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 

X. 
Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun ; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, ho bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel :' 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 

Such partmgs break the heart they fondly hope to heaL 

XI. 

His house, his homo, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,'' 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
Miglit shake the sauitship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, [lino.' 

And traverse Payuim shores, and pass Earth's central 

XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft liim from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 



1 r"Yet deem hitn not from this with breast of steel."— 
MS.] 

2 [" His house, his home, his vassals, and his lands, 

The Dalilahs," &c.— MS.] 

3 [Lord Byron originally intended to visit India.j 

* [See " Lord Maxwell's Good Night," in Scott's Min- 
strelsy of the Scottish Border. Poetical Works.vol. ii. p. 141, 
ed. 1S34.—" Adieu, madam, my mother dear," &c.— MS.] 

6 [This "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of one 
of Lord Bvron's tenants. " Robert I take with me," says 
the poet, iii a letter to his mother ; " I hke him, because, 
like myself, he seems a friendless animal : tell his father he 
is well, and doing well."] 

6 [" Our best goss-hawk can hardly fly 
So merrily along." — MS.] 

' [" Oh, master dear ! I do not cry 

From fear of waves or wind." — MS.] 

8 [Seeing that the boy was " sorrowful" at the separation 
from his parents, Lord Byron, on reaching Gibraltar, sent 
him back to England under the care of his old servant Joe 



XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could striiig, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did flhig, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night."* 

" Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The Niglit-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mewr 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight ; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night ! 

A few short hours and He will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

" Come hither, hither, my little page I* 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship Is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along.^ 

' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind :' 
Yet marvel not. Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind f 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love. 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and one above. 

' My father bless'd me fervently. 

Yet did not much complain ; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
" Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry." 

Murray. " Pray," he says to his mother, " show the lad 
every kindness, as he is my great favorite." He also wrote 
a letter to the father of the boy, which leaves a niost favor- 
able impression of his thoughtfulness and kindliness. " I 
have," he says, " sent Robert home, because the country 
which I am about to travel through is in a slate which 
renders it unsafe, particularly for one so young. I allow 
you to deduct from your rent five and twenty pounds a year 
for his education, for three years, provided I do not return 
before that time, and I desire he may be considered as in 
mv service. He has behaved extremely well"] 
'» [Here follows in the MS. : — 

" My Mother is a high-born dame. 
And much misliketh me ; 
She saith my riot bringeth shame 

On all my ancestry : 
I had a sister once I ween, 

Whose tears perhaps will flow ; 
But her fair face I have not seen 
For three long years and moe."] 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



15 



" Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman,* 

Wliy dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 

Or sliiver at the gale ?" — • 
■• Dcem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

' My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call, 

Wliat answer shall she make V — • 
" Enoitgh, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away.^ 

" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er.^ 
For pleasures past I do not grieve. 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thuig that claims a tear.* 

" And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea: 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog^ will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands ; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands.* 



1 [William Fletcher, the faithful valet ; — who, after a ser- 
vice of twenty years, (" during which," he says, " his Lord 
was more to him than a father,") received the Pilgrim's last 
words iit Missolonghi, and did not quit his remains, until he 
had seen them deposited in the family vault at Huclaiall. 
This unsophisticated " yeoman" was a constant source of 
pleasantry to his master :— e. g. " Fletcher," he says, in a 
letter to his mother, " is not valiant ; he requires comforts 
that I can dispense witli, and siglis for beer, and beef, and 
tea, and his wife, and the devil knows what besides. We 
were one night lost in a thunder-storm, and since, nearly 
wrecked. In both cases he was sorely bewildered ; from 
apprehensions of famine and bancUtti in the first, and drown- 
ing in the second instance. His eyes were a little hurt by 
the lightning, or crying, I don't know wliich. I did what I 
could to console him, but found him incorrigible. He sends 
six sighs to Sally. 1 shall settle him in a farm ; for he has 
served me faitlifuUy, and Sally is a good woman." After all 
his adventures by flood and field, short commons included, 
this humble Achates of the poet has now established himself 
as the keeper of an Italian warehouse, in Charles-street, 
Berkeley Square, wliere, if he does not thrive, every one who 
knows any thing of his' character will say he deserves to 
do so.] 

2 [" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

All this is well to say ; 
But if I in thy sandals stood, 
. I'd laugh to get away."— MS.] 
s ["For who would trust a paramour. 
Or e'en a wedded freere, 
Though her blue eyes were streaming o'er. 
And torn her yellow hair ?" — MS.] 

4 [" I leave England vithout regret — I shall return to it 
without pleasure. lam like Adam, the first convict sentenced 
to transportation ; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no ap- 
]ile but what was sour as a crab."— Lord B. to Mr. Hodgson.'^ 

6 [From the following passage in a letter to Mr. Dallas, it 
would appear that that gentleman had recommended the 
suppression or alteration of this stanza :— " I do not mean to 
exchange the ninth verse in the ' Good Niglit.' I have no 
reason to suppose my dOg better than his brother brutes, 
mankind ; and Argus, we know to be a fable."] 

• [Here follows, in the original MS. :— 



" With thee, my bark; I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st mo to. 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue wave.^ ! 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves I 

My native Land — Good Night !"'' 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone. 
And winds are rude, in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried make every bosom gay : 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on tlicir way, 
And Tagits dashing onward to the deep. 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, [reap. 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 

XV. 

Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for thiQ delicious land ! 
V/hat fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand: 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high command, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.* 

XVI. 

What beautLcs doth Lisboa' first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide. 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,'" 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 



" Methinks it would my bosom glad, 

To change my proud estate. 
And be again a laughing lad 

With one beloved playmate. 
Since youth I scarce have pass'd an hour 

Without disgust or pain, 
Except sometimes in Lady's bower. 

Or when the bowl I drain."] 

7 [Originally, the " little page" and the " yeoman" were 
introduced in the following stanzas : — 

" And of his train there was a henchman page, 
A peasant boy, who served his master well ; 
And often would his pranksome prate engage 
Childe Harold's ear, when his proutl heart did swell 
With sable thoughts that he disdain'd to tell. 
Then would he smile on him, and Alwin smiled, 
W'hen aught that from his young lips archly fell 
The gloomy film from Harold's eye beguiled ; 

And pleased for a glimpse appear'd the woful Childe. 
Him and one yeoman only did he take 
To travel eastward to a far countrie ; 
And, though the boy was grieved to leave the lake 
On whose fair banks he grew from infancy, 
Eftsoons his little heart beat merrily 
With hope of foreign nations to behold, 
And many things right marvellous to see, 
Of which our vaunting voyagers oft have told, 

In many a tome as true as Slandeville's of old."] 

8 [" These Lusian brutes, and earth from worst of 

wretches purge." — MS.] 

3 ["A friend advises UHssipont ; but Lishoa is the Portu- 
guese Word, consequently the best. Ulissipont is pedantic ; 
and as I had lugged in HcUas and Eros not long before, there 
would have been something like an affectation of Greek 
terms, which I wished to avoid. On the submission of Lusi- 
tania to the Moors, they changed the name of the capital, 
which till then had been Ulisipo, or Lispo ; because, in the 
Arabic alphabet, the letter;) is not used. Hence, 1 beheve, 
LisDoa; whence again, the French Lisbonne, and cur 
Lisbon, — God knows which the earher corruption !" — Byron., 
MS.l 

10 f" Which poets, prone to he, have paved virith gold."— 
MS.] 



1(5 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i 



And to tho Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and piide, 
Who hok yet loathe tho hand that waves the sword 
To 6ave them from tlie WTath of Gaul's unsparing 

lord." 

XVII 
But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to bo, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee f 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt' plague, unkempt, un- 

wash'd ; mihurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 
Lo 1 Cintra's^ glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world milock'd Elysium's gates? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep. 
The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
Tho sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep. 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 



XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go. 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest ye at " Our Lady's house of wo ;"* 
Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell. 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo! 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a IlelL 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering— 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er tho shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knifo, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law eecures not 
"life.^ 

XXII. 
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild-flowers round them only breathe 
Yet ruui'd splendor still is lingering theie. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
There thou too, Vathek !* England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.' 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow ; 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou I 



1 rSv comparing this and the tlurteen followang stanzas 
with the account of his progress which Lord Byron sent 
home to his mother, the reader will see that they are the 
exact echoes of the thoughts which occurred to his mmd as 
he went over the spots described— Mooke.] 

2 f" 'Mid many things that grieve both nose and es. —Ma.] 

3 f" To make amends for the filthiness of Lisbon, and its 
still filthier inhabitants, the village of Cintra, about fifteen 
miles from the capital, is, perhaps, in every respect the 
most dehghtful in Europe. It contains beauties of every 
description, natural and artificial: palaces and gardens 
rising in the midst of rocks, cataracts, and precipices ; con- 
vents on stupendous heights ; a distant view of the sea and 
the Tagus , and, besides, (though that is a secondary con- 
sideration,) is remarkable as the scene of Sir Hew Dal- 
rvmple's convention. It unites in itself aJl the wildness of 
the western Highlands with the verdure of the south of 
France."— iJ. to Mrs. Byron, 1809.] 

4 The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa 
Seilora de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some 
distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his 
den over which is his epitaph. From the hiUs, the sea adds 
to the beauty of the view.— xVoie to 1st Edition.— bmce the 
publication of this poem, I have been informed of the mis- 
ftpprehension of the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was 
owing to the want of the tilde or mark over the n, which 
alters the sigr ification of the word: with it, Pena sigmfies 
u. rock ; without it, Pena has the sense I adopted I do not 
think it necessary to alter the passage ; as, though the 
common acceptation aflixed to it is, " Our Lady of the 
Rock," I may well assume the other sense from the severi- 
ii»»« nraftised there. — Note to 2d Edition. 

6^?1 a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the assas- 
sinations in the streets of Lisbon anil its vicinity were not 
confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen ; but that 
Englishmen were daily butchered : and so far from redress 
being obtained, we were requested not to interfere if we 
perceived any compatriot defendmg himself against lus 



allies. I was once stopped in the way to the theatre fct 

eight o'clock in the evening, when the streets were not 
more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to 
an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend: had we not 
fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt that we 
should have " adorned a tale" instead of telling one. The 
crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal : m bicily 
and Malta we are knocked on the head at a handsome aver- 
age nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is ever punished 
6 f" Vathek" (says Lord Byron, in one of us diaries,^ 
" was one of the tales I had a very early admiration of. 
For correctness of costume, beauty of description, and 
power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imita- 
tions ; and oears such marks of onginahty, that those who 
have Visited the East will find some difficulty in^behevrng 
it to be more than a translation. As an eastern tale, even 
Rasselas must bow before it; h/s' happy valley wil not 
bear a comparison with the ' Hall of Ebbs '"-WiUiana 
Beckford, Esq., son of the once celebrated alderman, and 
heir to his enormous wealth, published, at the early age of 
eighteen, " Memoirs of extraordinary Painters ; and in 
the vear after, the romance thus eulogized. After sitting 
for Hindon in several parliaments, this gifted person was 
induced to fix, for a time, his residence m Por ugal, where 
the memory of his magnificence was fresh at the period of 
Lord Byron's pilgrimage. Returmng to England he realized 
all the outward shows of Gothic grandeur m hif^ unsubstan- 
tial pageant of FonthiU Abbey ; and has more recently 
been indulging his fancy vvith another, probably not more 
lastm^mofiument of architectural caprice, in the v-iciiuty 
of Bat 1. It is much to be regretted, that, after a lapse of 
fifty years, Mr. Beckford's literary reputation should con- 
tinue to rest entirely on his juvenile, however remarkable, 
performances. It is said, however, that he has prepared 
spveral works for posthumous publication.] 
n ''WhenWealthandTaste their worst and best have done. 
Meek Peace pollution's lure voluptuous stiU naiai 
shun. '—MS.] 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



17 



Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To hails deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaimces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide ! 

XXIV 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened !' 
Oh ! dome displeasing uMto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scofB incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Whore blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his soul.'' 

XXV. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here P'olly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
And Policy regain'd what arms had lost: 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom I 
Wo to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitauia's coast I 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra I at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret. 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shama 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer. 
To view these champions cheated of their fame. 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, [year? 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming 



1 The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the 
Marchese Marialva. — [" The armistice, the negotiations, 
the convention itself, and the execution of its provisions, 
were all commenced, conducted, and concluded, at the dis- 
tance of thirty miles from Cintra, with which place they 
had not the slightest connection, political, military, or local ; 
yet Lord Byron has gravely asserted, in prose and verse, 
that the convention was signed at the Marquis of Marialva's 
house at Cintra ; and the author of ' The Dairy of an In- 
valid,' improving upon the poet's discoveiy, detected the 
stains of the ink spilt by Junot upon the occasion." — Ns- 
pter's History of the Peninsular War.] 

2 The passage stood differently in the original MS. Some 
verses which the r.oet omitted at the entreaty of his friends 
can now oifend no one, and may perhaps amuse many : — 

In golden characters right well design'd. 
First on the list appeareth one "Junot ;" 
Then certain other glorious names we find. 
Which rhyme compeileth me to place belovt 
Dull victors 1 baffled by a vanquish'd foe. 
Wheedled by conynge tongues of laurels due, 
Stand, worthy of each other, in a row- 
Sir Arthur, Harry, and the dizzard Hew 
Dalrymple, seely wight, sore dupe of t'other tew. 

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome , 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them begsiled. 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
For well I wot, when first the news did come. 
That Vimiera's field by Gaul was lost. 
For paragraph ne paper scarce had room. 
Such Paeans teem'd for out triumphant host. 
In Courier, Chronicle, and eke in Morning Post : 

But when Convention sent his handy-work, 

Pens, tongues, feet, hands, combined in wild uproar ; 

Mayor, aldermen, laid down the uplifted fork ; 

The Bench of Bishops half forgot to snore ; 

Stern Cobbett, who for one whole week forbore 



XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee. 
More restless than the swallow in the ski™: 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For Meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horfse ! to horse !' he quits, forever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage. 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array. 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and frercs — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore 1 ath built* 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen. 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt. 
And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race ') 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place 



To question aught, once more with transport leapt, 
And bit his devilish quill agen, and swore 
With foe such treaty never should be kept, [ — slept! 
Then burst the blatant* beast, and roar'd, and raged, and 

Thus unto Heaven appeal'd the people : Heaven, 
Which loves the lieges of our gracious King, 
Decreed, that, ere our generals were forgiven. 
Inquiry should be held about the thing. 
But Mercy cloak'd the babes beneath her wing . 
And as they spared our foes, so spared we them; 
(Where was the pity of our sires for Byng O* 
Yet knaves, not idiots, should the law condemn . 
Then live, ye gallant knights ! and bless your Judges' 

phlegm ! 
3 [" After remaining ten days in Lisbon, we sent our bag 
gage and part of our servants by sea to Gibraltar, and trav 
elfed on horseback to Seville ; a distance of nearl)- four 
hundred miles. The horses are excellent ; we rode seventy 
miles a-day. Eggs and wine, and hard beds, are all the 
accommodation we found, and, in such torrid weathir, 
quite enough."— B. Letters, 1809.] 

•1 " Her luckless majesty went subsequently mad ; and Dr 
Willis, who so dexterously cudgelled Idngly pericraniurns, 
could make nothing of hers." — Byron MS. [The queen 
labored under a melancholy kind of derangement, from 
whichshe never recovered. Shediedatthe Brazils, in 1816.] 
5 The extent of ^lafra is prodigious ; it contains a palace, 

* "Blatant beast," a figure for the mob, I think first used 
by Smollett in his "Adventures of an Atom." Horace has 
the "bellua multorum capitum :" in England, fortunately 
enough, the illustrious mobility have not even one. 

t By this query it is not meant that our foolish generals 
should have been shot, but that Byng might have been spared, 
though the one suffered and the others escaped, probably for 
Candide's reason, " pour encourager les autres." [See 
Croker's " Bosweil," vol. i. p. 298 , and the Quarterly Re- 
view, vol. xxvii. p. 207, where the question, whether the 
admiral was or wu'S'not a political martyr, is treated at large.J 



18 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
Tho^ toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede; 

And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 

Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 

Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 

knows — 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's 

woes 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet. 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. 
Rise like the roclts that part Hispania's land from Gaul : 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides. 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook. 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the diflerence know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.^ 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd. 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along'' 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast. 
So noted ancient roundelays among.' 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 



convent, and most superb church. The six organs are the 
most beautiful 1 ever beheld, in point of decoration : we did 
not hear them, but were told tliat their tones were corre- 
spondent to their splendor. Mafra is termed the Escurial 
of Portugal. [" About ten miles to the right of Cintra," says 
Lord Byron, in a letter to his mother, " is the palace of Mafra, 
the boast of Portugal, as it might be of any country, in point 
of magnificence, without elegance. There is a convent an- 
nexed ; the monks, who possess large revenues, are courte- 
ous enough, and understand Latin ; so that we had a long 
conversation. They have a large library, and asked me if 
the English had any books in theii country'."— Mafra was 
erected by John V., in pursuance of a vow, made in a dan- 
gerous fit of illness, to found a convent for the use of the 
poorest friary in the kingdom. Upon inquii-y, this poorest 
was found at Jlafra ; where twelve Franciscans lived to- 
gether in a hut. Tliere is a magnificen'; view of the exist- 
ing edifice in " Flnden's Illustrations."] 

» As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. 
That they are since improved, at least in courage, is evident. 
The late exploits of Lord Wellington have efliliced the follies 
of Cintra. He has, indeed, clone wonders : he has, perhaps, 
changed the character of a nation, reconcued rival super- 
stitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before 
his predecessors.— 1812. 

s [" But eie the bounds of Spain have far been pass'd, 
Forever famed m many a noted song."^MS.] 

8 [Lord Byron Lccms to have thus early acquired enough 
of fcpanish to understand and appreciate the grand body of 



Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor dress'd : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk tlie strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. 

XXXV 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic laud ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. • 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic goio ' 
Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent palo, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrona' wail. 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
All ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 

When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee 
wrong*? 

XXXVII. 
Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake I advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar ! 
In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, . 

When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore 7 

XXXVIII. 

Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,^ 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 

ancient popular poetry, — unequEllled m Europe, — which 
must ever form the pride of that niagnificent language. 
See his beautiful version of one of the be.st of the ballads of 
the Granada war— the " Romance muy doloroso del sitio y 
toma de Alhama."] 

« Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spam. Pelagius 
preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, 
and tlie descendants of his followers, after some centuries, 
completed their struggle by the conquest of Granada. — 
[" Almost all the Spanish historians, as well as the voice of 
tradition, ascribe the invasion of the Moors to the forcible 
violation by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the Moors 
Caba, or Cava. She was the daughter of Count Julian, one 
of the Gothic monarch's principal lieutenants, \\ lio, when the 
crime was perpetrated, was engaged m the defence of CeutOj 
against the Moors. In his indignation at the ingratitude of 
his sovereign, and the dishonor of his daughter, Count Julian 
forgot the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, forming an 
alliance with Musa, then the Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he 
countenanced the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens 
and Afi icans, commanded by the celebrated Tarik ; the issue 
of which was the defeat and death of Roderick, and the oc- 
cupation of almost the whole peninsula by the Jloors. The 
Spaniards, in detestation of Florinda's memory, are said, by 
Cervantes, never to bestow that name upon any humaii 
female, reserving it for their dogs."— Sir Walter Sccrr J 

6 [ " from rock to rock 

Blue columns soar aloft in sulphurous wreath, 
Fragments on fragments in confusion knock." — MS.] 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



19 



XXXIX. 

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stand?, 
His blood -red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
M ith death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
F ashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this mom three potent nations meet, 

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet 

XL. 
By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them fromiheirl air, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 

And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
Tlie foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain. 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.' 

XLII. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honor'd fools I' 
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriadsj when they dare to pave their way 
With' human hearts — to what? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed. 
Who could forcfeee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed ! 
Peace to the perish'd I may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle roimd the gaping throng. 
And shine in worthless laj^s, the theme of transient 
song.' 



1. See Appendix, Note A. 

2 ['' There let them rot— while rhymers tell the fools 
How honor dec aS the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Liars avaunt I" — JIS.J 

s ^This stanza is not in the c-iginal MS. It was written 
at Newstead, in August, 1811, shortly after the battle of 
Albuera.] 

* (■" At Seville, we lodged in the house of two Spanish un- 
married ladies, women of character, the eldest a fine woman, 
the youngest pretty. The freedom of manner, which is 
general here, astonished me not a little ; and, in the course 
of further observation, I find that reserve is not the cha- 
racteristic of Spanish belles. The eldest honored your un- 
worthy son with very particular attention, embracing him 
with great tenderness at parting, (I was there but three 
days,) after cutting ofl' a loclc of his hair, and presenting him 
with one of her own, about three feet in length, which I 



XLIV 

Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good. 
And die, that living might have proved he'" shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLV. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla* triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wisli'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude. 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, TjTe might yet survive. 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconsciotts of the coming doom. 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume. 
Nor bleed these patriots with their countrj^'s wounds 
Nor hero War's clarion, but Love's rebeck^ sounds ; 
H^re Folly still his votaries inthralls ; [rounds : 

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund Castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar. 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy 
yet! 

XLVIII. 
How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 
As whilome ho was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el Rey !"* 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
Tlie royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate 

joy- 
send, and beg you will retain till my return. Her last 
words were, ' Adios, tu hermoso ! me gusto mucho.' ' Adieu, 
you pretty fellow ! you please me much.' "—Lord B. to his 
Mother, Aug. 1809.] 

6 [A kind of fiddle, with only two strings, played on by a 
bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into Spain.] 
6 " Viva el Rey Fernando '" Long live King Ferdinand 
is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They 
are chiefly in dispraise of the old king Charles, the Queen 
and the Prince of Peace. 1 have heard many of therr. : 
some of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, tlie 
Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, wr;.s 
born at Badajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was 
originally in the ranks of the Spanish guards ; till ms 
person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the 
dukedom of Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man tliat 
the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their coun- 
try. 



20 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host. 
Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 

And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 
lost. 

L. 
And whomsoe'er along the path yovi meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet :' 
Wo to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true : 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman nie. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak, 

Coidd blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 
smoke. 

LI. 
At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the batterj^'s iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road. 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd. 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch> 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 

The ball-piled pyramid,'^ the ever-blazing match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
A little moment deigneth to delay : 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, 
And thou shalt viovr tliy sous in crowds to Hades huxl'd. 

LIII. 

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave, 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign? 
No step between submission and a grave ? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
Tlie Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart 
of steel ? 



1 The red cockade, with " Fernando VII.," in the centre. 

2 All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal 
form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena 
was fortified in every defile througli which I passed in my 
way to SevUle. 

" Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by 
hej valor elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. 
\Vhcn the author was at Seville, she walked daily on the 
Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of 
the Junta. — [The exploits of Augustma, the famous heroine 
of both the sieges of Saragoza, are recorded at length in 
Southcy's History of the Peninsular War. At the time when 
the first attracted notice, by mounting a battery where her 
lovo had fallen, and working a gun in his room, she was in 
her twouty-second year, exceedingly pretty, and in a soft 



LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused. 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar. 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 

Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to 
tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you beer her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 

Tlrin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chasa 

LVI 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no '11-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — ehe checks their base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying hcst : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush 'd hope is lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a liattor'd wall ?^ 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazon^, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remotw females, famed for sickening prate ; 

Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as 
great. 

LVIII. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch :* 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest. 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : • 

Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 

How poor their forms appear . how languid, wan, and 
weak! 



feminine style of beauty. She has further had the honor to 
be painted by AVilkie, and alluded .o in Wordsworth's Dis- 
sertation on the Convention (misn imed) of Cintra ; wncrc 
•a noble passage concludes in these words : — " Saragoza has 
exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth,— yet con- 
solatory and full of joy, — that when a people are called 
suddenly to fight for their liberty, and are sorely pressed 
upon, their best field of battle is the floors upon wfiicb their 
children have played ; the chambers where the famuy of 
each man has slept ; upon or under the roofs by which they 
have been sheltered ; in the gardens of their recreation ; iii 
the street, or in the market-place ; before the altars of their 
temples, and among their congregated dwellinge, bl&^ing 
or uprooted."] 
4 " Sigilla in mento impressa Amoris digitiiVo 

Vestigia demonstrant mollitudintni." Aul. Gbl 



Oanto I. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



21 



LIX. 

Match me, ye climea ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harems of the laud ! where now' 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ;' 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters' — deign to 

know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find. 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus !* whom I now survey, 
Not m the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay. 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine EcJioes with his string. 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave 
her wing. 

LXI. 

Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gQze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee I* 

Lxn. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whoso.fatt) to distant homes confined their lot. 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene. 
Which others rave of, though they know it not? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
And thou, tho Muses' seat, art now their grave,' 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot. 
Sighs in the gule, keeps silence in the cave. 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yt-:: >nelodious wave.'' 



1 This stanza was written in Turkey. 

2 [" Beauties tha leed n » fear f -roken vow." — MS.] 

3 [" L:>^■r black hair, darK .anguiav.mg eyes, clear olive 
complexioi s, and forms more graceful in motion than can be 
conceived by an Englishman, used to the drowsy, listless air 
of his coui tryT.'^men, added to the most becoming dress, 
and. at the saiV.s .,:me, the most decent in the world, render 
a Spanish beauty irresistible."— B. to his Mother, Aug. 1809.] 

4 These stanzas were written in Castri, (Delphos,) at the 
foot of Parnassus, now called AiaKvpa, (Liakura,) Dec. 1809. 

6 [" Upon Parnassus, going to the fountain of Delphi, 
(Ca.stri,) in 1809, I saw a flight of twelve eagles, (Hobhouse 
says they were vultures— at least in conversation,) and I 
seized the omen. On the day before, I composed the lines 
to Parnassus, (in Childe Harold,) and on beholding the 
birds, had a hope that Apollo had accepted my homage. I 
have at least had the name and fame of a poet, during the 
poetical period of life, (from twenty to thirty ;) — whether it 
will last is another matter : but I have been a votary of the 
deity and the place, and am grateful for what he has done 
in my behalf, leaving the future in his hands, as I left the 
past"— B. Diari/, 1821.] 

^ [" Casting the eye over the site of ancient Delphi, one 
cannot possibly imagine what has become of the walls of 
the numerous buildmgs wliich are mentioned in the history 
of its former magnificence, — buildings which covered two 
miles of ground. With the exception of the few terraces 
or supporting walls, nothing now appears. The various 



Lxin. 

Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,' 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt 

LXIV 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount . when Greece wae 

young. 
See round thy giant base a ttighter choir. 
Nor e'er .iid Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire. 
Behold a trai:i more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than AnJtIusia's maids, ' 
Nursed in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peacefu. shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 

LXV. 

Fair is prouc Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient daysf 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast. 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'soape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ?'" 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape. 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXVI. 

■When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time I 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a cliine ; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea. 
To naught else constant, hither deign'd to flee ; 
And fix'd her shrine witlain these walls of white ; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, fo? ?ver blazing brigh 



robberies by Sylla, Nero, and Constantino, are inconsider 
able ; for the removal of the statues of bronze, and marble, 
and ivory, could not greatly aflect the general appearance 
of the city. The acclivity of the hill , and the formdations 
being placed on rock, without cemen would no doubt ren- 
der them comparatively easy to be removed or hurled down 
into the vale below ; but the vale exhibits no appearance of 
accumulation of hewn stones ; and the modern village 
could have consumed but few. In the course of so many 
centuries, the debris from the mountain must have covered 
up a great deal, and even the rubbish itself may have ac- 
quired a soil sufficient to conceal many noble remains from 
the light of day. Yet we see no swellings or risings in the 
ground, indicating the graves of the temples. All therefore 
is mystery, and the Greeks may truly say, ' Where stood 
the walls of our fathers 1 scarce the mossy tombs remain 1' " 
—H. W Williams's Travels in Greece, vol. li. p. 254.] 

' [" And walks with glassy steps o'er Aganippe's wave." 
—MS.] 

6 [" Some glorious thought to my petition grant."— MS.] 

8 Seville was the HispaUs of the Romans. 

10 ['< The lurking lures of thy enchanting gaze."— MS.] 

n [" Cadiz, sweet Cadiz !— it is the first spot in the crei 
tion. The beauty of its streets and mansions is only ex- 
celled by the liveliness of its inhabitants. It is a complete 
Cythera, full of the finest women in Spain ; the Cadiz 
belles being the Lancashire witches of their land."— iord B 
to his Mother, 1809.] 



22 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



LXVII. 

From mom till night, from night till startled Mom 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Naught intermpts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.' 

LXVIII. 

Tlie Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest 
What hallows it upon this Cliristian shore 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snufFs the spouting gore 
Of man aiid steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng'd arena shakes with shoi^s for more ; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair. 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl ; 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repah ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.^ 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?^ 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, . 
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn. 
And consecrate the oath* with draught, and dance till 
morn.*- 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, ' 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine. 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 



• [ ■ monkish temples share 

The hours misspent, and all in turns is love and prayer." — 
MS.] 

s [" And droughty then alights, and roars for Roman 
purl."— MS.] 

3 This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the 
best situation for askmg and answering such a question ; 
not as the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of Boeotia, 
wherj the first riddle was propounded and solved. 

^ [Lord Byron alludes to a ridiculous custom which for- 
merly prevailed at the public-houses in Highgate, of ad- 
ministering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the mid- 
dling rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a 
pair of horns, fastened, " never to kiss the maid when he 
could the mistress ; never to eat brovni bread when he 
could get white ; never to drink small beer when he could 
get stiong," with many other injunctions of the like kind,— 
to all which was added the sa\Tflg clause,—" unless you 
like it best."j 



LXXII. 

The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye. 
Yet ever well incUijed to heal the wound ; 
None through tlieir cold disdain are doom'd to die 
As moon-struijLbards complain, by Love's sad archery 

Li<xin. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds,^ 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
Rich are their scarfs, tlieir chargers featly prance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance. 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay 

LXXIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd. 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed. 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — ■ 
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail : red rolls his eye's dilated glow 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe* the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscath'd he goes ; 
Streams from liis flank the crimson torrent clear : 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak 
his woes. 



6 ^" In thus mixing up the light with the solemn, it was 
the intention of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But it is far 
easier to rise, with grace, from the level of a strain gener- 
ally familiar, into an occasional short burst of pathos or 
splendor, than to interrupt thus a prolonged tone of solem 
nity by any descent into the ludicrous or burlesque. In the 
former case, the transition may have the effect of softening 
or elevating ; while, in the latter, it almost invariably 
sliccks ;^for the same reason, perhaps, that a trait of pathos 
or high feeling, in comedy, has a pecuiiar caarm ; vvnile 
the intrusion of comic scenes into tragedy, liowever sanc- 
tioned among us by habit and authority, rarely fai's to of- 
fend. The poet was himself convinced of the failure of tlie 
experiment, and in none of the succeeding cantos of Childo 
Harold repeated it." — Moore.] 

6 [" The croupe is a particular leap taught m the ma- 
nege."— MS.] 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



23 



LXXVII. 

Again ho comes ; nor dart iior lance avail, 
Nor tlie wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One valiant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
Another, hideous sight ! nnseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd ha 
bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast. 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
And now the Matadores around him play. 
Shako the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand. 
Wraps his tierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand I^ 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheath'd in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle .dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — ? 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now on« phalanx'd host should meet the foe, 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remaiji. 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 
stream must flow.' 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts. 
His wither'd sentinel. Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage. 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Wlao late so free as Spanish girls were se^i, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green. 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-lovLng 
Queen? 



1 [The reader will do well to compare Lord Byron's ani- 
mated picture of the popular " sport" of the Spanish nation, 
with the very circumstantial details contained in the charm- 
ing " Letters of Don Leucadio DoWado," (j. e. the Rev. 
Blanco White,) published in 1622. So inveterate was,' at 
one time, the rage of the people for this amusement, that 
even beys mimicked its features in their rlay. In the 
slaughter-house itself the professional bull-fighter gave 
public lessons ; and such was the force of depraved custom, 
that ladies of the highest rank were not ashamed to appear 
amidst the filth and horror of the shambles. The Spaniards 
received this sport from the Moors, among whom it was 
celebrated with great pomp and splendor.^See various 
Notes to Mr. Lockhart's Collection of Ancient Spanish 
BoUads. IBS'? ] 



LXXXII. 

Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved. 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs* 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.* 

LXXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind. 
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb. 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
Pleasure's palFd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow cursed Cam's miresting doom * 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
Naught that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay. 
To charm* as fair as those that sooth' d his happier day. 



TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

2. 
And dost thou ask, what secret wo 

I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, e'en thou must fail to sooth ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate. 

Nor low Ambition's honors lost. 

That bids me loathe my present state, 
And fly from all I prized the most : 

4. 
It is that weariness which springs 

From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
To me no pleasure Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



2 [" The trophy corse is rear'd— disgusting prize'' — 

Or, 
" The corse is rear'd-:-sparkling the chariot flies." — MS.] 

3 [" The Spaniards are as revengeful as ever. At Santa 
Otella I heard a young peasant threaten to stab a woman, 
{an old one to be sure, which mitigates the offence,) and 
was told, on expressing some small surprise, that this ethic 
was by no means uncommon." — MS.] 

4 " Medio de fonte leporum, 

Surgit amari aliquid quod m ipsis floribus angaL'- 
Luc. 
6 [" Some bitter bubbles up, aid e'en on roses stings."— 
MS 1 



24 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 
Tliat will not look beyond the tomb, 

But cannot hope for rest before 
6. 
What Exile from himself can flee V 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The Wight of life— the demon Thought.'' 
7. 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake ; 
Oh ! may they still cf transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go. 

With many a retrospection cursed ; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst 
9. 
What is that worst ? Nay do not ask — 

In pity from the search forbear: 
Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.' 

LXXXV. 

Adieu, fail Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? 

1 [" What Exile from himself can flee 1 
To other zones, howe'er remote, 
Still, still pursuing clings to me 
The blight of life— the demon Thought."— MS.] 
« [" Written January 25, 1810."— MS.] 
s In place of this song, which was written at Athens, 
January 25, 1810, and which contains, as Moore saya, " some 
of the dreariest touches of sadness that ever Byron's pen let 
fall," we find, in the first draught of the Canto, the follow- 
ing:— 

1. 
Oh never talk agam to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not been ycur let ;o see, 

Like rc?, tlis ovs.y gir. of Cadiz. 
Although hsr eye be not of blue. 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 
The languid azure eye surpasses .' 
2. 
Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The fire, that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot lude their flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow hei raven tresses, 
You'd swear sash clustering lock could feel. 
And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 
3. - 

Our English maids are long to wo'; 

And frigid even in possession ; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession : 
But, born beneath a brighter sun. 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, 
And who,— when fondly, fairly won, — 
Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ? 
4. 
The Spanish maid is no coquette. 
Nor joys to see a lover tremble. 
And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it will not bend to gold, 
'TwUl love you long and love you dearly 
5. 
The Spanish girl that meets your love 
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 
Her passion in the hour of trial. 
Whea thronging foemen menace Spain, 
She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 



When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen th)'^ streets to dye ; 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud :* 
Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry ! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
They fight for freedoi i who were never free ; 
A Kiugless people for a nerveless state. 
Her vassals combat wl.en their chieftains flee. 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachary ; 
Fond of a land which gave them naught but life. 
Pride points the path that leads tj liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, " War even to the kuifo !"^ 

LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 

^ From flashing cimeter to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife. 
So may he make each cursed oppressor bleed, 

So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 



And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 
6. 
And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or .sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero. 
Or counts her beads with fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chant the sweet and haUow'd vesper ; — 

In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her ; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a cUme 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is. 
But none abroad, and few at home. 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 
< Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the govern 
or of Cadiz, in May, 1809. 

5 " War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French gen- 
eral at the siege of Saragoza. [In his proclamation, also, he 
stated, that, should the French commit any robberies, de- 
vastations, and murders, no quarter should be given them. 
The dogs by whom he was beset, he said, scarcely left him 
time to clean his sword from their blood, but they still found 
their grave at Saragoza. All his addresses were in the same 
spirit. " His language," says Mr. Southey, " had the high 
tone, and something of the inflation of Spanish romance, 
suiting the character of those to whom it was directed." 
See History of the Peninsular War, vol. iii. p. 152.] 

6 The Canto, in the original MS., closes with the follow 
ing stanzas : — 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know. 
Sights, Saints, Antiques, Arts, Anecdotes, and War, 
Go 1 hie ye hence to Paternoster Row — 
Are they not written in the Book of Carr,* 
Green Erin's Knight and Europe's wandering star . 
Then listen, Readers, to the Man of Ink, 
Hear what he did, and sought, and wrote afar ; 
AH these are coop'd within one Quarto's brink, 
This borrow, steal,— don't buy, — and tell us what you think 



* Porphyry said, that the prophecies of Daniel were 
written after their completion, and such may be my fate 
here ; but it requires no second sight to foretell a tome , 
the first glimpse of the knight was enough. [In a letter writ- 
ten from Gibraltar, August 6, 1809, to his friend Hodson, Lord 
Byron says — " I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and Ca- 
diz ; and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my aaees 
to beg he would not put me into black and wliite."] 



^^W 



Canto i. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



35 



LXXXVIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
IfX)k o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Lt'ok on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, [stain, 
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw . 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
Fresh legions pom" adown the Pyrenees : 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unro- 
strain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
Not Albuera lavish of the dead. 
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? 
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night. 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ! 



There may you read, with spectacles on eyes. 
How many VVellesleys did embark for Spain, 
As if therein they meant to colonize, 
How many troops y-cross'd ihe laughing main 
That ne'er beheld the said return again : 
How many buildings are in such a place, 
How many leagues from this to yonder plain. 
How many relics each cathedral grace, 
And where Giralda stands on her gigantic base. 

There may you read (Oh, Phcsbus,- save Sir John ! 
That these my words prophetic may not err) 
All that was said, or sung, or lost, or won. 
By vaunting Wellesley or by blundering Frere, 
He that wrote half the " Needy Knife-Grtnder."* 
Thus poesy the way to grandeur paves — 
Who would not such diplomatists prefer ? 
But cease, my Muse, thy speed some respite craves, 
Leave Legates to their house, and armies to their graves. 

Yet here of Vulpes mention may be made, 
Who for the Junta modell'd sapient laws, 
Taught them to govern ere they were obey'd : 
Certes, fit teacher to command, because 
His soul Socratic no Xantippe awes ; 
Blest with a dame in Virtue's bosom nursed, — 
With her let silent admiration pause I 
True to her second husband and her first : 
On such unshaken fame let Satire do its worst. 

1 The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who 
diedof afeveratCoimbra, (May 14, 1811.) Ihadknownhim 
ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of 
mine. In the short space of one month, I have lost her who 
gave me being, and most of those who had made that being 
tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction : — 
"Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice'' 
Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain, 
And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn." 
I snould have ventured a verse to the memory of tho late 
J.'.iiarles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing Co lege, 
Cambricige, were he not too much above all praise of mine. 
H;s powers of mind, showii in the attainment of greater hon- 
ors, against the ablest candidates, than those of any gradu- 
ate on record at Cambridge, have sufficiently established 

* [The " Needy Knife-grinder," in the Anti-jacobm, was 
a joint production of Messrs. Frere and Canning.] 



XCI. 

And thou, my friend !' — since unavailing wo 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low. 
Pride might forbid, e'en Friendship to complain: 
But thus mrlauroU'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst t^iou done to sink so peacefully to rest 

xcn. 

Oh, known tho earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where naught was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days forever lost, 
In dreams deny mo ntt to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew ti t tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

xcin. 

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know. 
Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands 
were queH'd.' 



his fame on the spot where it was acquired ; while his softer 
qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved him 
too well to envy his superiority. — [This and the folloM mg 
stanza were added in August, 1811. In one of his sc.'.ooi- 
boy poems, entitled " Childish Recollections," Lord Byron 
has thus drawn the portrait of young Wingfield : — 
" Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise ; 
The praise is liis wlio now that tribute pays. 
Oh .' in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipates the words of truth. 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. 
Oft have we drain'd the fount of ancient lore. 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still for more ; 
Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one. 
In every element, unchanged, the same. 
All, all that brothers sliould be, but the name." 
Matthews, the idol of Lord Byron at college, was drowned, 
wdiile bathing in the Cam, on the 2d of August. The folj ow- 
ing passage of a letter from Nevvstead to his friend Sc: ope 
Davies, written immediately after the event, bears the im- 
press of strong and even agonized feelings : — " My desrest 
Davies ; some curse hangs over me and mine. My mother 
lies a corpse in the house ; one of my best friends is drowned 
in a ditch. What can I say, or think, or do 1 I received a k tier 
from him the day before yesterday. My dear Scrope, if you 
can spare a moment, do come down to me — I want a fnand. 
Matthevvs's last letter was written on Friday,— on Satui day 
he was not. In ability, who was like Matthews 1 How did 
we all shrink before him ! You do me but justice in sayiog I 
would have risked my paltry existence to have preserved Ids. 
This very evening did I mean to write, inviting him, jis I 
invite you, my veiy dear friend, to visit me. What will our 
poor Hobhouse feel 1 His letters breathe but of Matthews 
Come to me, Scrope, I am almost desolate — left alnios*" 
alone in the world I" — Matthews was the son of Jolm Mat- 
thews, Esq., (the representative of Heiefordshire, in the 
parliameat of 1802-6,) and brother of the author of " Tie 
Diary of an Invalid," also untimely snatched away.] 

2 ["Beloved the most."— MS.] 

3 [" Dec. 30th, 1809."— MS.] 



26 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto it. 



OHILDE HAKOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



I. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of lieaven ! — but thou, alas I 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,' 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow. 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on poiish'd breasts 
bestow. 

II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena !^ where, 
Wliere are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things 

that were : 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal. 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering 

tuwer, 
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of 

power. 



- Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a 
magazine during the Venetian siege.— [On the highest part 
of Lycabettus, as Chandler was informed by an eye-witness, 
the Venetians, in 1687, placed four mortars "and six pieces of 
cat Jion, when they battered the Acropolis. One of the bombs 
was fatal to some of the sculpture on the west front of the 
Paithenon. " In I6G7," says Mr. Ilobhouse, " every antiquity 
of which there is now any trace in the Acropolis, was in a 
tiilerable state of preservation. This great temple might, at 
tliat period, be called entire; — having been previously a 
Christian church, it was then a mosque, the most beautiful 
in the world. At present, only twenty-nine of the Doric 
commns, some of which no longer support their entablatures, 
a id part of the left wall of the cell, remain standing. Those 
of the north side, the angular ones excepted, hav« all fallen. 
The portion yet standing, cannot fail to fill the mind of the 
indifferent spectator with sentiments of astonishment and 
aws ; and the same reflections arise upon the sight even of 
enormous masses of marble ruins which are spread upon 
the area of the temple. Such scattered fragments will soon 
constitute the sole remains of the Temple of Jlinerva."] 

2 We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the 
ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, are beheld : the 
reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require 
t ecapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the 
vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of 
t alor to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than 
ill the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what 
she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty fac- 
t .ons, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposi- 
t'.on of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is 
now become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturb- 
ance, between the bickering agents of certain British nobility 
and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the 
riins of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such in- 
habitants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their 
tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of 
war, incidental to the bravest ; but how are the mighty fallen, 
when two painters contest the privilege of plundertn/^ the 
Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of 
ench succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, PliiUp sub- 
d'le, and Xerxes burn Athens ; but it remained for the paltry 
antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her con- 
temptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, be- 
fore its destruction in part, by fire during the Venetian siege, 



III. 

Son of the moniing rise ! approach you here I 
Come — but molest not you defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their turn : 
'Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and otlier creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his vi<;tim bleeds ; 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built 
ou reeds.' 

IV. 

Bound to the earxh, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
Is't not enough, ujJiappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a ixxjn so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, bo 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
Still wilt thou dream'' on future joy and wo? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. , 

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty motind ; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :* 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weepe, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove you skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd cell ! 



had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point 
of view it is an object of regard : it changed its worshippers ; 
but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : 
its violation is a triple sacrifice. But — 

" Man, proud man, 

Dress'd in a little brief authority. 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 

As make the angels weep." 
3 [In the original MS. we find the following note to this 
and the five following stanzas, which had been prepared for 
publication, but was afterwards v\'ithdrawn, " from a fear," 
says the poet, " that it might be considered rather as an at- 
tack, than a defence of religion :" — " In this age of bigotry, 
when the puritan and priest have changed places, and the 
wretched Catholic is visited with the ' sins of his fathers,' 
even unto generations far beyond the pale of the command- 
ment, the cast of opinion in these stanzas will, doubtless, 
meet with many a contemptuous anathema. But let it be 
remembered, that the spirit they breathe is desponding, not 
sneering, skepticism ; that he who has seen the Greek and 
Moslem superstitions contending for mastery over the former 
shrines of Polytheism— who has left in his own, ' Pharisees, 
thanking God that they are not like publicans and sinners,' 
and Spaniards in theirs, abhorring the heretics, who have 
holpen them in their need, — will be not a little bewildered, 
and begin to think, that as orly one of them can be right, 
they may, most of them, be wrong. With regard to morals, 
and the effect of religion on mankind, it appears, from all 
historical testimony, to have had less effect in making them 
love their neighbors, than inducing that cordial Christian 
abhorrence between sectaries and schismatics. The Turks 
and Quakers are the most tolerant : if an Infidel pays his 
heratch to the former, he may pray how, when, and where 
he pleases ; and the mild tenets, and devout demeanor of 
the latter, make their lives the truest commentary on the 
Sermon on the Mount."] 

i [" Still wilt thou harp."— MS.] 

5 It was not always the custom of the Greeks to bum their 
dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. 
Almost all the chiefs became gods aftei their decease ; and 
he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games noar 
his tomb, or festivals in honor of his memory by liis country- 
men, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c.,. and at last even Antmous, 
whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. 



Canto n. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



27 



VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
Tlie dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul: 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And jPassion's host, that never brook'd control 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 

VII. 

Well didsil thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
" All that we know is, nothing can bo known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore. 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vaiu of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors light I 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hoar no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveai'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the 
right !^ 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead. 
When busy memory flaslies on my brain ? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain. 
Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest i' 



1 [In the original MS., for this magnificent stanza, we find 
what follows : — 

" FrovMi not upon me, churlish Priest I that I 
Look not for life, where life may never be ; 
I am no sneerer at thy phantasy ; 
Thou pitiest me, — alas ! I envy thee, 
Thou bol discoverer ih an unknown sea. 
Of happy sles and happier tenants there ; 
I ask tliee not to prove a Sadducee , 
Still dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where, 

But lov'st too well to bid thine erring brother share."] 

2 [Lord Byron wrote this stanza at Newstead, in October, 
1811, on hearing of ti^.3 death of liis Cambridge friend, young 
Eddlestone ; "makmg," he says, "the sixth, within four 
months, of friends and relations that I have lost between 
May and the end of August." See post, Hours of Idleness, 
" The Cornelian."] 

3 [" The thought and the expression," says Professor 
Clarke, in a letter to Lord Byron, " are here so truly Pe- 
trarch's, that I would ask you whether you ever read,— 

' Poi quando '1 vero sgombra 
Quel dolce error pur li medesmo assido, 
Me freddo, pietra morta in pietra viva ; 
In guisa d' uom che pensi e {iange e scriva ;' 

Thus rendered by Wilmot, — 
' But when rude truth destroys 
The loved illusion of the dreamed sweets, 
/ sit mc down on the cold rugged stone, 

Less :tAd, less deqd than I, and think and weep alone ' "] 



Here let me sit upon this massy stone,' 
The marble cohmin's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne : 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eve 
Restore what Time hath labor'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh : 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carole by 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to iiee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
Blufeh, Caledonia ! such thy son could be I 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Tliy free-born men should spare what once was free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine. 
And bear these altars o'er the long -reluctant brine.* 

XII. 

But most the modem Pict's ignoble boast, 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Tiinei hath 

spared : 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast,*' 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prcparfid. 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,'' 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's chains. 

XIII. 

Wliat ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom WTimg, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
The ocean qu'een, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand.' 



4 The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen col- 
umns,- entirely of marble, yet survive : originally there 
were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are 
by many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 

6 See Appendix to this Canto, [A,] for a note too long to be 
placed here. The ship was wrecked in the Archipelago. 

6 [" Cold and accursed as his native coast."— MS.] 

' I cannot resist availing myself of the permission of my 
friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with 
the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to 
my testimony, to insert the following extract from a very 
obliging letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines : — 
" When the last of the metopes was taken from the Parthe- 
non, and, in moving of it, great part of the superstructure 
vnth one of the triglyphs was thrown down by the workmen 
whom Lord Elgin employed, the DiscKir, who beheld the 
mischief done to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, 
dropped a tear, and, in a supplicating tone of voice, said to 
Lusieri, TAoj ! — I was present." The Disdar alluded to 
was the father of the present Disdar. 

8 [After stanza xiii. the original MS. has the following :— 
" Come, then, ye classic Thanes of each degree 

Dark Hamilton and sullen Aberdeen, 

Come pilfer all the Pilgrim loves to see, 

All that yet consecrates the fading scene : 

Oh ! better were it ye had never been. 

Nor ye, nor Elgin, nor that lesser wight. 

The Victim sad of vase-collecting spleen. 

House-furnisher withal, one Thomas hight. 
Than ye should bear one stone from wrong'd Athena's site. 



28 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto u. 



XIV. 

Where wis thine iEgis, Pallas I that appall'd 
Stern Alari; and Havoc on their way?' 
Wliere Peleus' sou? whom Hell in vain inthrali'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey? 
Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Njr now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 



XV. 

Cdd is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee. 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Tliy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
By British hands, which it had best behooved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Cursed be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 
And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd I 

XVI. 

But where is Harold? shall I llien forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave 1 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes: 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times. 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 



XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right. 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
So gayly curl the waves l^tore each dashing prow. 

XVIII. 

And oh .he ittle warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,' 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
When, at a word, the tops are maun'd on high • 
Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ; 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides ; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides. 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 



Or will the gentle Dilettanti crew 
Now delegate the task to digging Gell, 
That miglity limner of a birds'-eye view, 
How like to Nature let his volumes tell ; 
\\'7io can with him the folio's limits swell 
With all the Author saw, or said he saw? 
Who can topographize or delve so well? 
No boaster he, nor impudent and raw, 
Hie pencil, pen, and shade, alike without a flaw."] 

1 According :o Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened 
Alaric from tne Acropolis ; but others relate that the Gothic 



XIX. 

Wliite is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stem, which tends their strength 
to nerve.* 

XX. 

Blow . rwiftly blow -hou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer .slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah I grievance sore, and listless dull delay. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day. 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas. 
The flapping sail haid'd down to halt for logs like 
these ! ' 

XXI. 

The moon is up ; by Heaven a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids, believe : 
Such be oiu: fate when wo return to land I 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ^ 
A circle there of merry listeners stand. 
Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to love 



XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Dietinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
But Maiuitania's giant-shadows frown. 
From moimtain- cliff to coast descending sombre down 



XXIIL 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
The heart, lone mourner of' its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend." 
Who with the weight of years would wish to beud, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend. 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! [boy ?* 
Ah ! happy years I once more who would not be a. 



king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.— See 
Chandler. 

2 To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deci 
during action. 

3 f ■ From Discipline's stern law," &c. — MS.] 

i [" Plies the brisk instrument that sailor's love." — MS.] 
5 [" Bleeds the lone heart, once boundless in its zeal, 
And friendless now, yet dreams it had a friend.' — 
MS.] 
5 ' ' kh. happy years ! I would I were once more a boy. 
— MS.^ 



Canto ir 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



29 



XXIV. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
This is not solitude , 'tis but to hold [unroU'd. 

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores 

XXVI. 

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess. 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress I 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
This is to be alone ; this, this is sohtude , 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite. 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,' 
Watchmg at eve upon the giant height. 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
Til a; he who there at such an hour hath been 
WiL wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the v/itching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Tlien turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find. 
Coop \ in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell. 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well. 



1 [One of Lord Byron's chief delights was, as he himself 
states in one of his journals, after bathing in some retired 
spot, to seat himself on a high rock above the sea, and there 
remain for liours, gazing upon the sky and the waters. " He 
lea the life," says Sir Egerton Brydges, " as he wrote the 
strains, of a true poet. He could sleep, and very frequently 
did sleep, wrapped up in his rough great- .oat, on the hard 
boards of a deck, while the winds and the waves were roof- 
ing round him on every side, and could subsist on a crust 
and a glass of water. It would be difficu t to persuade me, 
that he who is a coxcomb in his manners, and artificial in 
his habits of life, could write good poetry."! 

s Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. [" The 
identity of the habitation assigned by poets to the nymph 
Calypso, has occasioned much discussion and variety of 
opinion Some place it at Malta, and some at Goza." — 
lioars's Classical Tour.] 

» IFor an account of tlus accomplished but eccentric lady. 



XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's islos,^ 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stem Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 

While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queeu doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou mayst find a n^v Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would bo thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless off'ering at thy shrine. 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'o, as on that lady's eyo 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote. 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore. 
Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence^ found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
Tlieir hope, their doom, their punishment, their law 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims : 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely 
anger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art,'' 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide f 
Nor from the base pursuit had tum'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 



whose acquaintance the poet formed at Malta, see Miscel 
laneous Poems, September, 1609, "To Florence." "In one 
so imaginaive as Lord Byron, who, while he infused so 
much of his life iitto his poetry, mingled also not a little of 
poetry with his life, it is difficult," savs Moore, " in unravel- 
ling the texture of his feelings, to distinguish at all times be- 
tween the fanciful and tlie real. His description /icre, for 
instance, of the uiuuoved and ' loveless heart,' with which 
he contemplated even the charms of this attractive person, 
is wholly at variance with the statements in many of his 
letters; and, above all, with one of the most graceful of his 
lesser poems, addressed to this same lady, during a thunder- 
storm on liis road to Zitza."J 

* [Against this line it is sufficient to set the poet's own 
declaration, in 1821 ;— " I am not a Joseph, nor a Scpic, but 
I can safely affirm, that I never in my life seduusd aay 
woman."] 

B [" We have here another instance of his propensity to 



30 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto n. 



XXXIV. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Wlio thinks tliat wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
"What careth she for hearts when once possess'd? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Tliee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes ; 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence' still best with woman copes ; 
i Pique her and sootli in turn, soon Passion crowns thy 
hopes. 

XXXV. 

'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
Th«5 paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these . 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is cross'd. 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 

XXXVI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along. 
By pensive Sac'ness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined iia its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared. 
To teach man what ho might be, or he ought : 
If that corrupted thing could ever such bo taught. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still. 
Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill. 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favor'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild. 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
To nie by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
And sought her more anu more, and loved her best in 
wrath 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Thome of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrank from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : 
Land of Albania l^ let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou ragged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken, 



self-misrepresentation. However great might have been 
tlie irregularities of Ids college life, sucli phrases as ' the 
spoiler's art,' and ' spreading snares,' were in no wise ap- 
plicable to them." — Moore.] 

1 [" Brisk Impudence," &c. — MS.] 

2 See Appendi.x to this Canto, Note [B.J 

3 Ithaca.— [" Sept. 24th," says Mr. Hobhouse, " we were 
in the channel, with Ithaca, then in the hands of the Frencli, 
to the west of us. We were close to it, and saw a few shrubs 
on a brown heathy land, two little towns in the hills, scat- 
tered among trees, and a windmill or two, with a tower on 
the Leights. That Ithaca was not very strongly garrisoned, 
you will easily believe, when I tell, that a month afterwards, 
w htn the Ionian Islands were invested by a British squadron, 
it was surrendered into the hands of a sergeant and seven 



XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ;' 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot. 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may 
aspire 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ;* 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar ;° 
Mark them xmmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
Iir themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, [wight. 
But loathed the brave's trade, and laugh'd at martial 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of wo. 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love. 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid 
front." 

XLII. 

Morii dawns ; and with it stem Albania's hills. 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak. 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dan and purple streak. 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak. 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, [year. 
And gathering storiiM around convidse the closing 

XLIIL 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few ; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, [heat 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's 



men." For a very cunous account of the state of the king- 
dom of Ulysses in 1816, see Williams's Travels, vol. ii p. 427 ] 

4 Leucadia, now Santa Maura, From the promontory (the 
Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. — 
[" Sept. 28th, we doubled the promontoiy of Santa Rlauiu, 
and saw the precipice which the fate of Sappho, the poetry 
of Ovid, and the rocks so formidable to the ancient man- 
ners, have made forerer memorable." — Hobhouse. J 

5 Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but less 
known, was fought in the Gulf of Patras. Here the aulliur 
of Don Quixote .lOst his left hand. 

B [" And roused him more <'rom thought than he was wont. 
While Pleasure almost seem'd to smooth his placid 
front."— MS.] 



Canto ii 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



31 



XLIV 

Hero the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Tlioun-h sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pampor'd priesthood dear ; 
Churchman and votaiy alike despised. 
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross. 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing I 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king' 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Ceesar's trophies rose I'' 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering ; 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God! was tby globe ordaui'd for such to win and lose ? 

XLVI. 

From the aa.'k barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
Childo Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempo boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,' 
And left the primal city of the land. 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief,^ whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
^url their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.' 



1 It is said, that, on the day previous to the battle of 
A-Ctium, Antony had thirteen kings .at liis levee. — [" To- 
iay," (Nov. 12,) " I saw the remains of the town of Actium, 
near which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where 
two frigates could hardly manoeuvre : a broken wall is the 
Bole remnant. On another part of the gulf stand the ruins 
of Nicopolis, built by Augustus, in honor of liis victory." — 
Lord Byron to his Mother, 1809.] 

2 Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large masses 
of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by interstices 
of mortar, as large as the bricks themselves, and equally 
durable. 

3 According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina : but Pou- 
queville is always out. 

* The celebrated Ah Pacha. Of this extraordinary man 
there is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. — [" I 
left Malta in the Spider brig-of-war, on the 21st of Septem- 
ber, and arrived in eight days at Prevesa. I thence have 
traversed the interior of the province of Albania, on a visit 
tc -he Pacha, as far as Tepaleen, his higlmess's country 
pala.e where I stayed three days. The name of the Pacha 
is All, ana he is considered a man of the first abilities : he 
Boverns the whole of Albania, (th^e ancient Illyricum,) 
llpirus, and part of Macedonia." — B. to his Mother.'i 

s Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the 
oaitle of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for 
eighteen years ; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In 
this contest there were several acts performed not un- 
worthy of the better days of Greece. 

<" Tne convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey 



XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza !' from thy shady brow. 
Thou small, but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found I 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound. 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet pleafie 
the souL 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowms yon tufted hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself bo deera'd of dignity. 
The convent's white waus glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer,' nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by ' 

Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From heuce, if he delight kind Natiue's sheen lo seo. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast. 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while ho can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve away 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre," 
Chimasra's alps extend from left to right : 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ,; [fir 

Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain- 
Nodding above ; behold black Acheron I^ 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, [none. " 

Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for 



from Joarmina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pachalack. In 
^he valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and, 
not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The situation Is 
perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Del- 
vinachi and parts of Acarnania and ^tolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parrassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colon- 
na and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; as also every scene 
ill Ionia, or the Troad : I am almost inclined to add the ap- 
proach to Constantinople ; but, from the different features 
of the last, a comparison can hardly be made, f" Zitza," 
says the poet's companion, " is a village inhabited by Greek 
peasants. Perhaps there is not in the world a more romantic 
prospect than that which is viewed from the summit of the 
hill. The foreground is a gentle declivity, terminating on 
every side in an extensive kmdscape of gi een hills and dale, 
enriched with vineyards, and dotted with frequent flocks."] 

' The Greek monks are so called.— [" We went into the 
monastery," says Mr. Hobhouse, " after some parley with 
one of the monks, through a small door plated with iron, on 
which the marks of violence were very apparent, and which, 
before the country had been tranquillized under the power- 
ful government of Ali, had been battered in vain by the 
troops of robbers then, by turns, infesting every district. 
The prior, an humble, meek-mannered man, entertained us 
in a warm chamber with grapes, and a pleasant wlute wine, 
not trodden out, as he told us, by the feet, but pressed from 
the grape by the hand ; and we were so well pleased with 
every thing about us, that we agreed to lof'ge with him ot 
our return from the Vizier."J 

8 The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. 

3 Now called Kalamas. 

10 [" Keep heaven for better souls, my shade," &-c. — MS.] 



32 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
But, p-aering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote' 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
O: In his cave awaits the tempest's short -Uved shock 

LIII. 

Oh . where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
Wliat trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrins ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
Tliat his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
VVouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath 
the stroke ! 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy die : 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse. 
And woods along the banks are waving high. 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, [trance. 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,'* 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by f 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
When, down the steep banks wuiduig warily, 
Childe Harold saw, lilie meteors in the sky. 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Wliose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men [glen.^ 

SweUing the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Harem's silent tower. 
And luiderneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all aromid proclaim'd his high estate. 



1 Albanese cloak. 

5 Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

3 The river Laos was full at the time the author passed 
it ; and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as 
wide as the Tliames at Westmmster ; at least in the opinion 
of the author and his fellow-traveller. In tlie summer it 
must be much narrower. It certai/:ly is the finest river m 
the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scaman- 
der, nor Cayster, approaclied it in breadth or beauty. 

■• [" Ali Pacha, hearing that an Englisliman of rank was in 
his dominions, left orders, in Yanina, with the commandant, 
to provide a house, and supply me with every kmd of neces- 
f sary gratis. I rode out on the vizier's horses, and saw the 
palaces of himself and grandsons. I shall never forget the 
Buigular scene on entermg Tepaleen, at five in the afternoon, 
<Oct. 11,) as the sun was gomgdown. It brought to my mind 
(with some change of dress, however) Scott's description of 
Branksome Castle in his Lay, and the feudal system. The 
Albanians m their dresses ; (the most magnificent in the 
world, consisting of a long white kilt, gold-worked cloak, 
crimson velvet gold-laccd jacket and waistcoat, silver- 
mounted pistols and daggers ;) the Tartars, with their high 
caps ; thtt Turks in their vast pelisses and turbans ; the 
soldiers and black slaves with the horses, the former in 



Amidst no common pomp the despot sate. 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a "ort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adom'd the corridore ; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing door. 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, [of day. 
While the deep war-drum's somid announced the close 

Lvni. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his Vnee, 
With shawl-girt head and crnamei.ted gun. 
And gold-embr-Ci'der'd garments, "air to see : 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half-whispering there tho Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark .' from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
' There is no god but God I — to prayer — lo ! God is 
great '."^ 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast' 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain. 
But from the chambers came the mingling din. 
As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 



groups, in an immense large open gallery in front of the 
palace, the latter placed in a kind of cloister below it ; two 
hundred steeds ready c-parisoned to move in a moment ; 
couriers entering or passing out with dispatches ; the kettle- 
drums beating ; boys calling the hour from the minaret of 
the mosque ; — altogether, with the singular appearance ot 
the building itself, formed a new and delightful spectacle 
to a strai:ger. I was conducted to a very handsome apart- 
ment, and my health inquired after by the vizier's secretary, 
' a la mode Turque.' " — jB. Letters.'} 

6 ['' On our arrival at Tepaleen, we were lodged in the 
palace. During the night, we were disturbed lay tlie per- 
petual carousal which seemed to be kept up in the gallery, 
and by the drum, and the voice of the ' Muezzin,' or chanter, 
calling the Turks to prayers from the minaret or the mosck 
attached to the palace. The chanter was a boy, and he sang 
out his hymn in a sort of loud melancholy recitative. He 
was a long time repeating tlie purport of these few words : 
' God most high ! I bear witness, that there is no god but 
God, and Mahomet is his prophet: come to prayer; come 
to the asylum of salvation ; great God ! there is no god but 

God !' "— HOBHOUSE.] 

6 [" We were a little unfortunate in the time we chose for 
travelling, for it was during the Kamazan, or Turkish Lent, 
which fell this year in October, and was hailed at the rising 



Canto ii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



33 



LXI. 
Here woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
Aud joyful in a mother's gentlest cares. 
Blest eares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shaiesu 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness flin^, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war aud woes :^ 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 
Tlio deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 
disgrace. 

Lxni. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth :^ 
Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sootli — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth. 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth : 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mortal span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began.^ 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
Aud gazed around on Moslem luxury,^ 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys. 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 
destroys. 



of the new moon, on the evening of the 8th, by every demon- 
stration of joy : but although, during this month, the strict- 
est abstinence is observed in the daytime, yet with the set- 
ting of the sun the feasting commences ; then is the time 
for paying and receiving visits, and for the amusements of 
Turkey, puppet-shows, jugglers, dancers, and story-tellers." 

- HOBHOUSE.] 

1 [" On the 12th, I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I was 
d.-essed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very magnifi- 
cent sabi'e, &c. The vizier received mo in a large room 
paved with marble ; a fountain was playing in the centre ; 
the apartment was surrounded by scarlet ottomans. He re- 
ceived me slanding, a wonderful compliment from a Mus- 
sulman, and made me sit down on his right hand. His first 
question was, why, at so early an age, I left my country ? 
He then said, the English minister, Captain Leake, had 
told lum I was of a great family, and desired his respects to 
my mother ; which I now, in the name of Ali Pacha, pre- 
sent to you. He said he was certain I was a man of birth, 
because I had small ears, curling hair, and little white 
hands. He told me .o consider liim as a father whilst I was 
in Turkey, and saSl he looked on me as his own son. In- 
deed, he treated me like a child, sending me almonds and 
sugared sherbet, fruit, and sweetmeats, twenty tunes a day. 
I then, after coflee and pipes, retired."—!?, to his Mother.] 
'^ [" Delights to mingle with the lip of youth."— MS.] 
[Mr. Hobhouse describes the vizier as " a short man, about 
live feet five inches in height, and very fat ; possessing a 
very pleasing face, fair and round, with blue quick eyes, not 
>-.t aJ settled into a Turkish gravity." Dr. Holland happily 
compares the spirit which luiked under Ali's usual exterior, 



LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Tlian they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sure, 
Wlien Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed. 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower, 
Thic :iging to wu ji splendor and success ; 
And after viow'd them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
WTien less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof ^ — 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the 
proof ! 

LXVII. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
When all around was desolate aud dark ; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, 
Dubious to tnist where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
Might once again renew then: ancient butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so bland. 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments 
damp, 

, And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they had : 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
To rest the weary and to sooth the sad. 

Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the bad. 



to " the fire of a stove, burning fiercely under a smooth and 
polished surface." When the doctor returned from Albania, 
in 1813, he brought a letter from the Pacha to Lord Byron. 
" It is," says the poet, " in Latin, and begins ' Excellentis- 
sime, necnon Carissime,' and ends about a gun he wants 
made for him. He tells me that, last spring, he took a town, 
a hostile town, where, forty-two years ago, his mother and 
sisters were treated as Miss Cunegmide was by the Bulga- 
rian cavalry. He takes the town, selects all the survivors 
of the exploit— cliildren, grand-children, &c., to the tune of 
six hundred, and has them shoj; before his face. So much 
for ' dearest friend.' "] 

3 [The fate of Ali was precisely such as the poet antici- 
pated. For a circumstantial account of his assassination, 
in February, 1822, see Walsh's Journey. His head was sent 
to Constantinople, and exhibited at the gates of the seraglio. 
As the name of Ali had made a considerable noise in Eng- 
land, in consequence of his negotiations with Sir Thomas 
Maitland, and still more, perhaps, these stanzas of Lord 
Byron, a merchant of Constintinople thought it would be 
no bad speculation to purchase the head and consign it to a 
London showman ; but this scheme was defeated by the 
piety of an old servant of the Pacha, who bribed the execu- 
tioner with a higher price, and bestowed decent sepulture 
on the relic] 

4 [" Childe Harold with the chief IieiQ conoquy, 

Yet what they spake it boots not to repeat : 
Converse may little charm strange ear or ere ; 
Albeit he rested on that spacious seat 
Of Moslem luxury," &c.— MS.] 

5 AUudmg to the wreckers of Cornwall. 



34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-laud, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress. 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acamania's forest wide. 
In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
And from his further bank iiltolia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Wliere lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come whispering lightly from the west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, [glean. 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,' 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar^ his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man. 

Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daimced the kirtled 
clan.* 

LXXII. 
Childe Harold at a little distance stood. 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelry. 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, gleo ; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd. 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free. 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd. 

While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scream'd :* — 

1. 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi !' thy larum afar 

Gives hope to the valiant, aiid promise of war ; 

All the "ons of the mountains arise at the note, 

Chimariot, lUyrian, and dark Suliote }^ 



1 The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, 
and, indeed, very few of the others. 

3 Palikar, shortened when addressed to a single person 
from riaAifcapi, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic : it means, proper- 
ly, * a lad." 

3 [The following is Mr. Hob.iouse's animate! descriptior 
of this scene : — " In the evening the gates wesy secured 
and preparations were made for feeding our Albanians. A 
goat was killed and roasted whole, andfour fires were kin- 
dled in the yard, round which the soldiers seated them- 
selves in parties. After eating and drinking, the greatest 
part of them assembled round the largest of the fires, and, 
whilst ourselves and the elders of the party were seated on 
the ground, dapced round the blaze, to their own songs, 
with astonishing energy. All their songs were relations of 
some robbi <g exploits. One of them, which detained them 
more than an hour, began thus : — ' When we set out from 
Paiga, there were sixty of us :' then came the burden of 
y.e verse,-^ 

' Robbers all at Parga ! 

Robbers all at Parga '.' 

' K\t(pTtii -KOTC THapya '■ 

KXtfiTu; TTOTC Tlaoya '.' 

snd aj hey reared out this stave, they whirled round the 

fire, diopped, and rebounded from their knees, and again 



Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 

In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 

To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flocKj 

And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock 

3. 
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The faidt of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego? 
^Vllat mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 

4. 
Macedonia sends forth her mvincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase : 
But these scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheath'd and the battle is o'er. 

5. 
Then the pirates of Parofa that dwell by the waves. 
And teach the pale I'ranks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

6. 
I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair. 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth ; 
Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell,' 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared 

9. 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier: 
Since the days of oiu: prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw 

10. 
Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-hair' d^ Giaours" view his horse-tail" 
with dread, . [banks, 

"When his Delhis" come dashing in blood o'er the 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

whirled round, as the chorus was again repeated. The 
ripplmg of the waves upon the pebbly margin where we 
were seated, filled up the pauses of the song with a miiaer , 
and not more monotonous music. The night was very 
dark ; but, by the fla.shes of the fires, we caught a glimpse 
of the woods, tlie rocks, and the lake, wliicii, together with 
the wild appearance of the dancers, presented us with a 
scene that would have made a fine picture in the hands of 
sjch an artist as the author of the Mysteries of Udolpho. 
As we were acquamted with the character of the Albanians, 
it did not at all diminish our pleasure to know, that every 
one of our guard had been robbers, and some of them a 
veiy short time before. It was eleven o'clock before we 
had retired to our room, at which time the Albanians, wrap- 
ping themselves up in their capotes, went to sleep round 
the fires."] 

i [For a specimen of the Albanian or Amaout dialect of 
the lUyric, see Appendix to this Canto, Note [C.]] 

s Dnimmer. 

6 These stanzas are partly taken from different Albanese 
songs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposi- 
tion of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 

' It was taken by storm from the French. 

e Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 

3 Infidel. 

w The insignia of a Pacha. 
11 Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 



Canto ii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



35 



11. 

Selictar !* unsheath then our chief's scimitar : 
Tambourgi ! thy lariim gives promise of war. 
Ye momitaiiis, that see ns descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 



LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth !^ 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleali Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Lnap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 

LXXIV. 

Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow' 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plaiu ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain. 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand. 
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, 
unmaua'd. 

LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks tlie fire still sparkling in eacii eye, 
Wlio but would deem tlieir bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh. 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, [page. 

Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's momiiful 



LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
By tlieir right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye 1 no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change tliy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 



1 Sword-bearer. 

2 See some Thoughts on the present State of Greece and 
Turkey in the Appendix to this Canto, Notes [D] and [E.] 

3 Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has 
still considerable remains ; it was seized by Thrasybulus, 
previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 

■• When taken by the Latins, and retained for several years. 

s Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
Wahabees, a sect yearly increasing. 

6 [Of Constantinople Lord Byron sa^'s, — " I have seen the 
ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi ; I have traversed 
great part of Turkey, and many other parts of Europe, and 
Some of Asia ; but I never beheld a vvork of nature or art 
which yielded an impression like the prospect on each side, 
from tlie Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn."] 

' [" The view of Constantinople," says Mr. Rose, " which 
appeared intersected by groves of cypress, (for such is the 
efteet of its great burial-grounds planted with these trees,) 
its gilded domes and minarets reflecting the first rays of the 
sun ; the deep blue sea ' in which it glassed itself,' and that 
sea covered with beautiful boats and barges darting in every 



LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaoirr from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ;* 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's' tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er wilF freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark thei mirth — ere lenten days begin. 
That penance « Uich their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear. 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share. 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of mery Carnival 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than ihlne. 
Oh Stamboul !° once the empress of their reign ? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng. 
All felt tlie common joy they now must feign. 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song. 
As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along.' 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore. 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone. 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar. 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, [lave. 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks thoy 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam. 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exclianged the look few bosoms may withstand. 
Or gently press'd, return'd the pressure still : 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band. 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will. 
These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill ! 



direction in perfect silence, amid sea-fowl, who sat at re3t 
upon the waters, altogether conveyed such an impression 
as I had never received, and probably never shall again re- 
ceive, from the view of any oth«r place." The following 
sonnet, by the same author, has been so often quoted, that, 
but for its exquisite beauty, we should not have ventured to 
reprint it here : — 

" A glorious form thy shining city wore, 
'Mid cypress thickets of perennial green, 
With minaret and golden dome between, 
While thy sea softly kiss'd its grassy shore : 
D-arting across whose blue expanse was seen 
Of sculptured barques and galleys many a score , 
Whence noise was none save that of plashii.g oar 
Nor word was spoke, to break the calm serei.e. 
Unheard is whisker'd boatman's hail or joke ; 

Who, mute as Sinbad's man of copper, rows, 
And only intermits the sturdv stroke, 
When fearless gull too nigh his pinnace goes 

I, hardly conscious if I dream'd or w^oke, 
Mark'd that strange piece of action and repose "J 



36 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



LXXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even througli the closest searment half betray'd ? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayword thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece; 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost. 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
All ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most ; 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedsemon's hardihood, 
Wlien Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
Then mayst thou be restored ; but not till then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust ; and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendor renovate. 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Tune and Fate ? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of wo. 
Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,' 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth. 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth. 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 



1 On m^ny of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
enow never is entirely melted notwithstanding the intense 
heat of the summer ; but I never saw it lie on the plains, 
even in winter. 

3 Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug 
that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern 
name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave, formed by the 
quarries, stUl remains, and will till the end of time. 

3 In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, 
there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To 
the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhausti- 
ble source of observation and :2sign; to the philosopher, 
the supposed scene of some oi Plato's conversations will 
not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with 
the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that crown the 
^gean deep ;" but, for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an 
additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Ship- 
wreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in the recollection 
of Falconer and Campbell : — 

" Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great 
distance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to 
Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was less 
striking than the approach from the isles. In our second 
hold excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of 
JJainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told 
afterwards, by one of their prisoners, subsequently ransomed, 
that they were deterred from attaciung us by the a^ipearance 
of my two Albanians : conjecturing very sagaciously, but 
falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at 



LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mcjrns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ;^ 
Save whore Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cUff,' and gleams along the wave , 
Save o'er some warrior's half- forgotten grave. 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass? 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas I** 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
xVnd still his honey'd wealth Hyraettus yields ; 
There the bhthe bee his fragrart fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy nutntain-air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, tut Nature still is fair 

Lxxxvin. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould. 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazmg to behold 
The scenes our eailiest dreams have dwelt upon: 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneatli the brunt of Hellas' sword. 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear. 
When Marathon became a magic word ;'' 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, 



hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, 
which was too small to have opposed any effectual resist- 
ance. Coloima is no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; 
there 

" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk. 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 

But there Nature, with the aid ot Art, has done that for her- 
self. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior 
German artist; and hope to renew my acquaintance with 
tliis and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his 
performances. 

4 [The following passage in Harris's Philosophical In- 
quiries, contains the pith of this stanza : — " Notwithstahding 
tlie various fortunes of Athens as a city, Attica is still 
famous for olives, and Mount Hymettus for honey. Human 
institutions perish, bnt Nature is permanent." I recollect 
having once pouated out this coincidence to Lord Byron, 
but he assured me that he had ne^sr even seen this work 
of Harris's.— Moore.] 

6 "Siste Viator— heroacalcas 1" vas the epitaph on the 
famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our feelings when 
standuig on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who 
fell on Marathon ? The principal barrow has recently been 
opened by Fauvel : few or no relics, as vases, &c. were 
found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was oSftr 
ed to me for sale at the sum of suUeen thousand piast-'-es, 
about nine hundred pounds ! Alas I—" Expende— quot lilra 
in duce summo — invcnies !" — v/as the dust of IliJ Hades wcrth 
no more ? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by 
weight 



Canto ii. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



37 



XC. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing: spear ; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
Heath in the front. Destruction in the rear ! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth hero? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, [around 

The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but vuiwearied, throng 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and- the Muse miveil their awfid lore. 

XCIL 

Tlie parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let hmi roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
But he wl»m Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
V/hen wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian 
died.' 

XCIIL 

Lef. such approach this consecrated land, 
An :: pass in peace along the magic waste : 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed : 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may oiu* country's name be undisgraced. 
So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd I 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast sooth'd thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 



1 [TI.e original MS. closes with this stanza. The rest was 
added whiJe the canto was passing through the press.] 

2 [This si anza was written October 11, 1811 ; upon which 
day the poet, in a letter to a friend, says — " I have been 
again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to 
me in happier times ; but ' I have aim >st forgot the taste 
of grief,' and ' supped full of horrors,' till I have become 
caUous ; nor have I a tear left for an event which, five 
years ago, would have bowed down my head to the earth. 
It sesms as though I were to experience in my youth the 
gri'itc-8t misery of age, l\Iy friends fall around me, and I 
sLili 1ki left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other 



111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Wliich heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise ; 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please wlien none are left to love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bomid to ma , 
Who did for me wliat none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
Who mourns o'er horn's which we no more shall 

see — 
Would they had never been, or wci£ to come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to 

roam! 

XCVI. 

Oh ! evoi lOving, lovely, and beicved ! 

How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 

And clings to thoughts i ow better far removed ! 

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last 

All thou couldst have of mine, stem Death ! uiou 

hast ; 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend : 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend. 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Wliere Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek. 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the featm'es, which perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCVIIL 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now.^ 
Before the Chastoner humhiy let be bow, 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye 'flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earUer years alloy'd. 



men can always take refuge in their families : I have no 
resource but my own reflections, and they present no pros- 
pect here or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction' of 
survivmg my friends. I am indeed very wretched, and you 
will excuse my saying so, as you know I am not apt to 
cant of sensibilit}'." In reference to this stanza, " Surely," 
said Professor Clarke to the author of the Pursuits of 
Literature, " Lord Byron cannot liave experienced such 
keen anguish as these exqiiisite allusions to what older 
men may have felt seem to denote." — " I fear he has," 
answered Matthias ,— " he could not otherwise iBve wr't- 
ten such a poem."] 



38 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto in. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



" Afin que cette application vous format de penser a autre 
cliose ; il n'y a en v6rit6 de remede que celui-1^ et le temps.' 
—Lvttre du Roi de Prusse a D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
Ada I^ sole daughter of my house and lieart ? 
When last I saw thy yomig blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awakhig with a start. 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
Whither I know not f but the hour's gone by. 
When Albion's lessenmg shores could grieve or glad 
mine eye.^ 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider.* Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, whereso'er it lead I 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale,' 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In my youth's suimner I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mmd ; 
Again 3'ize the theme, then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 

Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appeats. 

IV. 

Since my young days of passion — ^joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string. 
And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
I Av 3uld essay as I have sung to sing. 



1 [In a hitherto unpublished letter, dated Verona, Novem- 
ber 6, 1816, Lord Byron says—" By tlie way, Ada's name 
(which I found in our pedigree, under king John's reign) is 
the same with that of the sister of Charlemagne, as I 
redde, the other day, in a book treating of the Rhine."] 

"- [Lord Byron quitted England, for the second and last 
time, on the 25th of April, 181(3, attended by William Fletcher 
and Robert Rushton, the " yeoman" and " page" of Canto I. ; 
his physician, Dr. Polidori ; and a Swiss valet.] 

^ [ " could grieve or glad my gazing eye."— M& ] 

* [In the " Two Noble Kinsmen" of Beaumont and 
Fletcher, we find the following passage : — 

"Oh, never 
Shall we two exercise, like twins of Honor, 
Our arms again, s.nd feel our fiery horses 
Like proud seas under us." 

Out of this somewhat forced simile, by a judicious transpo- 
sition of the comparison, and by the substitution of the 
more definite word " waves" for " seas," Lord Byron's 
cluar and noble thought has been produced.— Moore.] 
6 t" And the rent canvass tattering. '— Mb.j 



Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I clhig, 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme 



He, who grown aged in this world of wo, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seekc refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still uuimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell. 

VI. 

'Tis to create, and m creating live 
A being more intense, tliat we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we 'give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth. 
And feelnig still with thee in my crush'd feeUngs' 
dearth. 

VII 

Yet must I think less wildly* — I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirUng gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
IMy springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late I 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear what time cannot abate. 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 

VIII. 

Something too much of this : — ^but now 'lis past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him [heal ; 
In soul and aspect as in age :^ years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the lunb ; 
And life's enchanted cup but spaikles near the brim. 



6 [Tne first and second cantos of " Childe Harold's Pil- 
grimage" produced, on their appearance in 1812, an effect 
upon the public, at least equal to any work which has ap- 
peared withm this or the last century, and placed at once 
upon Lord Byron's head the garland for whi/;h other men of 
genius have toiled long, and which they t.a -e gained late. 
He was placed pre-eminent among the literary men of his 
country by general acclamation. It was amidst such feelings 
of admiration that he entered the public stage. Everything 
in his maimer, person, and conversation, tended to maintain 
the charm wliich Iris genius had flung around him ; and those 
admitted to lis conversation, far from finding that the inspired 
poet sunk into ordinary mortality, felt themselves attached 
to him, not only by many noble qualities, but by the interest 
of a mysterious, undefined, and almost painful cmicsily. A 
countenance exquisitely modelled to the expressicr cf feel- 
ing and passion, and exhibiting the remarkable cont-ast of 
very dark hair and eyebrows with light and expressive eyes, 
presented to the physiognomist the most interesting subject 
forthe exercise of his art. The predominating expression was 
that of deep ar.d habitual thought, which gave way to the 
most rapid piay of features wlien he engaged in interesnng 
discussion ; so aat a brother pc ut compared them to tJie 



Canto hi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



39 



IX. 

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wor-mwood ; byt he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on hoher ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain . 
Still round hina clung invisibly a chain 
Wliich gall'd foi ever, fettering though unseen, 
And hvavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain. 
Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen. 

Entering with eveiy step he took through many a 
scene. 

X. 
Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 

He found hi wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfold 
The stai which rises o'er her steep, nor climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youtli's fond prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd 
In youth by his own tliouglits ; still uncompell'd. 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 

XIII 

Where rose the mountains, there to him were 

friends ; 
Wliere roU'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 



sculpture of a beautiful alabaster vase, only seen to perfec- 
tion vhen lighted up from within. The flashes of mirth, 
gayety, indignatron, or satirical dislike, which frequently 
animated Lord Byron's countenance, might, during an eve- 
ning's conversation, be mistaken, by a stranger, for the 
habitual expression, so easily and so happily was it formed 
for them all ; but those who had an opportunity of studying 
his features for a length of time, and upon various occasions, 
both of rest and emotion, will agree that their proper lan- 
guage was that of melancholy. Sometimes shades of this 
gloom interrupted even his gayest and most happy mo- 
ments. — Sir Walter Scott.] 

1 [In the tliird canto of Childe Harold there is much in- 
3 juality. The thoughts and images are sometimes labored ; 
but still they are a very great improvement upon the first 
two cantos. Lord Byron here speaks in his own language 
and character, not in the tone of others ; — he is describing, 
not inventing : therefore he has not, and cannot have, the 
freedom with which fiction is composed. Sometimes he 
has a conciseness which is very powerful, but almost abrupt. 
From trusting liimself alone, and working out his own 
deep-buried thoughts, he now, perhaps, fell into a haliit of 
laboring, even where there was no occasion to labor In 
the first sixteen stanzas there is yet a mighty but groaning 



The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-bom jauB, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy ; but this clay will smk 
Its spark immortal, envj'ing it the fight 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its 
brink. 

XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he becan.e a thmg 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with clipp'd win^, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome. 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak agai:ist his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat * 
Of his unpeded soul would through his bosom eat 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold' wanders form f.gain. 
With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vahi, 
That all was over on this side the tomb. 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, [wreck 
Wliich, though 'twere wild, — as on the plunder'd 
Wlien mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forebore to check.* 

XVII. 

Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the hai-vest grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee. 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ? 



burst of dark and appalling strength. It was unquestionably 
the unexaggerated picture of a most tempestuous and som- 
bre, but magnificent soul ! — Bbydges.] 

2 [These stanzas, — in which the author, adopting more dis- 
tinctly the character of Childe Harold than in the original 
poem, assigns the cause why he has resumed his Pilgrim's 
staff, when it was hoped he had sat down for life a denizen of 
his native country,— abound with much moral interest and 
poetical beauty. The commentary throug:h which the mean- 
mg of this melancholy tale is rendered obvious, is still in vivid 
ramembrance ; for the errors of those who excel their fellows 
in gifts and accomplishments are not soon forgotten. Those 
scenes, ever most painful to the bosom, were rendered yet 
more so by public discussion ; and it is at least possible thai 
amongst those who exclaimed most loudly on this unhappy 
occasion, were some in wlioee eyes literary superiority exag- 
gerated Lord Byron's olfence. The scene may be describet? 
in a few words : — the wise condemned — the good regretted 
—the multitude, idly or maliciously inquisitive, rushed fron 
place to place, gathering gossip, which they mangled am^ 
exaggerated while they repeated it; and impudence, evei I 
ready to hitch itself into notoriety, hooked on, as FalstafF en 
joins Bardolph, blustered, bullied, and talked of " pleadin 
a cause," and " taking a side."— Sib Waiteb Scott. j 



40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto m. 



/' 



XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place'" here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,'^ 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; [chain. 
He wears the shatter'd. links of the world's broken 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
Wliat I shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighteu'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye 
praise ! 

XX. 

If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair checks were furrow'd with hot tears 
F(Jr Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
Gloiy, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius^ drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night,* 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;^ [knell ! 
But hush I hark I a deep sound strikes like a rising 



1 " Pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the 
highest pitch of iiight. See Macbeth, &c. 

" An eagle towering in his pride of place," &c. 

2 [In the original draught of this stanza, (which, as well 
as the preceding one, was written after a visit to the field 
of Waterloo,) the hnes stood— 

" Here his last flight the haughty eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody beak the fatal plam." 

On seeing these lines, Mr. Reinagle sketched a spirited 
chained eagle, grasping the earth with his talons. The cir- 
cumstance being mentioned to Lord Byron, he wrote thus 
to a friend at Brussels, — " Reinagle is a better poet and a 
better ornithologist than I am : eagles, and all birds of prey, 
attack with their talons, and not with then beaks ; and I 
have altered the line thus :— 

' Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain.' 

This is, I think, a better line, besides its poetical justice."] 

3 See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. 
The best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by 
Mr, (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman, — 

" With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 

There can be no more remarkable proof of the greatness 
o. Lord Byron's geidus, than the spirit and interest he has 
contrived to communicate to his picture of the often-drawn 
and diflicult scene of the breaking up from Brussels before 
the great Battle. It is a trite remark, that poets generally 
fail m the representation of great events, where the interest 



XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car ratthng o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfiued ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more,- 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar 

XXIII. 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier," 
Aiid roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.' 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er- might be repeated ; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

XXV. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly fonning in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They 
come I they come I" 



is recent, and the particulars are consequently clearly and 
commonly known. It required 'some courage to venture on 
a theme beset with so many dangers, and deformed with 
the wrecks of so many former adventures. See, however, 
with what easy strength he enters upon it, and with how 
much grace he gradually finds his way back to his own 
peculiar vein of sentiment and diction 1— Jeffkev.] 

6 On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball 
was given at Brussels. — [The popular error o'f tlie Duke of 
Wellington having been sur^nised, on the eve of the battle 
of Waterloo, at a ball given by the Duchess of Richmond 
at Brussels, was first corrected on authority, in the History 
of Napoleon Bonaparte, wliich forms a portion of the 
" Family Library." The Duke had received intelligence of 
Napoleon's decisive operations, and it was intended to put 
ofi' the ball ; but, on reflection, it seemed highly important 
that the people of Brussels should be kept in ignorance as 
to the course of events, and the Duie not only desired that 
the ball should proceed, but the general officers received 
his commands to appear at it— each taking care to quit the 
apartment as quietly as possible at ten o'clock, and proceed 
to join liis respective division en route.l 

6 [The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at 
Quatre Bras, received his death-woimd at Jena.] 

' [This stanza is very grand, even from its total unadorn- 
ment. It is oidy a versification of the common narratives : 
but here may well be applied a position of Johnson, that 
" where truth is sufficient to fill the mind, fiction is worse 
than useless." — Brydoes.] 



Canto hi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



41 



XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Tiieir mouatain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which mstils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, [ears ! 
And Evan's, Donald's' fame rings in each clansman's 

xxvn. 

And Ardennes^ waves above them her green leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass. 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unrt.turning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to bo trodden like the grass 
Wliich now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, [low. 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnigh't brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial 
blent 1^ _.^' 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng 
Partly because they blend me with his line. 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,"' 
And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd. 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, 
gallant Howard !^ 



1 Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the 
" gentle Lochiel" of the " forty-five." 

2 The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of 
the forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and 
hnmortal in Shakspeare's " As you like it." Ft is also cele- 
brated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful defence 
by the Germans against the Roman encroachments, I have 
ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler associa- 
tions than those of mere slaughter. 

3 [Childe Harold, though he shuns to celebrate the victory 
of Waterloo, gives us here a most beautiful description of 
the evening which preceded the battle of Quatre Bras, the 
alarm wliich called out the troops, and the hurry and con- 
fusion wliich preceded their march. I am not sure that any 
verses in our Unguage surpass, in vigor and in feeling, tins 
most beautiful description. — Sir Walter Scott.] 

* [See post, note to English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers.] 

6 [" In the late battles, like all the world, I have lost a con- 
nection — poor Frederick Howard, the best of liis race. I had 
little intercourse of late years with his family ; but I never 
Ba'V or heard but good of him." — Lord B. to Mr. Moore.] 

° My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed in- 
telligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard 
fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees, (there was 
a third, cut do%^'n, or shivered in the battle,) which stand a 
tew yards from eich other at a pathway's side. Beneath 



XXX. 

Tliere have been tears and breaking hearts for thw, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to livf 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladuess to contrivie, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not 
bring.' 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to th ie, to thousands, of whom each 

And one as ad a ghastly gap did make 

In his own kind anc kindred, whom to teach 

Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 

Those whom they thirst for ; *hougli the sound of 

Fame 
IVIay for a moment sooth, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claun 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at lergth ; and, sipiling, 
mourn : 

The tree will wither 'ong before it lal ; 

The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn , 

The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 

In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 

• Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 
'• The bars survive the captive they iuthral ; [sun ; 

The day drags through though storms keep out the 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 

XXXllI. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand unages of one that was. 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do wliich not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold. 
And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold.' 



these he died and was buried. The body has since been re- 
moved to England. A small hollow for the present marks 
where it lay, but will probably soon be effaced ; the plough 
has been upon it, and the grain is. After pointing out the 
different spots wliere Picton and other gallant men had per- 
ished, the guide said, " Here Major Howard lay : I was near 
him when wounded." I told him my relationship, and he 
seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular 
spot and circumstances. The place is one of the most 
marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees 
above mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, 
comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a 
plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some 
great action, though tliis may be mere imagination : I have 
viewed with attention those of Platea, Troy, ]Mantinea, 
Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon ; and the field around 
Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but 
a belter cause, and that undefmable but impressive halo 
wliich the lapse of ages throws around a celebrated spot, to 
vie in interest with any or aU of these, except, perhaps, the 
last mentioned. 

7 [There is a richness and energy in this passage, which 
is peculiar to Lord Byron, among all modern poets,— a 
throng of glowing images, poured forth at once, with a 
facility and profusion, which must appear mere wasteful- 
ness to more economical writers, and a certain negJigenco 
and harshness of diction, which oan belong only to an iiu 
thor who is oppressed with the exuberance and i ip dity 
of his conceptions. — Jeffrey.] 



42 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ni. 



XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Wliich feeds these deadly branches ; Sot it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to SoiTOw's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples' on the Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Exifitence by enjoyment, and comit o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of Ufe, — say, would he name 
threescore ? 

XXXV 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man : 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
More than enougli, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — ■ 
" Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
Our countrymen were warring on that day !" 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men. 
Whose spirit antithetically mix'd 
One moment of the mightiest, and again 
On little objects with like firmness fix'd. 
Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt. 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
Even now to reassume the imperial mien. 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That tliou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, " 
Who deera'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. 

XXXVIIL 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low. 
Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
Now making monarclis' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
Look through thine own, nor cui^' the lust of war. 
Nor learn thp.t tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soid hath brook'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, bo it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Ip gall and wormwood to an enemy. 



' The (fabled) apples on the brink of th^ lake AsphaUes 
were said to be fair without, and, within, ashes. Vide 
Tacitus, Ilistor. lib. v. 7. 

a The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our annals 
true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of 
uU community of feeling for or with them ; perhaps more 
ollcns.ve to human vamty than the active ciuelty of more 



When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled, 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortmie fled her spoil'd and favorite child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath ihe ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than m thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
Tiiat just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow ; 
'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all 6uch lot who chooee. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's tlioughts were the steps which paved thy 

throne, 
Their admiration thy best weapon shono \ 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.' 

XLII 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fiire 
And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 
Beyoaid the fitting medium of desire ; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made meu mad 
By their contagion ; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would imteach mankind the lust to shine or 
rule: 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
That should their days, surviving perils past. 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineuess, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its o-\vn flickering, or a sword laid by. 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously 



trembling and suspicious tyranny. Such were his speeches 
to public assemblies as well as individuals ; and the single 
expression which he is said to have used on returning to 
Paris after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rub- 
bing his hands over a fire, '■ This is pleasaiitei than Mos 
cow," would probably alienate more favor from his cause 
than the destruction and reverses which led to the remark. 



Canto hi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



43 



XLV. 

He who ascends to mountaiii-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapp'd in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneatfi the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
Aad thus reward the toils which to those summits led.' 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine. 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
Tliere Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells. 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine. 
And chiefless castles breathing stefn farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 
dwells. 

xLvn. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd. 
All tenantless, save to the crunnying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And tliose which waved are shredless dust ere now. 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow 

xLvni. 

Beneath these battlements, within those walls. 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber cliief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
What want these outlaws" conquerors should have ? 
But History's purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave ? [brave. 

Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride. 
Through all the niail of iron hearts would glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Kc'='.n contest and destruction near allied. 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolor'd Rhino beneath its ruin run. 



But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure forever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 



1 [This is certainly splendidly written, but we trust it is not 
true. From Macedonia's madman to the Swede — from Nim- 
rod to Bonaparte,— tlie hunters of men have pursued their 
spsrt with as much gayety, and as little remorse, as tlie 
huaters of other animals ; and have lived as cheerily in their 
lays of action, and as comfortably in their repose, as the 
followers of better pursuits. It would be strange, therefore, 
if the other active but more innocent spirits, w'hom Lord 
Byron has here placed in the same predicament, and who 
&Iuirc all their sources of enjoyment, without the guilt and 



Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to seo 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me, 
Even now what wants thy stream? — that it should 
Lethe ba 

LL 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 

LH. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
Though on his crow wore graven lines austere. 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'eu the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, [trace. 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 

LIIL 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we woidd coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his :c£om dwelt. 

LIV 

And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why. 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy. 
Even in its earliest nmture ; what subdued. 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had cef^ed to glow. 

LV 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Wliich unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still midivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore [pour I 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 



the hardness which they cannot fail of contractmg, should 
be more miserable or more unfriended than those splendid 
curses of their kind ; and it would be passing strange, an.t 
pitiful, if the most precious gifts of Providence should 
produce only unhappiness, and mankind regard with hos- 
tility their greatest benefactors. — Jeffrey.] 

" " What wants that knave that a king should have t" 
was King James's question on meeting Johnny Arm 
strong and his followers in full accoutrements. — see th«* 
BaUad. 



44 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iii. 



The cast.led crag of Drachenfels* 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Betwsien the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise com and wine^ 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine. 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes. 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gra3b 
And many a rock which steei)ly lowers. 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 

send the lilies given to me ; 
riiough long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they nuist wither'd be. 
But yet reject them not as such ; 
For I havo cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine . 

4. 

Tho river nobly foams and flows. 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear, 

Cculd thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine I 

LVI. 

By Coblentz, on u rise of gentle ground. 
There is a small and simple pyramid. 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound 
Beneath ita base are heroes' ashes hid. 



1 The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit 
of " the Seven Mountains," over tlie Rhine banks ; it is in 
ruins, and connected with some sing\ilar traditions : it is the 
first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side 
of the river ; on this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains 
of another, culled the Jew's Castle, and a large cross com- 
memorative of the murder of a chief by his brother. Tlie 
number of castles and cities along the course of the Rhine on 
both sides is very great, and their situations remarkably 
beautiful. [These verses were written on the banks of the 
Rhine, in May. The original pencilling is before us. It is 
needless to observe that they were addressed to liis Sister.] 

2 The monument of the young and lamented General 
Marceau (killed by a riflo-ball at Alterkirchen, on the last day 
of the foui'th year of the French republic) still remains as de- 
scribed. The inscriptions on his monument are rather too 
long, and not required : his name was enoiigh ; France 
aic red, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. His 
funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from 
lx>th armies. In the same grave General Hoche is interred, 
a gallant man also in t- very sense of the word ; but though he 
distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the good 
tbrtunc to die there : bis death was attended by suspicions of 



Our enemy's, — ^but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid, 
Lamentirig and yet envying such a doom. 
Falling for France, whose riglits he battled to resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
Tho few in nvun'ber, who had not o'erstcpp'd 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
wept.^ 

Lvni. 

Here Ehror.lrfttstein,' with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yt* shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain : 
But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain- 
On which the iron thower for years had pour'd in vaiii 

LIX. 

Adieu to theo, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thino is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here. 
Where Nature, nor too sombre, nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere. 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autuimi to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adiou I 
There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 
The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 
And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine !* 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shmo, 
But none luiite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — tire glories of old days. 



poison. A separate monument (not over his body, which Is 
buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, op 
posite to vvhich one of his most memorable exploits was per 
formed, in throwing a bridge to an island on the Rhine 
The shape and style are different from that if IMarceau's 
and the inscription more simple and pleasing : — " The Army 
of the Sambre and Mouse to its Commander-in-Cliiol 
Hoche." This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was es- 
teemed among the first of France's earlier generals, before 
Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the destined 
commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

s Ehrenbreitstein, i. e. " the broad stone of honor," one 
of the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and 
blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. It had been, 
and could only be, reduced by famine or treacheiy . It yielded 
to the former, aided by surprise. After having seen the for- 
tift;ations of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by 
comparison ; but the situation is commanding. General 
Marceau besieged it in vain for some time, and I slept in a 
room where I was shovv-n a window at which he is sa„l to 
have been standmg observing the progress of the siege by 
moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 

« [On taking Hockheira, the Austrians, in one part cf tho 



Canto hi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S' PILGRIMAGE. 



45 



LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these v^ithal 
A race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near 
them fall. 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity m icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals. 
Gather around these summits, as to show [below. 
IIow Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man 

Lxni 

Bu* ere these matchless heights I dare to scan. 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field I where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
Themselves their monmnent ; — the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wan- 
dering ghost.' 

LXIV 

Wliile Waterloo with Cannse's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories. 
Won by tlie unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no laud 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 



engagement, got to the brow of the hill, whence they had 
their first view of the Rhine. They instantly halted— not 
a gun was fired — not a voice heard : but they stood gazing 
on the river with those feelings whic 2 the events of the last 
fifteen years' at once called up. Prince Schwartzenberg 
rode up to know the cause of this sudden stop ; then they 
gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove them 
into the water.] 

1 The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones dimin- 
ished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the 
service of France ; who anxiously effaced this record of their 
ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still remain, not- 
withstacding the pains taken by the Burgundians for ages, 
(all wlio passed that way removing a bone to their own 
country,) and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss pos- 
tillions, who carried them off to sell for knifo-handles, a pur- 
pose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of 
vears had rendered them in great request. Of these relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter 
of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the 
next passer-by might have perverted them to worse uses 
tJian the careful preservation which I intend for them. 

2 Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Hel- 
vetia, where Avenches now stands. 

s Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to death 
6S a traitor by Aulus Ca^cina. Her epitaph was discovered 
mrjiy years ago ;— it is thus :— " Julia Alpinula : Hie ;': ceo. 



LXV 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days ; 
'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze. 
Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays. 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum,'^ hath strew'd her subject lands. 

LXVI. ♦ 

And there — oh ! sweet and sacred bo the name -- 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'ei a father's grave. 
Justice \s sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Tlieir tomb was E.'mple, and without a bust. 
And held within their um one mind, one heart, one 
dust' 

LXVII. 

But these are deeds which should not pass away. 
And names that must not wither, though the earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay [birth ; 

The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its wo. 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,^ 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVIII. 

Lake Leman woos mo with its crystal face,'* 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue . 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Tlroiights hid, but not less cherish'd than of old. 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in theu' 
fold. 

\ 



Infelicis patris infelix proles. Deas Aventiffi Sacerdos Exo 
rare patris necem non potui ; Male mori in fatis ille erat. 
Vixi annos xxiii." — I know of no human composition so af 
fecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are 
the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to 
which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of con- 
quests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time 
to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs 
at length with all the nausea consequent on stich intoxi- 
cation. 

4 This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc, (June 3d, 18IG,) 
which even at this distance dazzles mine. — (July 20th.) I 
this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of 
Mont Blanc aiid Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, 
which I was crossing in my boat ; the distance of these 
mountains from their mirror is sixty miles. 

6 In the exquisite lines which the poet, at this time, 
addressed to his sister, there is the following toucliing 
stanza : — 

" I did remind thee of our own dear lake, 
By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes cefore ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, thov aic 
Resign'd forever, or divided far " 



40 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto in. 



LXIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind : 

All are not fit with them to etir and toil, 

Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 

Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 

In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 

Of our infection, till too late and long 

We may deplore and struggle with the coil. 

In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 

'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
strong. 

LXX. 
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
And color things to come with hues of Night ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea. 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite. 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity [be. 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall 

LXXI. 

Is il not better, then, to be alone. 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, ^ 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care. 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
1 han join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear? 

LXXII 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to mo 
High mountains are a feeling,'^ but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee. 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past. 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast. 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 



1 The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of 
tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, 
except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. — [See Don 
Juan, c. XIV. st. 67, for a beautiful comparison : — 

" There was no great disparity of years, 

Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 

They moved like stars united in their spheres, 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd. 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Wliich fain would lull its river cliild to sleep."] 

2 [" Mr. Hobhouse and myself are just returned from a 
journey of lakes and mountains. We have been to the Grin- 
del wal'd, and the Jungfrau, and stood on the summit of the 
Wengen Alp ; and seen torrents of 900 feet in fall, and gla- 
ciers of all dimensions ; we have heard shepherds' pipes, and 
av^.anches, and looked on the clouds foaming up from the 
va I lys below us like the spray of the ocean of hell. Cha- 
mouni, and tliat which it inherits, we saw a. month ago ; 
but, though Mont Blanc is higher, it is not equal in wildnes-s 
to the Jungfrau, the Eighers, tt;3 Slireokhorn, and the Rose 
Glacier&"— K Letters, Sept. 1816.] 



With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, &c the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing. 

Spurning the clay-cold bonds which romid our being 
cling. 

LXXIV. 
And when, at length, the mind shall be all ^es 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? 

Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a purt 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my lieart 
With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegrr. 
Of those whose eyes are only turu'd below. 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which daio 
not glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Wliere he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest. 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest 

LXXVII. 
Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau,' 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet ho knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue* 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd 
Tlie eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelhigly and 
fast. 



3 [" I have traversed all Rousseau's groimd with the 
' H61oise' before me, and am struck to a degree that I can- 
not express with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, 
and the beauty of their reality. Meillerie, Clarens, and 
Vevay, and the Chfiteau de Ghillon, are places of which I 
shall say little : because all I could say must fall short of 
the impressions they stamp."— if. Letters.'i 

i [" It is evident that the impassioned parts of Rousseau's 
romance had made a deep impression upon the feeliiigj of 
the noble poet. The enthusiasm expressed by Lord Byron is 
no small tribute to the power possessed by Jean Jacques over 
the passions ; and, to say truth, we needed some such evi 
dence ; for, though almost ashamed to avow the truth,— sliL, 
like the barber of Midas, we must speak or die,— we have ne- 
ver been able to feel the interest or discover the merit of Ihij 
far-famed performance. That there is much eloquence in the 
letters we readily admit: there lay Rousseau's strength. But 
liis lovers, tlie celebrated St. Preux and Julie, have, troin the 
earliest moment we have heard the tale, (which we weLi re- 
member,) down to the present hour, totally failed to interest 
us. There might be some constitutic r al hardness of heart , 
but like Lance's pebble-hearted cur, Ci t."r , we remained dry- 
eyed while all wept around us. And still, on resuming the 



Canto ii 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



47 



LXXVIII 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by liglitning ; with etliereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his bimiing pagOj distemper'd though it seems. 

LXXIX. 

Tkis breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss' 
Wliich every morn his fever'd lip would greet. 
From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love -devouring heat ; 
lu that absorbing sigh perchance more bless'd 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possess'd.'' 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind. 
But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
But he was phrensied by disease or wo 

To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning 
show 

LXXXI. 
For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. 
Those oracles which set the world in flame. 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years 1 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers. 

Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'er- 
grown fears? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument . 
The wreck of old opinions — things which grew. 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent. 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good v/ith ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones., which the same hour refili'd. 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-will'd. 



volume, even now, we can see little in the loves of these 
two tiresome pedants to interest our feelings for either of 
them. To state our opinion in language (see Burke's Re- 
flections) much better than our own, we are unfortunate 
enough to regard this far-famed history of philosophical 
gallantry as an ' unfashioned, indelicate, sour, gloomy, 
ferocious medley of pedantry and lewdness ; of metaphy- 
sical speculations, blended with the coarsest sensuality.' " 
—Sir Walter Scott.] 

» This refers to the account in his " Confessions" of his 
passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot, (the mistress of St. 
Lambert.) and his long walk every morning, for the sake of 
the single kiss which was the common salutation of French 
ucquaintance. Rousseau's description of liis feelings on 
tlus occasion may be considered as the most passionate, 
yet not impure, description and expression of love that ever 
kindled into words; which, after all, must be felt, from 



LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Wlio m oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 

Wliat marvel then, at times, if they mistook their 
prey? 

LXXXIV. 
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigiu-es it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd, 

bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone foi years ; none need despair: 
It came, it comcth, and will come, — the pc\^«r 

To punish or forgive — in one we shall be slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake. 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft m.urmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 

LXXXVI. 
It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near. 
There breathes a living fragrance fro«fi the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh v/ith childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, tiO they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.' 



their very force, to be inadequate to tlie delmeation : a 
painting can give no sufficient idea of the ocean. 

2 [" Lord Byron's character of Rousseau is drawn with 
great force, great power of discrimination, and great elo- 
quence. I know not that he says any thing which has not 
been said before ;— but what he says issues, apparently, 
from the recesses of his own mind. It is a little labored, 
which, possibly, may be caused by the form of the stanza 
into which it was necessury to throw it ; but it cannot be 
doubted that the poet felt a sympathy for the enthusiastic 
tenderness of Rousseau's genius, which he could not have 
recognised with such extreme fervor, except from a con- 
sciousness of having at least occasionally experienced simi- 
lar emotions." — Sir E. Bkydges.J 

s [During Lord Byron's stay in Switzerland, he took up 
his residence at the Campagne-Diodati, in the village of 
Coligny. It stands at the top of a rapidly descending vine- 



48 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



LXXXVIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaveu ! 
If in yoiu bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires,^'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erieap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
And silent, as wo stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the high host 
Of stars, to the luH'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense. 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence 

XC. 

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
And pimfies from self: it is a tone. 
The soul and source of music, which makes known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
The spectre Death, had ho substantial power to harm. 

XCI. 

Not vainly did the early Persian malce 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,' and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 

XCII. 

Tlie sky is changed ! — and such a change I Oh night, 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in yom- strength, as is the light 
Of a dirk eye in woman ! Far along, 



yard ; the windows commanding, one way, a noble view of 
the lake and of Geneva ; the other, up the lake. Every 
evening, the poet embarked on the lake ; and to the feet- 
Ings created by these excursions we owe these delightful 
stanzas. Of his mode of passing a day, the following, from 
his Journal, is a pleasant specimen : — 

" September 18. Called. Got up at five. Stopped at 
Vevay two hours. View from the churchyard superb ; 
within it Ludlow (the regicide's) monument— black marble 
— long inscription, Latin, but simple. Near him Broughton 
(who read King Charles's sentence to Charles Stuart) is 
buried, with a queer and rather canting inscription. Lud- 
low's house shown. Walked dowm to the lake side ; ser- 
vants, carriages, saddle-horses, — all set off, and left us 
plantes la, by some mistake. Hobliouse ran on before, and 
overtook them. Arrived at Clarens. Went to Chillon 
through scenery worthy of I know not whom ; went over the 
castle again. Met an English party in a carriage ; a lady in 
it fast asleep— fast asleep m the most anti-narcotic spot in 
the world, — excellent ! After a slight and short dinner, 
visited the Chateau de Clarens. Saw all worth seeing, and 
then descended to the ' Bosquet de Julie,' &c., &c. : our 
guide full of Rousseau, whom he is eternally confounding 
with St. Preux, and mixing the man and the book. Went 



From peak to peak the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
^ But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night : — Most glorious night ! 
Thou wert not sent for sliunber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — ■ 
A portion of the tempest and of thee !^ 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mouutaiu-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth.* 

XCIV. 

Now, where tb £ r,vift Rhone cleaves his way between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene. 
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage [parted : — 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 

xcv 

Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cteft his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand. 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand. 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 
Imk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To malie these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest.^ 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those witliin the htiman breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 



again as far as ChiUon, to revisit the little torrent from the 
hill behind it. The corporal who showed the wonders of 
ChiUon was as drunk as Blucher, and (to my mind) as great 
a man : he was deaf also ; and, thinking every one else so, 
roared out the legends of the castle so fearfully, that Hob- 
house got out of humor. However, we saw things, from 
the gallows to the dungeons. Sunset reflected in the lake. 
Nine o'clock — going to bed. Have to get up at five to- 
morrow."] 

1 See Appendix, Note [F.] 

2 The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred 
on the 13th of June, 1816, at midnight. I have seen, among 
the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, several more ter- 
rible, but none more beautiful. 

3 [" Tliis is one of the most beautiful passages of the poem 
The ' fierce and far delight' of a thunder-storm is here de- 
scribed in verse almost as vivid as its lightnings. The live 
thunder ' leaping among the rattling crags' — the voice of 
mountains, as if shouting to each other — the plasliing of the 
big ram— tlie gleaming of tlie wide lake, lighted like a phos- 
phoric sea— present a picture of sublime terror, yet of en- 
joyment, often attempted, but never so well, certamly never 
better, brought out in poetry " — Sik Walter Scott.] 

I 4 [The Journal of his Swiss tour, which Lord Byron kept 



Canto hi. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



49 



XCVII. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
Tliat wliich is most within mo, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind^, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek. 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 

XCVIII. 

The mom is up again, the dewy morn. 
With breath all incenso, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And iiving as if earth contain'd no tomb, — ■ 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if pouder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens,' birthplace of deep Love ! 
Thine air is the yomig breath of passionate thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above . 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Wliich stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then 
mocks. 

C. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — ■ 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
hour.'' 

CL 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines. 
Which aro his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore. 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore. 



for his sistei , c ioses with the following mouriiful passage : — 
" In the weather, for this tour, of thirteen days, I have been 
very fortunate — fortunate in a companion" (Mr. Hobhouse) 
— " fortunate in our prospects, and exempt from even the 
htUe petty accidents and delays which often render journeys 
in a less wild country disappointing. I was disposed to be 
pleased. I am a lover of nature, and an admirer of beauty. 
I can bear futigue, and welcome privation, and have seen 
some of the noblest views in the world. But in all this, — 
the recollection of bitterness, and more especially of recent 
and more home desolation, which must accompany me 
through life, has preyed upon me here ; and neither the 
music of the shepherd, the crashing of the avalanche, nor tlie 
torrer.t, the mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, 
have for one moment lightened the weight upon my heart, 
nor enabled me to lose my own wretched identity, in the 
majesty, and the power, and the glory around, above, and 
beneath me."] 

' [Stanzas xcix. to cxv. are exquisite. They have every 
thing which makes a poetical picture of local and particular 



Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood. 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it stood, 
Offermg to him, and his, a populous solitude — 

CIL 

A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many-color'd things. 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of life : tlio gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bond 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend. 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

CHL 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, 
■ And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mj'stery, will love the more. 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far from 

those. 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity I 

CIV. 

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhoiio 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a 
throne. 

CV. 

Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a name f 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and tJ.ie 

flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
On man and man's research coidd deign do more 

than smile. 



scenery perfect. They exhibit a miraculous brilliancy and 
force of fancy ; but the very fidelity causes a little constraint 
and labor of language. The poet seems to have been so 
engrossed by the attention to give vigor and fire to the im- 
agery, that he both neglected and disdained to render him- 
self more harmonious by difiuser words, which, while they 
might have improved the efl^ect upon the ear, might have 
weakened the impression upon the mind. This mastery 
over new matter— this supply of powers equal not only to 
an untouched subject, but that subject one of peculiar and 
unequalled grandeur and beauty — was s\ifiicient to occupy 
the strongest poetical faculties, young as the author was, 
without adding to it all the practical skill of the artist. The 
stanzas, too, on Voltaire and Gibbon are discriminative, 
sagacious, and just. They are among the proofs o-f that 
very great variety of talent which this Canto c f Lord Byroa 
exlubits.— Sir E. Brydgks.j 

2 See Appendix, Note [G.l 

3 Voltaire and Gibbon. 



50 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto in. 



CVI. 

Tlio one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiolied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their taleaits : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CVII. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausthig thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious j'-ear, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought. 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solenm sneer ; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Wliich stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them. 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shall be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust. 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill bo to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

CIX. 

But let mo quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May bo permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 

ex. 

ItaV ?. ! too, Italia ! looking on thee. 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages. 
Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 



» " If It be thus, . 

For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind." — Macbeth. 

2 It is said by Rochefoucault, that " thc:8 is always some- 
thing in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing 
to lliem." 

3 [" It is not the temper and talents of the poet, but the 
use to which he puts them, on which his happiness or misery 
is grounded. •■V powerful and unbridled imagination is the 
autlior and architect of its own disappointments. Its fasci- 
nations, its c.\aggerated pictures of good and evil, and the 
mental distress to which they give riye, are the natural and 
necessary evils attending on that quick susceptibility of 
feeling and fancy incident to tlie poetical temperament. 
But tlie Giver of all talents, while he has qualified them 
each with its separate and peculiar alloy, has endowed the 
owner with tt.e power of purifying and refining ■ aem. But, 
as if to modei-ate the arrogance of genius, it is justly and 
wisely made requisite, that he must regulate and tame the 
fire of his fancy, and descend from the heights to which she 
exalts him. m order to obtain ease of mind and tranquillity. 
Tlie materials of happiness, that is, of such degree of hap- 
piness as is consistent with our present state, lie around us 

. in profusion. But the man of talents must stoop to gather 
tbem, otlierwise they would be beyond the reach of the 
in;iss of society, for whose benefit, as well as for his, 
Providence has created them. There is no royal and no 



Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of luiowledge, quafhng there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hllL 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
We are not what wo have been, and to deem 
Wo are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal. 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, gil'-f, or zeal, — 
Which is the tyrant spirit of r>ur thought, 
Is a stem task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught 

CXII 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, fci p while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud [could, 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still 
Had I not filed' my mind, which thus itself subdued. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,^- 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may be 
W^ords which are things, — hopes which will not 

deceive. 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ;^ 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem, — 
That goodness is no namo,. and happiness no dream.* 



poetical path to contentment and heart's-ease : that by which 
they ate attained is open to all classes of mankind, and lies 
within the most limited range of intellect. To narrow our 
wishes and desires within the scope of our powers of attain- 
ment ; to consider our misfortunes, however peculiar in 
their character, as our inevitable share in the patrimony of 
Adam ; to bridle those irritable feelings, which ungoverned 
are sure to become governors ; to shun that intensity of 
galling and self-wounding reflection which our poet has so 
forcibly described in liis owii burning language : — 

' I have thought 



Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy, boiling and o'erwrought, 
A wliirling gulf of phantasy and flame" 

— to stoop, in short, to the realities of life ; repent if we 
have oflended, and pardon if we have been trespassed 
against ; to look on the world less as our foe than as a 
doubtful and capricious friend, whose applause we ought as 
far as possible to deserve, but neither to court nor contemn 
— such seem the most obvious and certain means of keep- 
ing or regaining mental tranquillity. 

' Semita certe 

Tranquillse per virtulera patet miica vita3.' " — 

Sir Walter Scott ] 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



51 



CXV. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song be^u — 
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapp'd in thee ; thou art the friend 
To wliom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 

CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXVII. 

* Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : [same, 

Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere the 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life 
retain 

CXVIII. 

The child of love, — though bom in bitterness, 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall bo more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea. 
And from the mountains where I now respire. 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, [me !' 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to 



CHILDE HAHOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 
Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra 
Italia, e un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 

Ariosto, Satira iii. 



TO JOHN HOBIIOUSE, ESQ., A.M. F.R.S &-; 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 
Mv DEAR HoBHOUSE, 

After an interval of eight years between the com- 
position of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 

1 [« Byron, July 4, 1816. Diodati."— MS.] 



the conclusion of the poem is about to be submitted 
to the public. In parting with so old a friend, it is 
not extraordinary that I should recur to one still older 
and better, — to one who has beheld the birth and 
death of the other, and to whom I am far more in- 
debted for the socia> advantages of an enlightened 
friendship, than — though not ungrateful — I can, or 
could be, to Childe Harold, for any public favor 
reflected througn the poem on the poet, — to one, 
whom I have known long, and accompanied far, 
whom I have found wakeful over my sickness and 
kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm 
in my adversity, Ime in counsel and trusty in peril, 
— to a friend often tried and never fomid wanting; 
— to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur fro:r fiction to trath ; and in 
dedicating to you, in its complete or at least concluded 
state, a poetical work which is the longest, the most 
thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
wish to do honor to myself by the record of many 
years' iutimacy with a man of learning, of lalent, of 
steadiness, and of honor. It is not for minds like 
ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of 
•incerity have ever been pennitted to the voice of 
friendship ; and it is not for you, nor even for others, 
but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or 
lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter 
of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly, that I 
thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, 
or rather the advantages which I have derived from 
their exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of 
this letter, the anniversary of the most unfortunate 
day of my past existence, but which cannot poison 
my future while I retain the resource of your friend- 
ship, and of my own faculties, will henceforth have a 
more agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it 
will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an 
indefatigable regard, such as few men have experi- 
enced, and no one could experience without thinking 
better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at 
various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and 
fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy ; and 
what Athens' and Constantinople vi^ere to us a few 
years ago, Venice and Rome have been more re- 
cently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have 
accompanied me from first to last ; and perhaps it 
may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to re- 
flect with complacency on a composition which in 
some degree connects me with the spot where it was 
produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; and 
however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical 
and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of 
our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, 
yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of 
feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source 
of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with 
a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events 
could have left me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there 
will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the 
preceding, and'that little slightly, if at all, separated 
from the author speaking in his own person. Tho 
fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a lino 
which every one seemed determined not to per- 
ceive : like the Chinese in Goldsmith's " Citizen of the 
World," whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, 
it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I 
had drawn, a distinction between the author and the 
pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this dif- 



02 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Canto iv. 



ference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, 
wo far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I 
determined to abandon it altogether — and have done 
80. The opinions which have been, or may be, fonn- 
ed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference ; 
the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer ; 
and the author, who has no resources in his own 
mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, 
which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the 
fate of authors. 

In. the cciirse of the following canto it was my 
intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have 
touched upon the present state of Italian literature, 
and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the 
limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for 
the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent 
reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, excepting 
a fb-." of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and 
these V, ere necessarily limited to the elucidation of the 
text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very gratefid task, to 
dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so 
dissimilar ; and requires an attention and impartiality 
which would induce us — though perhaps no inatte% 
tive observers, nor ignorant of the language or cus- 
toms of the people amongst whom we have recently 
abode — to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, 
and more narrowly examine our information. The 
state of literary, as well as political party, appears to 
ruu, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to 
steer impartially between them is next to impossible. 
It ma^- be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to 
quote from their own beautiful language — " Mi pare 
che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua 
lu pill nobile ed insieme la piii dolce, tutte tutte le 
vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria 
di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto 1' antico valore, 
in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has 
great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pin- 
demonte, Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mez- 
zophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will 
R'x^ure to the present generation an honorable place 
in most of the departments of Art, Science, and 
Belles Lettres ; and in some the very highest — 
Europe — the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La 
piauta uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qua- 
lunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che 
vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without sub- 
scribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dan- 
gerous doctrine, the truth of which maj' be disputed 
on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in 
no respect more ferocious than their neighbors, that 
man must be wilfully blind, or iguorantly heedless, 
who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of 
this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their 
capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the ra- 
pidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, 
their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvan- 
tages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, 
and the despair of ages, their still unquenched " long- 
ing after immortality," — the immortality of inde- 
pendence. And when we ourselves, in riding round 
the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the 
laborers' chorus, " Roma ! Roma ! Roma ! Roma non 



' See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. i. 

s Sabellicus, describing the appearance of Venice, has 
made use of the above image, which would not be poetical 
were it uot t\'ue.— " Quo fit ut qui superne urbem contem- 



6 piti come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast 
this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of 
the songs of exultation still yelled from the London 
taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the 
betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the 
world, by men whose conduct you yourself have ex- 
posed in a work worthy of the better days of our liia- 
tory For me, — 

" Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda" 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of na- 
tions, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it 
becomes ascertained that England has acquired some- 
thing more than a permanent army and a suspended 
Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to look at 
home. For what they have done abroad, and es- 
pecially in the South, " Verily they will have their 
reward," and at no very distant period. 

WishiLg yotj, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agree- 
able return to that country whose re. welfare can be 
dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this 
poem in its completed state ; and it^peat once more 
how truly I am ever, .• 

Your obliged 

And affectionate friend, 

BYRON 



I. 

I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs , 
A palace and a prison on each hand :' 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject laud 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, [isles ! 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 

IL 

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from oc-san,'^ 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowors 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 

Ill 

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,^ 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy . 



pletur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Oceaiic Sguiatara 

se putet inspicere." 
s See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. ii 



Canto iv. 



CHTLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



53 



IV. 

But uuto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy whicli will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age. 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page. 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairj'-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er' her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such, — but let them go, — 
They came like truth, and disappear'd hke dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seenas 
Such as I sought for, and at moments foimd ; 
Let these too go — for waking Reason deems 
Such over- weening phantasies unsomid, 
And j^lior voices speak, and other sights smround. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
Which is itself no changes bring siu-prise ; 
Nor is it harsh o make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
1 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, 'as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion la: 

1 TJie answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedaemo- 
nian geiifcral, U. the strangers who praised the memory of 
her son. 

2, 3, i, Sec Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. in. iv. 

V VI. 



X. 

My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be — 
And light the lam-els on a loftier head .' 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
" Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.'" 
Meantime I seek np sympathies, nor need ; 
The thorns which 1 have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
I should have known what fruit woidd spring f om 
such a seed. 

XI. 

The spoviseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd. 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockeiy cf his wither'd powo , 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envkd m the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dowor 

XII. 

^The Suabian sued, and now the Austria:; jt^ns — * 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountaiu s belt ; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo !' 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantiiun's conquering foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass. 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass?^ 
Are they not bridled ! — Venice, lost and woji, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes. 
From whom submission wrings an mfamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The " Planter of the Lion,"^ which through fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, y i 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such eis must 
Too oft remind her who and what intlirals,' 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 



6 That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard Of th re- 
public, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon — Pia ta- 
leone, Pantaleon, Pantaloon. 

7 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. vii. 



54 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands boro the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,' 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
Starts from its belt — ^he rends his captive's chains. 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
strains. 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot. 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Wliich ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen .should not 
Abandon Ocean's childi-en ; in the fall 
Of Venice think of tffliie, despite thy waterj' wall 

XVIII. 

I lov^d her from my boyhood — she to me 
Was* s a fairy city of the heart. 
Rising like water-columns from the sea. 
Of joy tlie sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
And Otway, RadclifFe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,^ 
Had stamp'd her imago in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of wo. 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 

The present there is still for eye and thought, 

And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 

And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 

And of the happiest moments which were wrought 

Within the web of my existence, some 

From thee, fair Venice ! have their colors caught: 

There are some feelings Time can not beimmb. 

Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

XX. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow* 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks. 
Rooted in barrenness, where naught below 
Of soil sui)ports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trmik, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the momitains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came. 

And grew a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the same. 

XXI 

Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and suiFerance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load. 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 



1 The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 

2 Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
Seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice ; Othello. 

I s Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar to 
the Alps, wliich only thrives in very rocky parts, where 
scarcely oOil sufficient for its nourishment can be found. 
un these spots it grows to a greater height than any other 
njuuntain tree 



In vain should such example be ; if they. 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd. 
Even by the sufTerer ; and, in each event. 
Ends : — Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
Return to v/hence they came — with like intent, 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time. 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
Accorduig as their bculs were form'd to sink or climb. 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's stiiig, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
And slight withal may be thei things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would flmg 
Aside forever: it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wcund, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 
bound; 

XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the muid. 
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd. 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can Lind, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 
anew, [how few ! 

The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — ^too many ! — yet 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders •, I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea. 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome ! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature^ can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is hke to thee ? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. 



4 [The whole of this canto is rich in description of Nature 
The love of Nature now appears as adistinct"passion in Lord 
Byron's mind. It is a love that does not rest in beholding, 
nor is satisfied with describing, wtii t is before him. It has a 
power and being, blending itself with the poet's very hfe. 
Though Lord Byron had, with his real eyes, perhaps, seen 
more of Nature than ever was before permitted to any great 
poet, yet he never before seemed to open his whole heart to 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



55 



XXVII. 

Tlie moon is up, aud yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides tlie sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpiiae height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
While, on the other hand, meek Diau's crest 
Floats through the azure air — au island of the blest I' 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still' 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far RhEEtian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it 
glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 

Tlie last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray. 

XXX. 

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
PiUar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
Tlie bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name'' 
Witli his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ;^ 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 



her genial impulses. But in this he is changed ; and in this 
Canto of Childe Harold, he will stand a comparison with 
the best descriptive poets, in this age of descriptive poetry. 
— Wilson.] 

1 The above description may seem fantastical or exagger- 
ated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an Italian 
sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient dehneation of 
an August evening, (the eighteenth,) as contemplated in one 
of many rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. 

°, 3 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. viii. and 

IX. 

* ["Half way up 

He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught, 
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life 
That sooth'd, not stirr'd."— Rogers.] 

6 The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons 
a3 with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness 
for the temptation of our Saviour. And our unsullied 



XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt* 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 

/ For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's slicde, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can luro no further ; and the ray 

Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
And shining m the brawling brook, where-by. 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
It hath no flatterers ; vanity can ^ivQ 
No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God mufi strive : 

XXXIV. 

Or, it may be, with uemons, who impair^ 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day. 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV. 

Ferrara !^ in thy wide and grass-grown streets. 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. 

XXXVI. 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dvi^ell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 



John Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete 
solitude. 

5 [In April, 1817, Lord Byron visited Ferrara, went over the 
castle, cell, &c., and wrote, a few days after, the Lament of 
Tasso. — " One of the Ferrarese asked me," he says, in a letter 
to a friend, " if I knew ' Lord Byron,' an acquaintance of liis, 
now at Naples. ' I told him ' No 1' which was true both ways, 
for I knew not the imppstor; and, in the other, no one 
knows himself. He stared, when told that I was the real 
Snnon Pure. Another asked me, if I had not translated 
Tasso. You see what Fame is 1 how accurate I how bound- 
less ! I don't know how others feel, but I am always the 
lighter and the better looked on when I have got rid of mine. 
It sits on me like armor on the lord JMayor's champion ; 
and I got rid of all the husk of literature, and the attendant 
babble, by answering that I had not translated Tasso, but a 
namesake had ; and, by the blessing pf Heaven, I looked so 
little hke a poet, that everybody believed me."] 



56 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



XXXVII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thiue 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn : 

XXXVIII. 

Thou : form'd to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider s!^' : 
He I with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow' 
No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire I 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 

In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 

Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to mis?. 

Oh, victor nnsurpass'd in modern song I 

Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 

The tide of generations shall roll on, • 

And not the whole combined and countless throng 

Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 

Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a 
sun. 

XL. 
Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott," tlie minstrel who call'd forth 
A new creation with hLs magic line. 
And, like the Ariosto of the North,^ 

oang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust^ 

Tlie iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves ; 

Nor was the ominous element unjust. 

For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 



1 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. x. 

2 ["Scott," saysLordByron,inhisMS. Diary, for 1821, "is 
certainly the most wonderful writer of the day. His novels 
are a new literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as 
any — if not better, (only on an erroneous system,)— and only 
ceased to be so popular, because the vulgar were tired of 
hearing ' Aristides called the Just,' and Scott the Best, and 
ostracised him. I know no reading to whicli I fall with such 
alacrity as a work of his. I love him, too, for his manliness 
of character, for the extreme pleasantness of his conversa- 
tion, and his good-nature towards myself personally. May 
ne prosper ! for he deserves it." In a letter, written to Sir 
Walter, from Pisa, in 1822, he says — " I owe to you far more 
than the usual obligation for the courtesies of literature and 
common friendship ; for you went out of your way, in 1817, 
to do me a service, when it required not merely kindness, 
but courage, to do so ; to have been recorded by you in such 
a manner, would have been a proud memorial at any tim'e ; 
but at such a time, when ' All the world and his wife,' as the 
proverb goes, were trying to trample upon me, was some- 
thing still higher to my self-esteem. Had it been a common 
criticism, however eloquent or panegyrical, I should have 
felt pleased and grateful, but not to the extent which the 
extraordinary good-heartedness of the whole proceeding 
must induce in any mind capable of such sensations "] 



Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves," 
And the false semblance but disgraced nis brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below' 
Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacrtd now. 

XLII. 

Italia ! oh Italia . thou who hast 
The fatal gift of leauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past. 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Tliy right, and awe the robbers back, whd press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress ; 

XLIII. 

Then might'st thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired. 
Would not be seen the aniied torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
QuafF blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe^ 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,* 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
iEgina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on Ihe left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLV. 

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more moum'd and more endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vauish'd might 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age. 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 



3 [" I do not know whether Scott will like it, but I have 
called him ' the Ariosto of the North' in my text. If he 
should not, say so in time." — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 
1817.1 

4, 5, B See Appendi.x, " Historical Notes," Nos. xi. iii. 

XIII 

' The two stanzas xlii. and xliii. are, with the exception 
of a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of 
Filicaja: — " Italia, Italia, O tu cm feo la sorte 1" 

6 The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on 
the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and now 
is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and 
land, in diflerent journeys and voyages. " On my return 
from Asia, as I was sailing from JEgina, towards Megara, I 
began to contemplate the prospect of the countries around 
me : jEgina was behind, Megara before me ; Piraeus on the 
right, Corinth on the left: all wliich towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in their 
ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but thrnK presently 
within myself, Alas ! how do we poor mortals fret and vex 
ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, 
whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many 
noble cities lie here exposed before me in one view." — Sec 
Middltton's Cicero, vol. ii. p. 371. 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



57 



XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country's ruin added to the mass 
Of perish'd states he mouni'd in their decline, 
And I in desolation : all that ivas 
Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and \ lackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,' . 

Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still aio warm. 

XLVII. 

Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side ; 
Mother of Arts ! as once of amis ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven. 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII. 

But Anio wins us to the fair white walls. 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redmidant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Anio sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills* 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
■ Part of its immortality ; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 



1 It is Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon 
ruined Rome, breaks forth in the exclamation, " Ut nunc 
omni decore nndata, prostrala jacet, instar gigantei cada- 
veris corrupti atque undique exesi." 

s See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. xiv. 

3 In 1817, Lord B}Ton visited Florence, on his way to 
Rome. " I remained," he says, " hut a day : however, I went 
to the two galleries, from which one returns drunk with 
beauty. The Venus is more for admiration than love ; but 
there are sculpture and painting, which, for the first time, 
at aU gave me an idea of what people mean by their cant 
about those two most artificial of the arts. What struck me 
most were, the mistress of Raphael, a portrait ; the mis- 
tress of Titian, a portrait ; a Venus of Titian in the Medici 
Gallery ; the Venus ; Canova's Venus, also, in the other 
gallery : Titian's mistress is also in the other gallery, (that 
is, in the Pittl Palace gallery ;) the Parcae of Michael An- 
gelo, a picture ; and the Antinous, the Alexander, and one 
or two not very decent groups m marble ; the Genius of 
Death, a sleeping figure, &c. &c. I also went to the Me- 
dici chapel. Fine frippery in great slabs of various expen- 
sive stones, to commemorate fifty rotten and forgotten 
carcasses. It is unfinished, and will remain so." We find 
the following note of a second visit to the galleries in 1821, 
accompanied by the author of " The Pleasures of Memo- 
ry :" — " My former impressions were confirmed ; but there 
were too many visiters to allow me to feel any thing proper- 
ly. When we were (about thirty or forty) all stulled into 
the cabinet of gems and knick-knackeries, in a corner of one 
cf the galleries, I told Rogers that ' it felt hke being in tlie 
■watch-house.' I heard one bold Briton declare to the 
woman on his arm, looking at the Venus of Titian, ' Well, 
now, Uiat is really very fine indeed!'— an observation 
wiiic^, like that of the landlord in Joseph Andrews, on 
'the certainty of death,' was (as the landlord's wife ob- 
seiTwl) ' extremely true.' In the Pitti Palace, I did not 
omit Goldsmith's prescription for a connoisseur, viz., ' that 



We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail ; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the mnate flash which such a soul could mould ; 



We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart" 
Reels with its fulness ; there — forever there — 
Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood— pitlse — and breast, confirm the Dardan Shep- 
herd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this o-uise ? 
Or to more deeply blcss'd Anchises? c , 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War '% 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn. 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek l*" while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an 



LIL 

Glowing, and circumfiLsed in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feehng to express, or to improve. 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, [grow 

From what has been, or might be, things which 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 



the pictures would have been better if the painter had taken 
more pains, and to praise the works of Peter Perugino.' "] 

* O(p6a\ixovs coTtav. 

"Atque oculos pascat uterque sues." — Ovid. Amor. lib. ii. 

6 [The delight with which the pilgrim contemplates the 
ancient Greek statues at Florence, and afterwards at Rome, 
is such as might have been expected from any great poet, 
whose youthful mind had, like his, been imbued with those 
classical ideas and associations which aflbrd so many 
sources of pleasure, through every period of life. He has 
gazed upon these masterpieces of art with a more suscep- 
tible, and, in spite of his disavowal, with a more learned 
eye, than can be traced in the eflusions of any poet who 
had previously expressed, in any formal manner, his admi- 
ration of their beauty. It may appear fanciful to say so ; — 
but we think the genius of Byron is, more than that of any 
other modern poet, akin to that peculiar genius which 
seems to have been diffused among all the poets and artists 
of ancient Greece ; and in whose spirit, above all its other 
wonders, the great specimens of sculpture seem to have 
been conceived and executed. His creations, whether of 
beauty or of strength, are all single creations. He requires 
no grouping to give effect to his favorites, or to tell his 
story. His heroines are solitary symbols of loveliness, 
which require no foil ; his heroes stand alone as upon mar- 
ble pedestals, displaying the naked power of passion, or the 
wrapped up and reposing energy of grief. The artist who 
wouhl illustrate, as it is called, the works of any of oui 
other poets, must borrow the mimic splendors of the pen- 
cil. He who would transfer into another vehicle the spirit 
of Byron, must pour the liquid metal, or hew the stubborn 
rock. What he loses in ease, he will gain in power. Hi; 
might draw from Medora, Gulnare, Lara, or Jlanfred, sub- 
jects for relievos, worthy of enthusiasm almost as great as 
Harold has liimself displayed on the contemplation of the 
loveliest and the sternest reUcs of the inimilal-e genius of 
the Greeks. — Wilson. J 



58 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



LIII. 

I i.eave to learjied fingers, aud wise hands, 
The artist and liis ape,' to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bond, and the voluptuous swell : 
Let these describe the undescribablo : 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall forever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIV. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie^ 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 

Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri"s bones, and his,^ 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose.* 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the elements. 
Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! [rents 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity. 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LVI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles naught to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,^ 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore f 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown' 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, [own. 

His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thine 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd' 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among. 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 



1 [Only a week before the poet visited the Florence gal- 
lery-, hewrote thus to a friend :— " I know nothing of paint- 
ing. Depend upon it, of all the arts, it is the most artificial 
and unnatural, and that by wliich the nonsense of mankind 
is most imposed upon. I never yet saw the picture or the 
statue which came a league within my conception or ex- 
pectation ; but 1 have seen many mountains, and seas, and 
rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as 
far beyond it." — Byron Letters.] 

2, 3, "1 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. xv. xvi. 
ivii. — [" Tlie church of Santa Croce contains much illus- 
tnous no<^hing. The tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, 
tJalileo, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of Italy. 
I did not admire any of those tombs — beyond their contents. 



That miisic in itself, whose somids are song. 
The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room. 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for lohom . 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cajsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust. 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more : 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore. 
Fortress of falling empire ! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly clamis and keeps, [weeps. 
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and 

LX. 

Wliat Ls her pyramid of precious ptones?' 
Of porphyry, jasper, .agate, and all ;uie« 
Of gem and marble, to ,'ncrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? tiie momei.tary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps .he deac. 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently press'd with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Axno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimeno's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the shore. 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er, 

LXIIL 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day. 
And such the phrensy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray. 
An eartJiquake reel'd unheededly away !'° 
None felt stem Nature rocking at his feet. 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; [meet I 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations 



That of Alfieri is heavy ; and all of them seem to be over- 
loaded. What is necessary but a bust and name ? and per- 
haps a date T the last for the unchronological, of whom I 
am one. But all your allegory and eulogy is infernal, and 
worse than the long wigs of English numskulls upon Roman 
bodies, in the statuary of the reigns of Charles the Second, 
William, and Anne."' -JSyron Letters, 1817.] 

6, c, ', 8 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. xvni. 
XIX. XX. and xxi. 

9 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. xxir. 

10 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. xxiii. — {An 
earthquake which shook all Italy occurred during the iiat- 
tle, and was unfelt by any of the combatants.] 



C^NTO IV. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



59 



LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
Tlie motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
III them suspended, reck'd not of the awe [l)irds 
Which reigns wlien mountains tremble, and the 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing 
herds [no words. 

Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath 

LXV. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead [red. 

Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters 

LXVI. 

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave'* 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters ! 

LXVII. 

And on thy happy shore a Temple' still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
bling tales. 



1 [" The lovely peaceful mirror refieciod the mountains of 

Monte Pulciana, and the wild fowl skimming its ample sur- 
face, touched the waters with their rapid wings, leaving cir- 
cles and trains of light to glitter in gray repose. As we 
moved along, one set of interesting features yielded to 
another, and every change excited new delight. Yet, was 
it not amonp these tranquil scenes that Hannibal and Fla- 
mmius met ? Was not the blush of blood upon the silver 
lake of Thrasimene!" — H. \Y. Williams.] 

2 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the tem- 
le of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto ; and no 

site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more wortliy a description. 
For an account of the dilapidation of tliis temple, the read- 
er is referred to " Historical Illustrations of the Fourth 
Canto of Childe Harold," p. 35. 

s [" This pretty little gem stands on the acclivity of a bank 
overlooking its crystal waters, which have their source at 1 he 
distance of some hundred yards towards Spoleto. The tem- 
ple, fronting the river, is of an oblong form, in the Corinthi- 
an order. Four columns support the pediment, the shafts of 
which are covered in spiral lines, and in forms to represent 
the scales of fishes : the bases, too, are richly sculptured. 
Within the building is a chapel, the walls of which are cov- 
ered with many hundred names ; but we saw none which we 
■iould recognise as British. Can it be that this classical 
temple is seldom visited by our countrymen, though cele- 
brated by Diyden and Addison ? To future travellers from 
Britain it will surely be rendered interesting by the beauti- 
ful lines of Lord Byron, flowing as sweetly as the lovely 
stream which they describe." — H. W. Williams.] 

* [Perhaps there are no verses in our language of happier 
descriptive power than the tw^o stanzas which characterize 
Uie Cliturmius. In general, poets lind it so difficult to leave 



LXVIII. 

Pass not mibless'd the Genius of the place '. 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprmkle its coolness, and from the dry du8t 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.* 

LXIX. 

The roar of \ i.ters ! — from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light " 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls romid the rocks of jet 
Tnat gird the gulf around, in pitilfiss horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 
vent 

LXXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, [back ! 

With many windings, through the vale: — Look 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternity. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract,' 



an interesting subject, that they injure the distinctness of the 
description by loading it so as to embarrass, rather than ex- 
cite, the fancy of the reader ; or else, to avoid that fault, 
they confine themselves to cold and abstract generalities. 
Byron has, in these stanzas, admirably steered his course be- 
twixt these extremes: while they present the outlines of a 
picture as pure and as brilliant as those of Claude Lorraine, 
the task of filling up the more minute particulars is judi- 
ciously left to the imagination of the reader; and it must be 
dull indeed if it does not supply what the poet has left un- 
said, or but generally and briefly intimated. While the eye 
glances over tl^ lines, we seem to feel the refre.«;hing cool 
ness of the scene — we hear the bubbling tale of the more 
rapid streams, and see the slender proportions of tne rural 
temple reflected in the crystal depth of the calm pool. — Sir 
Walter Scott. J 

s I saw the Cascata del Marmore of Terni twice, at dif- 
ferent periods ; once from the summit of the precipice, and 
again from the valley below. The lower view is far to be 
preferred, if the traveller has time for one only ; but in any 
point of view, either from above or below, it is worth all the 
cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together : the Stau- 
bach, Reichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, &c., are 
rills in comparative appearance. Of the fall of Schaff hausen 
I cannot speak, not yet having seen it.— [" The stunning 
sound, the mist, uncertainty, and tremendous depth, bevi'il- 
dered the senses for a time, and the eye had little rest, from 
the impetuous and hurrving waters, to search into the mys- 
terious and whitened gulf, which presented, through a cloud 
of spray, the apparitions, as it were, of rocks and overhang- 
ing wood. The wind, however, would sometimes remove 
for an instant this misty veil, and display such a scene of 
havoc as appalled the soul."— H. W. Williams.] 



GO 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto jv. 



LXXIT. 

Horribly beautiful I but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the ghttering mom, 
An Iris sit3, amidst the infernal surge,' 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, whilo all around is torn 
By the distracted Avaters, boars serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 
Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar'^ 
The thundering lauwine — might bo worshipp'd 
But I have seen tlie soaring Jungfrau rear [more ; 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near. 
And in Chimari heard tlie thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV. 

Th' Acrocoraunian mountains of old name ; 
And on Parnaf5sus scon the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they war'd unutterably high : 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Athos, Olympus, iEtna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem tilings of lesser dignity. 
All, save tho lone Soracto's height, display'd 
Not now in snow, which asks tho lyric Roman's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on tho curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake. 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
Tlie hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the ])oet's sake. 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word' 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 



J Of the time, place, iiid qualities of this kind of iris, the 
reader will see a short account, in a note to Manfred. The 
fall looks so much like "the hell of wafers," that Addison 
thought the descent alluded to by the gulf in which Alecto 
plunged into the infernal regions. It is singular enough, that 
two of the finest cascades in Europe should be artificial — 
this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. The traveller is 
strongly recommended to trace the Velino, at least as high 
as the little lake, called Pie' di Imp- The Reatine territory 
was the Italian Tempe, (Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. - ,) 
and the ancient naturalists, (Plin. Hist. Nat. lib. ii. c<-. ;• 
l.\ii.,) amongst other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily 
rainbows of the lake Vclinus. A scholar of great name has 
devoted a treatise to this district alone. See Aid. Manut. de 
Reatina Urbe Agroquc, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. torn. i. p. 773. 

2 In th° greater jjart of Switzerland, the avalanches are 
known b> tiie name of lauwine. 

3 These stanzas may probably remind the reader of Ensign 
Northerton's remarks : " D— n Homo," <kc. ; but the reasons 
for our dislike arc not exactly the same. I wish to express, 
that we become tired of the task before we can comprehend 
the beauty ; that we learn by rote before we can get by heart ; 
that the freshness is worn away, and the future pleasure and 
advantage deadened and destroyed, by the didactic antici- 
pation, at an age when v/e can neither feel nor understand 
the power of compositions which it requires an acquaintance 
with life, as well i'ls Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason, we never can be aware of the 
lulness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare, ("To 
be, or not to be," for instance,) from the habit of havmg 
them hammered into us at eiglit years old, as an exercise, 
not of mind, but of memory : so that when we are old enough 
to enjoy them, the insle is gone, and the appetite palled. In 
some parts of the continent, young persons are taught from 
moic common authors, and do not read the best classics till 



LXXVI. 

Aught that recalls tho daily drug which ttirn'd 
My sickening memory ; and, tliough Tirr.e hath 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, Huught 
Yet such tho fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with tho freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested> still abhor 

LXXVIL 

Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so,* 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verso, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard pr'^scribe his art> 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pieico. 
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, 
Yet faro thee well — upon Soracto's ridge wo part. 

LXXVIII. 

Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
Tho orphans of the heart must turn to thoc, 
lione mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufTerance? (^ome and Koe 
The cypress, hear tho owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Yo I 
Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

I XXIX 

Tho Niobo of nations ! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo ; 
An emj)ty urn within her wither'd hands. 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
Tho Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ;* 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 



their maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from 
any pique or aversion towards the place of my education. I 
was not a slow, though an idle boy ; and I believe no one 
could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have al- 
ways been, and with reason ; — a part of the time passed 
there was the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor, the 
Rev. Dr. Joseph Drury,was the best and worthiest friend I 
ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too 
well, though too late when I have erred, — and whose coun- 
sels I have but ft)llowed when I have done well or wisely. 
If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards hiia 
should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never 
thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration— of one who 
would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by 
more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any 
honor upon his instructor. 

•• [Lord Byron's prepossession against Horace is not with- 
out a parallel. It was not till released from the duty of 
reading Virgil as a task, that Gray could feel himself capa- 
ble of enjoying the beauties of that poet. — Moore.] 

£■ [" I have been some days in Rome the Wonderful I am 
dehghted with Rome. As h whole — ancient and mode.-n, — 
it beats Greece, Constantinople, every thing— at least that 
I have ever seen. But I can't describe, because' my first im- 
pressions are always strong and confused, and my memory 
selects and reduces them to order, like distance in the land- 
scape, and blends them better, although they may be less 
distinct. I have been on horseback most of the day, all 
days since my arrival. I have been to Albano, its lakes, 
anil to the top of the Alban Mount, and to Frescati, Ai cia, 
&c. As for the Coliseum, Pantheon, St. P'^ter's, the Vati- 
can, Palatine, &c. &c.,— they are quite incuuceivablc, and 
must be seen." — Byron Letters, May, 1817.] 

6 For a comment on this and the two following stanzas, 
the reader may consult " Historical Illustrations," p. JO 



Canto iv. 



CniLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



61 



LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the eevcn-hill'd city's pride ; 
She saw her glories stai by star expire. 
And up the steep barbarian monarehs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the capitol ; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : — 
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trape the void. 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doub:y night? 

LXXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her. 
Night's daughter. Ignorance, hath wrapp'd and wraj 
All round us ; we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollur^ions ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry, " Eureka !" it is clear — 
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas! the lofty city ! and alas! 
The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conaueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall wo see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was 
free l 

Lxxxni. 

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
. The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou did|t lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath,'' — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? 
She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty 
hail'd ! 



1 Orosius gives 320 lor tne numDer of triumphs. He is 
followed by Panvinius ; and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and 
the modem writers. 

s Certainly, were it not for these two traits in the life of 
Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him as 
is monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. The 
atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may per- 
haps be accepted by us, as it seems to have satisfied the 
Uomans, who if they had not respected must have destroy- 
ed him. There could be no mean, no division of opinion ; 
llicy must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what had 
appeared ambition was a love of glory, and that what 
luia lietn mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of soul.— 



LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; ho 
Too swept ofF senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
His day of double victory and death "broatli. 

Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his 

LXXXVI 

The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force. 
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.^ 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consame 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way. 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
Were they but so m man's, how different were his 
doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in'' 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Ccesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity. 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die. 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scone ? 

Lxxxvin. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome !* 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the groat founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charo-e 
forget ? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
The men of iron ; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, [steer'd, 

And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 
At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd. 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave. 
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave- 



[" Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes id6es de la fagon 
dont je vous vols agir. Je croyais que vous aviez de 
I'ambition, mais aucune amour pour la gloire : je voyais 
bien que votre ame etait haute ; mais je ne soupfon 
nais pas qu'elle ful grande." — Dialogues de Si/Ua et d'Eu- 
crate.^ 

3 On the 3d of September Cromwell gamed the victory cf 
Dunbar : a year afterwards he obtained " his crovming 
mercy" of Worcester ; and a few years after, on the same 
day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for 
him, died. 

4, 5 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nc s. xxiv. xxv . 



62 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv 



XC. 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Ctesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould/ 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And aia immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold. 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beam'd, 

XCI. 

And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
Witli a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity. 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
At what? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd? 

XCII. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Coesars in his fate. 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
A universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode. 
And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,'* 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep. 
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
Lest their own judgments should become too bright. 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 
too much light. 

XCIV. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to ago. 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena ■^^'here they see 
Their fellows fall before, hke eaves of the same tree. 

xcv. 

1 speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hom-ly seen — 
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 



1 See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. xxvi. 

5 • " Omnes pene veteres \ qui nihil cog- 

nosci, nihil percepi, niliil sciri posse dixerunt ; angustos 
sensus ; iinbecillos animos, brevia curricula vitaj ; in pro- 
fundo rerltatem demersam ; opinionibus et institutis omnia 
teneri ; niliil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris 
Circumfusa esse dixerunt." Acadeni. 1. 13. The eighteen 



The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the throno; 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had dons 

XCVI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Sucb as Columbia saw arise when she 
Spru ig forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or m 1st such minds be nourish'd in the wild. 
Deep n the impnmed forest, 'midst the roar 
Of ca racts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 
shore ? 

XCVIL 

But France got dnmk with blood to vomit crime, 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime ; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
And vile Ambition, that built up betwe«Li 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his 
second fall. 

XCVIIL 

Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fniit bring forth 

XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,* 
Finn as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an armyie baffled strength delays. 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
Wliat treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? — A woman's 
grave. 

C. 

But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? [not 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she 
So honor' d — and conspicuously there. 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 



hundred years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this 
have not removed any of the imperfections of humanity ; 
and the complaints of the ancient piiilosophers may, with- 
out injustice or aflectation, be transcribed in a poem wnt 
ten yesterday. 

3 Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia MeteDa, called Capo 
Bove. See " Historical Illustrations," p. 200. 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



03 



CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war. 
Inveterate in virtue"? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 

Love from amongst her griefs ?— for such the affections 
are. 

CII. 
Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites— early death ; yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. 

Of her consuming cheek the autiunnal leaf-like red. 

CHI. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children— with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may be, still a something of tho day 
V/hen they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and ey§d 
By Rome.— But whither would Conjecture stray ? 
Thus much alone we know — Metella died. 
The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! 

CIV. 

I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
Thou Tomb ! and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, though the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied ston' 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
forms from the floating wreck which Ruins leaves 
behind ■? 

CV. 
And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and tho shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on tho solitary shore 



Wliere all lies founder'd that was oer dear": 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? 

There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save w:5tlt is 
here. 

CVI. 
Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry. 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site. 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 

What are our petty griefs? — let me not number mine 

CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes steepM 
In subterranean damps, where the c >\1 pecp'd. 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, baths, or halls? 
Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty falls.' 

CVIIL 

There is the moral of all human talcs ;^ 
'Tis but tlie same rehearsal of the past. 
First Freedom, and then Glory— when that fails, 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page,— 'tis better written here. 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 

Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask— Away with words . 
draw near, 

CIX. 
Admire, exult— despise — laugh, weep,— for here 
There is such matter for all feeling :— ]\Ian ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fiU'd ! 

Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to 
build? 



To Y^P Saftiv ovK aiCTXpuv, aXX' ai(Txpi3; ^avtiv. 

Rich. Fran. Phil. Brunck. Poetse Gnomici, 
p. 231, ed. 1784. 

2 I Four words, and two initials, compose the whole of the 
inscription whicli, wliatever was its ancient position, is now- 
placed in front of this towering sepulchre : C^ecili^ . Q . 
Cketici F . Metell* . Crassi. It is more likely to have 
been the pride than the love of Crassus, winch raised so 
superb a memorial to a wife, whose name is not mentioned 
in history, unless she be supposed to be that lady whose 
intimacy with Dolabella was so offensive to TuUia, the 
daughter of Cicero ; or she who was divorced by Lentulus 
Spinther ; or she, perhaps the same person, from whose ear 
the son of ^sopus transferred a precious jewel to enrich 
his daughter.— HoBHOusB.] 

3 The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the 
sido towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is formed 
of iTumblcd brickwork. Notliing has been told, nothing 
can be told, to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman anti- 
quary. See " Historical Illustrations," p. 206.— [" The voice 
of Manus could not sound more deep and solemn among 
tlie ruined arches of Carthage, than the strains of the 1 ilgrira 



amid the broken shrines and fallen statues of her subduer." 
—Sir Walter Scott.J 

4 The author of the Life of Cicero,- speaking of the 
opinion entertained of Britain by that orator and Ins co- 
temporary Romans, has the following eloquent passage :— 
" From their railleries of this kind, on tlie barbarUy and 
misery of our island, one cannot help reflecting on the 
surprising fate and revolutions of kingdoms ; how Rome, 
once the mistress of the world, the seat of arts, empire, 
and glory, now lies sunk in sloth, ignorance, and poverty, 
enslaved to the most cruel as well as to the most con- 
temptible of tyrants, superstition and religious imposture ; 
while this remote country, anciently the jest and contempt 
of the polite Romans, is become the happy seat of liberty, 
plenty, and letters ; flourishing in all tlie arts and refine- 
ments of civil life ; yet running perhaps the same course 
which Rome itself had run before it, from vir nous in- 
dustry to wealth ; from wealth to luxui-y ; from luxury to 
an impatience of discipline, and corruption of morals: 
till, by a total degeneracy and loss of virtue, being growii 
ripe for destruction, it fall a prey at last to some hardy op- 
pressor, and, with the loss of liberty, losing every tlung that 

s valuable, smks gradually again mto its origmal bar 
barism." (See History of tlie Life of M. TuUius Cicero, 

sect. vi. vol. ii. p. 102.) 



64 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



ex. 

Tully was not bo eloquent as thon, 
Thou nameless column wrth the buried base I 
What are the laurels of the Cassar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets mo in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's? No — 'tis that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sub- 
lime,' 

CXI.. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars : they had contained 
A spirit which with these would find a home. 
The last of those who o'er tlie whole earth reign'd. 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
But jaelded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore.'* 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the 

steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in you field belov.', 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicero I 



CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd. 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on tlie trembling senate's slavish mutes. 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 

CXIV. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi ! last of Romans !' While the tree 
Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf. 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too brief. 



1 The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; that 
of Aurelius by St Paul. See " Historical Illustrations," 
p 214. 

2 Trajan was proverbiaUij the best of the Roman princes, 
;Eutrop. 1. viii. c. .5 ;) and it would be easier to find a sove- 
reign uniting exactly the opposite characteiistics, than one 
possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed to this emperor. 
" When he mounted the throne," says the historian Dion, 
" he was strong in body, he was vigorous in mind ; age had 
impaired roneof liis faculties ; he was altogether free from 
envy and from detraction ; he honored all the good, and he 
advancea them ; and on this account they could not be the 



CXV. 

Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart* 
Which found no ftiortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth. 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth- 

CXVI. 

The mosses of thy ".-untaiu still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works ; nor must tlie delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbhng from the base 
Of the cleft statue, vr i.h a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, 
creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled : the green hills 
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their dass, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
skies 

CXVIII. 
Pere didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria! thy all-heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamor'd Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle I 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing. 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed wlii'.n 
clovi? 



objects of his fear, or of his hate ; he never listened tc in- 
formers ; he gave not way to his anger ; he abstained 
equally from unfair exactions and unjust punishments ■ he 
had rather be loved as a man than honored as a sovereign : 
he was affable with his people, respectful to the senate, antt 
universally beloved by both ; he inspired none v/ith dread 
but the enemies of liis country."— Hist. Rom. 1. Ixiii. c. 6, 7. 

3 The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the 
reader of Gibbon. Some details and unedited manuscripts, 
relative to this unhappy hero, will be seen in the " Historical 
Illustrations of the Fourth Canto," p. 248. 

i See Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. xxvii. 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



G5 



CXX. 

A/us . our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark hixuriance, tares of haste, 
Raiili at the core, though templing to the eyes. 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies. 
And trdos whose giuns are poison ; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O tr the world's wildenaess, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 

CXXI. 

Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven. 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given, 
Ae haunts the unquench'd soul — parcJi'd — wearied 
— wrung — and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation : — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized i 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men. 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? 

CXXIII. 

Wlio loves, raves — 'tis youth's phrensy — but the cure 
Is bitterer still ; as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the muid's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun. 

Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most 
undone. 

CXXIV. 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; nnfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly cursed. 
Love, fam>, ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
Each idle — and all ill — and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name. 

And Death the ■sable smoke where vanishes the flame. 

CXXV. 

Few — non» — hnd what they love or could have loved. 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long. 



' "At all events," says the author of the Academical 
Questions, " I trust, whatever may be the fate of my own 
speculations, that philosophy will regain that estimation 
which it ought to possess. The free and philosophic spirit 
of our nation has been the theme of admiration to the world. 
This was the proud distinction of Englishmen, and the lu- 
minous source of all their glory. Shall we then forget th« 
manly and dignified sentiments of our ancestors, to prate m 
the language of the mother or the nurse about our good old 



Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 

Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all have 
trod. 

CXXVI. 
Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uueradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree. 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 
through 

The Ir.imedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 

CXXVII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base' 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Om right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
^8 chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, [blind 

The beam pours in, for tune and skill will couch the 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shuie 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian nighi, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Tune hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruiu'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 

cxxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of tlie ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the coiTector where our judgments err. 
The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger ! imto thee I lift [gift 

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a 



prejudices ? This is not the way to defend the cause of 
truth It was not thus that our fathers maii.t.a.ned it in the 
brilliant periods of our history. Prejudice may be trusted 
to guard the outworks for a short spaced time, wliile reason 
slumbers in the citadel ; but if the latter sink into a lethargy, 
the former will quickly erect a standard for herself. Phi- 
losophy, wisdom, and liberty support each other : he who 
will not reason is a bigot ; he who cannot, is a fool ; £ind lie 
who dares not, is a slave." Vol. i. pref. pp. 14, 15 



GG 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine 
Aud temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not moum ? 

CXXXII. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis !' 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just. 
Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! [must 
Dost thou not hear jny Leart? — Awake I thou shalt, and 

cxxxni. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 

For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 

I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 

With a just weapon, it had flow'd unbound ; 

But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 

To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 

The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 

Which if / have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIV. 

And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow. 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse. 
Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wre.ak 
The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the momitain of my curse ! 

CXXXV. 

That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life bed away? 
And only not to desperation driven. 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXVI 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 

Have I not seen what human things could do ? 

1 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. xxviii. 

2 [Between stanzas cxxxv. and cxxxvi. Me find in the 
jriginal MS. the following : — 

' If to forgive be heaping coals of fire— 
As God hath spoken — on the heads of foes, 
Mine should be a volcano, and rise higher 
Than, o'er the Titans crush'd, Olympus rose. 
Or Athos soars, or blazing Etna glows : — 
True, they who stung were creeping tilings ; but what 
Than serpents' teeth inflicts with deadlier throes ? 
The Lion may be goaded by the Gnat. — 
Who sucks the slumberer's blood?— The Eagle''— No: 
the Bat."] 



From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eyo, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy.^ 

CXXXVII. 

But I have Hved, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of. 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre. 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The sea 's set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
Namdess, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the sliadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear : 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him — ho is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch 
who won. 

CXLI. 
He heard it, but he heeded not — ^his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ;' 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 



3 Whether the wonderful statue which suggested this 
image be a laquearian gladiator, which, in spite of Wjnkel- 
mami's criticism, has been stoutly maintained ; or whether it 
be a Greek herald, as that great antiquary positively as- 
serted ;* or whether it is to be thought a Spartan or barba 



* Either Polifontes, herald of Laius, killed by CEdipus ; or 
Cepreas, herald of Eurithcus, killed by the Athenians when 
he endeavored to drag the Heraclidas from the altar of 
mercy, and in whose honor they instituted annual games, 
continued to the time of Hadrian ; or Anthemocritus, the 
Athenian herald, killed by the Megarenses, wbc revcr re- 
covered the impiety. See Storia delle Arti, fee. torn. ii. 
pag. 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, lib. ix. cap. li. 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



67 



There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — ' 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
And unavenged? — Arise I ye Goths, and glut your ire I 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,^ 
My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint rays 
On the arena A'oid — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
Alas ! develop'd, opens the decay. 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too siuch on all years, man, have reft 
away. 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Coesar's head f 
When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye 
tread. 

CXLV. 

" Wliile stands the Coliseimi, Rome shall stand ;* 

" When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 

" And when Rome falls — the World." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 



rian shield-bearer, according to the opinion of his Italian 

editor ; it must assuredly seem a copy of that masterpiece of 
Ctesilaus which represented " a wounded man dying, who 
perfectly expressed wliat there remained of life m him." 
Alontfaucon and Jlaffei thought it the identical statue ; but 
that statue was of bronze. The Gladiator was once in the 
Villa Ludovizi. and was bought by Clement XII. The 
right arm is an entire restoration of Michael Angelo. 

1, ' See Appendix, " Historical Notes," Nos. xxix. xxx. 

3 Suetonius informs us that Julius Ca;sar was particularly 
gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled him to 
wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He was anxious, 
not to show that he was the conqueror of the world, but to 
hide that he was bald. A stranger at Rome would hardly 
have guessed at the motive, nor should we without the help 
of the liistorian. 

< This is quoted in the " Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire," aS a proof that the Coliseum was entire, when seen 
oy the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at the end of the seventh, or 
the beginning of the eighth, century. A notice on the Coli- 
£eum may be seen in the '' Historical Illustrations," p. 263. 

* " Though plundered of all its brass, except the ring 



Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 
ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime' — 

Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 

From Jove to Jesus — spared and bless'd by time ; 

Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 

Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man p.ods 

His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 

Shalt thc\r not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages. Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts around them 
close.* 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light' 
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar : — but what doth she there. 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and baro ? 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Where on the heart awA from the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look. 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet ? — I know not — Cain was 
Eve's. 



which was necessary to preserve the aperture above ; 
though exposed to repeated fires ; though sometimes flood- 
ed by the river, and always open to the rain, no monument 
of equal antiquity is so well preserved as this rotundo. It 
passed with little alteration from the Pagan into the present 
worship ; and so convenient were its niches for the Chris- 
tian altar, that Michael Angelo, ever studious of ancient 
beauty, introduced their design as a model in the Catholic 
church."— Forsyth's Italy, p. 137, 2d edit. 

6 The Pantheon has been made a receptacle for the busts 
of modem great, or, at least, distinguished, men. The flood 
of light which once fell through the large orb above on the 
whole circle of divinities, now shines on a numerous assem- 
blage of mortals, some one or two oi whom have beeft almost 
deiiled by the veneration of their countrymen. For a notice 
of the Pantheon, see " Historical Illustrations," p 287. 

"> This and the three next stanzas allude to the stor^r of 
the Roman daughter, wliich is recalled to the traveller by 
the site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now shown at 
the church of St. Nicholas in Carcere. The difficulties at- 
tending the full belief of the tale are stated in " Historical 
Illustrations," p. 295. 



68 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



CL. 

Bui here youth offers to old age the food, 

The milk of his own gift : — it is her eire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds 
no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the miiverse. 

, CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,' 
Imperial mimic of old Egj'pt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity. 
Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, [birth ! 

To view the huge design which sprung from such a 

CLIII. 

But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome,^ 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 

CLIV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook his fonner city, what could be. 
Of earthly structures, in his honor piled. 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 
Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty ^ all are aisled 
In this eternal ark jf worship undeliled. 



> The castle of St. Angelo. " See Historical Illustrations." 

2 [This and the six next stanzas have a reference to the 
church of St. Peter's. For a measurement of the compara- 
tire length of this basilica and the other great churches of 
Europe, see the pavement of St. Peter's, and the Classical 
Tour through Italy, .vol. ii. p. 125, et seq. oh. iv.] 

3 [" I remember very well," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
" my own disappointment when I first visited the Vatican ; 
but on confessing my feelings to a brother student, of whose 
ingenuousness I had a high opinion, he acknowledged that 
the works of Raphael had the same effect on liim, or rather, 
that they did not produce the effect which he expected. 
This was a great relief to my mind ; and, on inquiring 
further of other .students, I found that those persons only 
who, from natural imbecility, appeared to be incapable of 
relishing those divine performances, made pretensions to 
instantaneous raptures on first beholding them. — Mv not 
relislurig them as I was conscious I ought to have "done, 



CLV. 

Enter : its grandeiu- overwhelms thee not ; 
And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mmd. 
Expanded by the ge^iius of the spot. 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the J. dvanco, 
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, 
Deceived by it^ gigantic elegance ; 
Vastness which grows — but grows to harmouiz©-^ 
All musical in its immensities ; 
Rich marbles — richer painting — shrinee H'here flame 
The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
. n air with Earth's chief structures, though their 
frame [claim. 

Sii.*? on the firm-set ground — and this the clouds must 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will jnake. 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts mitil thy mind hath got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; cjven so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
Defies at first our Natui;e's littleness, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlighten'd ; there is more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What fonner time, nor skill, nor thought could plan; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions can. 



was one of the most humiliating circumstances that ever 
happened to me ; I found myself in the midst of works ex 
ecuted upon principles with which I was unacquainted : 1 
felt my ignorance, and stood abashed. All the indigested 
notions of painting which I had brought with me trora 
England, where the art was in the lowest stale it had ever 
been in, were to be totally done away and eradicated from 
my mind. It was necessary, as it is expressed on a very 
solemn occasion, that I should become as a Utile child. 
Notwithstanding my disapi.ointment, I proceeded to corj' 
some of those excellent works. I viewed them again ana 
again ; I even affected to feel their merit and admire thera 
more than I really did. In a short time, a new taste and a 
new perception began to dawn upon me, and I was con- 
vinced that I had originally formed a false opinion of the 
perfection of the art, and that this great painter was well 
entitled to the high rank wliich he holds in the admiration 
of the world "] 



Canto iv. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



69 



CLX. 

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
With an immortal's patience blending : — ^Vain 
Tlie stniggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp, 
The old man's clench ; the long envenom'd chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lcrd of the unerring bow, 
nie God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight ; 
Tlie shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, fla'feh their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII 

But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Loiig''d for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden'd in that vision — are express'd 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind with in its most imearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality — and stood, 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god I 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
• By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, noi laid 
One ringlet in the dust — iior hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 
*twas wrought. 

CLXIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no. more — these breathings arc his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 

That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 

And spreads the dim and universal pall [cloud 

Through which all things grow phantoms ; and the 

Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 

Till Glory's self is twilight, and disp' iys 

A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 



• i" Tha death of the Princess Charlotte has been a shock 
ever: here, (Venice,) and must have been an earthquake at 
nome. The fate of this poor girl is melancholy in every 
espect ; dying at twenty or so, in childbed— of a boy too, a 



To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, 

CLXVI. 

And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame. 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more. 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made ine same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore [was gore. 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! fc i in from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound. 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; [ground, 
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babo, to whom her breast yields no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang forever : with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
• And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid. 
The love of millions ! How we did intrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a meteor 
beam'd. , 

CLXXI. 

Wo unto us, not her ;' for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle. 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rang 



present princess and future queen, and just as she began to 
be happy, and to enjoy herself, and the hopes wliich she in- 
spired. I feel sorry in every respect."— i?(/ron Leitei's.] 



70 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung 
Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate' 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or 
late, — 

CLXXII. 

Tliese might have been her destiny ; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Wliose shock was as an earthquake's, and oppress'd 
The land which loved thee so that none could love 
thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi !^ navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect naught can shake. 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 



CLXXIV. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
" Arms and the Man," whose reascending star 
Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
The Sabme farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.' 

CLXXV. 

But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
And he and I must part, — so let it be — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea ; 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roU'd 



CLXXVI. 

Upon the olue Symplegades : long years — 
Long, though not very many, since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run. 



I Mary died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart ; 
Charles V. a hermit ; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means and 
glory ; Cromwell of anxiety ; and, " the greatest is behind," 
Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but 
superfluous list might be added, of names equally illustrious 
and unhappy. 

n The village of Nemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egena, and, from the shades which embosomed the tempi* 
of Biao a, h as preserved to this day its distinctive appellation 



We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
Tlrat we can yet ft el gladden'd by the smi, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is clear 

CLXXVII. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
Ye Elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely, shore. 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and nvu&\c in its roar: 
I love not Man the less, but Nature more. 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before. 
To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
Wliat I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, then deep and dark blue Ocean — ^roll ! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelfd, uncofEn'd, and imknown 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray ' 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

Tlie armaments which thunde-rstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 



of The Grove. Nemi is but an evening's ride from the com- 
fortable inn of Albano. 

3 The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which haa 
succeeded to the temple of the L;.\ian Jupiter, the prospect 
embraces all the objects alluded to in tliis stanza ; the Medi- 
terranean ; the whole scene of the latter half of the jEneid, 
and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber to the 
headland of Circseum and the Cape of Terracina.— See 
Appendix, " Historical Notes," No. xxxi 



Canto iv, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



71 



CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?' 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 

CLXXXIII 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; — ^boundless, endless, and sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

CLXXXIV. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean 9 and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
feorne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me 



1 [When Lord Byron wrote this stanza, he had, no doubt, 
the following passage in Boswell's Johnson floating on his 
mmd : — " Dining one day with General PaoU, and talking 
of his projected journey to Italy, — 'A man,' said Johnson, 
' who has not been in Italy, is always conscious of an infe- 
riority, from his not having seen what it is expected a man 
should see. The grand object of all travelling is to see the 
shores of the Mediterranean. On those shores were the 
four great empires of the world ; the Assyrian, the Persian, 
the Grecian, and the Roman. All our religion, almost all 
our law, almost all our arts, almost all that sets us above 
savages, has come to us from the shores of the Mediterra- 
nean.' The General observed, that ' The Mediterranean' 
would be a noble subject for a poem." — Life of Johnson, 
vol. V. p. U5, ed. 1835.] 

2 [" This passage would, perhaps, be read without emo- 
tion, if we did not know that Lord Byron was here descri- 
bing liis actual feelings and habits, and that this was an un- 
affected picture of his propensities and amusements even 
from childhood, — when he listened to the roar, and watched 
the bursts of the northern ocean on the tempestuous shores 
of Aberdeenshire. It was a fearful and violent change at 
the age of ten years to be separated from this congenial soli- 
♦.'ide, — this independence so suited to his haughty and con- 
templative spirit, — this rude grandeur of nature, — and 
thrown among the in ?i'e worldly-minded and selfish feroci- 
ty, the afl'ected polls/, and repelling coxcombry, of a great 
public school. How many thousand times did the moody, 
sullen, and indignant boy wish himself back to the keen air 
and boisterous billows that broke lonely upon the simple 
and soul-invigorating haunts of his childhood ! How did he 
prefer some ghost-story ; some tale of second-sight ; some 
relation of Robin Hood's feats ; some harrowing narrative 
of buccaneer-exploits, to all of Horace, and Virgil, and 
Homer, that was diiuied into his repulsive spirit ! To the 



Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

CLXXXV. 

My task is done^ — my song hath ceased — my 

theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
Woidd it wfire worthier ! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less paljjably before me — and tlie glow 
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 

CLXXXV I. 

Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! 
Ye 1 who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with you, the moral of his strain ! 



shock of this change is, I suspect, to be traced much of the 
eccentricity of Lord Byron's future life. This fourth Canto 
is the fruit of a mind which had stored itself with great care 
and toil, and had digested with profound reflection and in- 
tense vigor what it had learned : the sentiments are not 
such as lie on the surface, but could only be awakend by 
long meditation. Whoever reads it, and is not impressed 
with the many grand virtues as well as gigantic powers ol 
the mind that wrote it, seems to me to aflford a proof both ol 
insensibility of heart, and great stupidity of intellect." — Sib 
E. Brydges.] 

3 [" It was a thought worthy of the great spirit of Byron, 
after exhibiting to us his Pilgrim amidst all the most stri- 
king scenes of earthly grandeur and earthly decay, — after 
teaching us, like him, to sicken over the mutability, and 
vanity, and emptiness of human greatness, to conduct him 
and us at last to the borders of ' the Great Deep.' It is 
there that we may perceive an image of the awful and un- 
changeable abyss of eternity, into whose bosom so much 
has sunk, and all shall one day sink,— of that eternity where- 
in the scorn and the contempt of man, and the melancholy 
of great, and the fretting of little minds, shall be at rest for- 
ever. No one, but a true poet of man and of nature, would 
have dared to frame such a termination for such a Pilgrim- 
age. The image of the wanderer may well be associated, 
for a time, with the rock of Calpe, the shattered temples of 
Athens, or the gigantic fragments of Rome ; but when we 
wish to think of this dark personification as of a thing which 
is, where can we so well imagine him to have his daily 
haunt as by the roaring of the waves ? It was thus that 
Homer represented Achilles in his moments of ungoverna- 
ble and inconsolable grief for the loss of Patroclus. It was 
thus he chose to depict the paternal despair of Chriseus — 

' B^ 6' diciiov TTopa &llva TC!.\v(p\oiaSoio -SaXdasi/j.' " 
— Wilson. 



72 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE GIAOUR; 

A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE.» 



One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm— and affliction no sting." 

MOOEK. 



TO 

SAMUEL HOGERS, ESQ. 

AS A SLIGHT BUT MOCT SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR III9 GENIUS, REBP2CT 
FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED 

BY HIS OEI^IGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 

London, May, 1813. BYRON 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The tale which these disjohited fragments present, 
is founded upon circumstances now less common in 
the East than formerly ; either because the ladies 
are more circumspect than in the " olden time," or 
because the Christians have better fortune, or less 
enterprise. Tlie story, when entire, contained the 
adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in 
the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, 
and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the 
time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Re- 
public of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were 
beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged 
for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. 
The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the 
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that 
enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during 
which the cruelty exercised on all sides v/as unparal- 
leled even in the annals of the faithful.^ 



1 [The " Giaour" was published in May, 1813, and abun- 
dantly sustained the impression created by the first two can- 
tos of Childe Harold. It is obvious that in this, the first of his 
romantic narratives. Lord Byron's versification reflects the 
admiration he always avowed for Mr. Coleridge's " Christ- 
abel," — the irregular rhythm of wliich had already been 
adopted in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." The fragmenta- 
ry style of the composition was suggested by the then new 
and popular " Columbus" of Mr. Rogers. As to the subject, 
it was not merely by recent travel that the author had famil- 
iarized himself with Turkish history. " Old Ivnolles," he 
said at Missolonghi, a few weeks before his death, " was one 
of the first books that gave me pleasure when a child ; and I 
believe it had much influence on my future wishes to visit 
the Levant, and gave, perhaps, the oriental coloring which 
is observed in my poetry." In the margin of his copy of 
Mr. D'Israeli's Essay on the Literary Character, we find 
the following note: — " KnoUes, Cantemir, De Tott, Lady 
M. W. Montague, Hawkins's translation from Mignot's His- 
tory of the Turks, the Arabian Nights— all travels or histo- 
ries, or books upon the East, I could meet with, I had read, 
as' well as Ricaut, before I was ten years old."} 

2 [An event, in which Lord Byron was personally con- 
cerned, undoubtedly supplied the groundwork of this tale ; 
but for the storj', so circumstantially put forth, of his hav- 
ing himself been the lover of this female slave, there is no 
Ibundation. The girl wh ise life the poet saved at Athens 



THE GIAOUR. 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave. 
That tomb' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime !^ where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height. 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There mildly dimpling. Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edons of the eastern wave : 



was not, we are assured by Sir John Hobhouse, an object 
of his Lordship's attachment, but of that of his Turkish ser- 
vant. For the Marquis of Sligo's account of the afiair, see 
Moore's Notices.] 

3 A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. — [" There are," 
says Cumberland, in his Observer, " a few Imes by Plato, 
upon the tomb of Themistocles, which have a turr. of ele- 
gant and pathetic simplicity in them, that deserves a better 
translation than I can give : — 

' By the sea's margin, on the watery strand. 
Thy monument, Themistocles, shall stand : 
By tills directed to thy native shore, 
The merchant shall convey his freighted store ; 
And when our fleets are summon'd to the fight, 
Athens shall conquer with thy tomb in sight.' "J 

4 [" Of the beautiful flow of Byron's fancy," says Moore, 
"when its sources were once opened on any subject, the 
Giaour afibrds one of the most remarkable instances : this 
poem having accumulated under his hand, both in printing 
and through successive editions, till from four hundred lines, 
of which it consisted in its first copy, it at present amounts to 
fourteen hundred. The plan, indeed, which he liad adopted, 
of a series of fragments, — a set of ' orient pearls at random 
strung' — left him free to introduce, without reference to 
more than the general complexion of his storj', whatever sen- 



THE GIAOUR. 



73 



And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there ! 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the Nightingale,' 

The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high; 
Plooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, uuchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season bless'd. 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 
And many a grotto, meant for rest. 
That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
Till the gay mariner's guitar^ 
Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 
Then stealing with the muffled oar, 
Far shaded by the rocky shore. 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey. 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature loved to trace. 
As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, 
And every charm and grace hath mix'd 
Within the paradise she fix'd. 
There man, enamor'd of distress. 
Should mar it into wilderness. 
And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
Nor claims the culture of his hand 
To bloom along the fairy land. 



timents or images his fancy, in its excursions, could collect ; 
and, how little fettered he was by any regard to connection 
in these additions, appears from a note which accompanied 
his own copy of this paragraph, in which he says, — ' I have 
not yet fixed the place of insertion for the following lines, 
but will, when I see you — as I have no copy.' Even into 
this new passajje, rich as it was at first, his fancy afterwards 
poured a fresh infusion." — The value of these after-touches 
of the master may be appreciated by comparing the follow- 
ing verses, from his original draft of this paragraph, with 
the form which they now wear : — 

" Fair clime ! where ceaseless summer smiles. 

Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 

Which, seen from far Colonna's height. 

Make glad the heart that hails the sight. 

And give to lonelmess delight. 

There shine the bright abodes ye seek, 

Like dimples upon Ocean's cheek, 

So smiling round the loaters lave 

These Edens of the eastern wave. 

Or if, at times, the transient breeze 

Break the smooth crystal of the seas. 

Or brush one blossom from the trees. 

How grateful is the gentle air 

That waves and wafts the fragrance theie " 
The whole of this passage, from line 7, down to hne 167, 
" Who heard it first had cause to grieve," was not in the 
first edition.] 

' The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well- 
known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Bulbul of a 
thousand tales" is one of his appellations. [Thus, Mesihi; 
aa translated by Sir William Jones : — 

" Come, charming maid ! and hear thy poet sing, 
Tliyself the rose, and he the bird of spring : 
Love bids him sing, and Love will be obey'd. 
Bs g47 ; too soon the flowers of spring will fade."j 



But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare : 

Strange — tliat where all is peace beside, 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd. 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 

So cursed the tyrants that destroy ! 



He who hath bent him o'er the dead" 
Ere the first day of death is fled. 
The first dark day of nothingness. 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines wliere beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there,* 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek. 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy^ 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart. 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these and these alone, 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd. 
The first, last look by death reveal'd !* 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more V 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 



2 The guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor 
by night : with a steady fair wind, and during a calm, it is 
accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. 

s [If once the public notice is drawn to a poet, the talents 
he exhibits on a nearer view, the weight his mind carries 
with it in his every-day intercourse, somehow or other, are 
reflected around on his compositions, and co-operate in giv- 
ing a collateral force to their impression on the public. To 
this we must assign some part of the impression made by 
the " Giaour." The thirty-five lines begnming " He who 
hath bent him o'er the dead" are so beautiful, so original, 
and so utterly beyond the reach of any one whose poetical 
genius was not very decided, and very rich, that they alone, 
under the circumstances explained, were sufficient to secure 
celebrity to this poem. — Sir E. Brydges.] 

* [" And mark'd the almost dreaming air 

Wliich speaks the sweet repose that's there." — MS.] 

6 " Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 
To lye in cold obstruction ?"— 

Measure for Pleasure, act lii. sc. 2. 

6 I trust that few of my readers have ever had an oppor 
tunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description, 
but those who have will probably retain a painful remem 
brance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few 
exceptions, the features r f the dead, a few hours, and but 
for a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to le 
remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the 
expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural 
energy of the sufferer's character : but ir ceath fiom a stab 
the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, 
and the mind its bias, to the last. 

1 [In Callaway's Constantinople, a book which Loid Byron 
is not unlikely to have consulted, I find a passage quoted from 
Gillies' History o! Greece, wuicti contains, perhaps, the first 
seed of the thought thus expanded mto full perlectioa hv 



10 



74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Hers is the loveliness in death. 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
Tlio farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away ! 
Spar]\ of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its chorish'd earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave '.'' 
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave I 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
Tliat tliis is all remains of thee ? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Sa)', is not thLs Tliermopylce'? 
These waters blue tliat round you lave, 

Oil sen'ile ofFtipring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatch from tlie ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to tlieirs a name of fear 
Tliat Tyranny sliall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame. 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begiui, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusky darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
'Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There pomts thy Muse to stranger's eye' 
The graves of those that cannot die ! 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 
Each step from splendor to disgrace : 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds aud despot sway. 

Wlia^ can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore, 



genius :- -" The present state of Greece, compared to the 
ancient, is the silent obscurity of the grave contrasted with 
tlie vivid lustre of active life." — Moore.] 

1 [There is infinite beauty and effect, though of a painful 
and almost oppressive character, in this extraordinary pas- 
sage ; in which the author has illustrated the beautiful, but 
still and melancholy aspect of the once busy and glorious 
shores of Greece, by an image more true, more mournful, 
and more exquisitely finislied, than any that we can recol- 
30; n the whole compass of poetry. — Jeffrey.] 

' [From this line to the conclusion of the paragraph, the 
MS is written in a hurried and almost illegible hand, 
03 if these splendid lines had been poured forth in one 
continuous burst of poetic teeling, which would hardly 
allow time for the hand to follow the rapid flow of the im- 
agination.] 

3 Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga, {the slave of 



"When man was worthy of thy clime 
The hearts within tliy valleys bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least aliove the brutes ; 
Without even savage virtue bless'd, 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, anc ^^ncient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found. 
For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke. 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 
No more her sorrow? I bewail. 
Yet this will be a moui.iful tale. 
And they who listen may z-zVeve, 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island-pirate or IVIainote ; 
And fearful for his light caique. 
Ho shuns the near but doubtful creel 
Though worn and weary with his toii 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an Eastern nigrht. 



"\Ylio thundering comes on blackest steet 
With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavem'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam that streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide : 
Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
There's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaoui 1 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 



the seraglio and guardian of the women,) who aj points the 
Waywode. A pander and eunuch — these are not polite, yet 
true appellations — now governs the governor of Athens I 

* [The reciter of the tale is a Turkish fisherman, who has 
been employed during the day in the gulf of M^ina, and in 
the evening, apprehensive of the Mainote pirates who infest 
the coast of Attica, lands with his boat, on the harbor of 
Port Leone, the ancient Pirasus. He becomes the eye- 
witness of nearly all the incidents in the story, and in one 
of them is a principal agent. It is to his feeUngs, and par- 
ticularly to his religious prejudices, that we are indebted 
for some of the most forcible and spler.did parts of thr 
poem. — George Ellis.] 

6 [In Dr. Clarke's Travels, this word, which means In- 
fidel, is always written according to its English pronuncia- 
tion, Djour. Lord Byron adopted Ihe Italian speUing usual 
among the Franks of the Levant.] 



THE GIAOUR. 



75 



Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
As meteor-hke thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
iVIy gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, and vanisli'd from my sight, 
Hia aspect and his air impress'd 
A troubled memory on my breast, 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear 
He spurs his steed ; ho nears the steep, 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
For well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
And not a star but sliines too bright 
On him who takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 
One glance he snatch'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood? 
Tlae crescent glimmers on the hill, 
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still ; 
Thougli too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,' 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
To-night, the Bairam feast 's begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And what are these to thine or tliee, 
That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread was on his face. 
Soon Hatred settled in its place : 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush,^ 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb. 
Whose ghast'y whiteness aids its gloom. 



1 " Tophaike," musket.— The Bairam is announced by the 
cannon at sunset ; the illumination of the Mosques, and the 
firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with ball, proclaim 
it during the night. 

[" Hastt/ blush."—" For hastt/, all the editions till the 
twelfth read, ' darkening blush.' On the back of a copy of 
the eleventh, Lord Byron has written, " Why did not the 
printer attend to the solitary correction so repeatedly made ? 
I have no copy of this, and desire to have none till my re- 
quest is complied \«th.' "] 

3 [" Then turn'd it swiftly to his blade, 

As loud his raven charger neigh'd."— M.S.] 

4 Jerrced, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is 
darted from horseback with great force and precision. It 
is a favorite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but 1 know not 
if it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the 
art are the Black Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next 
to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that 
came within my observation. 

5 [Every gesture of the impetuous horSeman is full of 
anxiety and passion. In the midst of his career, wliilst in 
full view of the astonished spectator, he suddenly checks his 
steed, and rising on his stirrup, surveys, with a look of 
agonizing impatience, the distant city illuminated for the 
fei^i of Bairam ; then pale with nnger, raises his arm as if 
jn menace of an invisible enemy ; but awakened from his 
trance of passion by the neighing of his charger, again hur- 
ries forward, and disappears. — George Ellis.] 



His brow was. bent, hia eye was glazed ; 

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 

And sternly shook his hand on high. 

As doubting to return or fly ; 

Impatient of his flight delay'd. 

Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 

Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade •,' 

That sound had burst his waking dream. 

As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 

The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; 

Away, away, for life he rides : 

Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed'' 

Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 

The rock is doubled, and the shore 

Shakes with the clattering tramp no mory ; 

The crag is won, no more is seen 

His Christian crest and haughty mieu'' 

'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 

That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ;" 

'Twas but a "moment that he stood. 

Then sped as if by deatli pursued : 

But in that instaut o'er his soul 

Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, 

And gather in that drop of time 

A life of pain, an age of crime. 

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 

Such moment poms the grief of years : 

What felt he then, at once oppress'd 

By all that most distracts the breast ? 

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate. 

Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 

Though in Tiine's record nearly naught, 

It was Eternity to Thought ! 

For infinite as boundless space 

The thought that Conscience must embrace. 

Which in itself can comprehend 

Wo without name, or hope, or end. 



The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did ho fly or fall alone ?' 
Wo to that hour he came or went I 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb : 
He came, he went, like the Simoom,^ 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 



6 [" 'Twas but an instant, though so long 
When thus dilated in my song."— MS.] 

1 [" But neither fled nor fell alone." — MS.] 

e The blast of the desert, fatal to every thing living, and 
often alluded to in eastern poetry. — [Abyssinian Bruce gives, 
perhaps, the liveliest account of the appearance and eflects 
of the suffocating blast of the Desert :— " At eleven o'clock," 
lie says, " while we contemplated with great pleasure the 
rugge'd top of Chiggi a, to which we were fast approaching, 
and where we were to solace ourselves with plenty of good 
water, Idris, our guide, cried out with a loud voice, 'Fall 
upon your faces, for here is the simoom.' I saw from the 
southeast a haze come, in color like the purple part of the 
rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. It did not occupy 
twenty yards in breadth, and was about twelve feet high from 
the ground. It was a kind of blush upon the air, and it 
moved very rapidly ; for I scarce could turn to fall upon 
the ground, with my head to the northward, when I felt the 
heat of its current plainly upon my face. We all lay flat on 
the ground as if dead, till Idris told us it was blown over. 
The meteor, or purple haze, which I saw was, indeed, 
passed, but the light air, which still blew, was of a heat to 
threaten suffocation. For my part, I found distinctly in my 
breast that I had imbibed a part of it ; nor was f free of ah 
asthmatic sensation till I had been some months in Italy, at 
the baths of Poretta, near two fears afterwards " — See 
Bruce's Life and Travels, p. 470, edit. 1830.] 



76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to deatli — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled. 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead I 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
ITie lonely Spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ;■ 
The Bat builds in his Harem bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim f 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed. 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread 
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
And chase the sultriness of day, 
As springmg high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew. 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright. 
To view the wave of watery light. 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
Around the vergo jf that cascade ; 
And oft upon his mother's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been sooth'd by Beauty's song ; 
And softer seem'd each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with its own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
Along the brink at twilight's close : 
The stream that fiU'd that font is fled — 
The blood that wami'd his jieart is shed !^ 
And hero no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
That quench'd in silence, all is still. 
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
No hand shall close its clasp again.* 
On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
The rudest steps of fellow man. 



J [" The lonely spider's thin gray pall 

Is curtain'd on the splendid wall." — MS ] 

2 [" The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brink. 

But vainly tells his tongue to drink." — MS.] 

3 [" For thirsty fox and jackal gaunt 

May vainly for its waters pant." — MS.] 

4 [This part of the narrative not only contains much bril- 
liant and Just description, but is managed with unusua. taste. 
The fisherman has, hitherto, related nothing more than the 
extraordinary phenomenon which liad excited his curiosity, 
and of which it is his immediate object to explain the cause 
to his hearers ; but instead of proceeding to do so, he stops 
to vent his execrations on the Giaour, to describe the solitude 
of Hassan's once luxurious harem, and to lament the un- 
timely death of the owner, and of Leila, together with the 
cessation of that hospitality which they had uniformly ex- 
perienced. He reveals, as if unintentionally and uncon- 
sciously, the catastrophe of liis story ; but he thus prepares 
Ms appeal to the sympathy of his audience, without much 
diminisliing their suspense. — George Ellis.] 

['" I have just recollected an alteration you may make 
la hi proof. Among the lines on Hassan's Serai, is this — 

' Unmeet for solitude to share' 
Now, to share implies more than one, and Solitude is a 
lUiigle gentleman ; it must be thus — 



So here the very voice of Grief 
Might wake an Echo like relief — 
At least 'twould say, " All are not gone ; 
There lingers Life, though but in one" — 
For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
Which Solitude might well forbear ;'' 
Within that dome as yet Decay, 
Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — • 
But gloom is gather'd o'er the gate, 
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 
For bounty cheers not his delay ; 
Nor there will weary stranger halt 
To bless the sacred " bread and salt"'' 
Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
Pass heedless and unheeded by, 
For Courtesy and Pity died 
With Hassan on the mountain side. 
His roof, that refuge unto men. 
Is Desolation's himgiy den. 

The guest flies the haU, and the vassal from labor. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre !' 
***** 

I hear the sound of coming feet, 

But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 

More near — each turban I can scan. 

And silver-sheathed ataghan f 

The foremost of the band is seen 

An Emir by his garb of green ■? 

" Ho ! who art thou ?" — " This low salam'* 

Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 

" The burden ye so gently bear 

Seems one that claims your utmost care. 

And, doubtless, holds £ome precious freight. 

My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by. 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channel'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow. 
That one of— « * » 



' For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
Which solitude might well forbear ;' 
and so on. "Will you adopt this correction ? and pray accrpt 
a Stilton cheese from me for your trouble. — P. S. I leave 
this to your discretion : if anybody thinks the old line d 
good one, or the cheese a bad one, don't accept of either." 
—Byron Letters, Stilton, Oct. 3, 1813.] 

6 To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 
host, ensures the safety of the guest : even though an eno» 
my, his person from that moment is sacred. 

' I need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are 
the first duties enjoined by IMahomet ; and to say truth, very 
generally practised by his disciples. The first praise that 
can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty 
the next, on his valor. 

s The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the 
belt, in a metal scabbard, generally of silver ; and, among 
the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 

Green is the privileged color of the prophet's numerous 
pretended descendants ; with them, us here, faith (the family 
inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good 
works : they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. 

w " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam 1" peace be with 
you ; be with you peace — the salutation reserved for the 
faithful: — to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey, or 
" saban hiresem, saban serula," good morn, gocfd even ; and 
sometimes, " may your end be happy ,'' are the usual talutos 



THE GIAOUR. 



77 



Sullen 't plunged, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some moi-.on from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemni'd the tide, then mock'd the sight 
And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
Known but to Genii of the deep. 
Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 



As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen' of eastern spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour. 
Then loaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
With hue as bright, and wing as wiW 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Bcgim in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray'd,' 
Wo waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being caught, 
For every to'uch that woo'd'its stay 
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast 
All ! where shall either victim -est 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tul'p as before ? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour. 
Find joy within her broken bower ? 
No : gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
And lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own. 
And every wo a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame 



The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes. 

Is like the Scorpion girt by fire,' 
In circle narrowing as it glows,'* 
The flames around their captive close. 



1 The blue-ivingBcl butterfly of Kashmeer, is most rare 
and beautiful of the species. 

2 [" If caught, to fate alike betrayed.'' — MS.j 

' [Mr. Dallas says, that Lord Byron assured him that the 
paragraph containing the simile of the scorpion was im- 
agined in his sleep. It forms, therefore, a pendant to the 
" psycliological curiosity," beginning vritti tliose exquisitely 
musical lines :— 

" A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw ; 
It was an Abyssinian maid. 

The whole cf which, Mr. Coleridge says, 
liiiit during a siesta.] 



&c. 
'as composed by 



Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire. 
One sad and sole relief slie knows. 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes. 
Whose venom never yet was vain. 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain • 
So do the dark in soul expire. 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ;' 
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,' 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 



Black Hassan from the Harem flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes > 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell ; 
Strange rumors in our city say 
Upon that eve she fled away 
Wlieu Rharaazan's'' last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd ; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
And on that eve had gone to mosque. 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell. 
Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari's^ trembling light. 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore. 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 



Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark. 
But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 



4 [" The gathering flames around her close." — MS ] 

5 Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed 
for experiment by gentle philosophers. Some maintain that 
the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is 
merely a convulsive movement ; but others have actually 
bcought in the verdict " Felo de se." The scorpions are 
S'lrely interested in a speedy decision of the question ; as, 
if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably 
be allowed to live as long as they think proper, withou . 
being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis. 

c f" So writhes the mind by Conscience riven."— MS:] 
'' The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See ante, 
p. 75, note. 
8 Phingari, the moon. 



78 



BYRON'S WORKS 



That darted from beneath the lid, 

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.* 

Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 

That form was naught but breathing clay, 

By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 

Though on Al-Sirat's'^ arch I stood, 

Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 

With Paradise within my view. 

And all his Houris^ beckoning through. 

Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 

And keep that portion of his creed. 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ?* 

On her might Muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 

On her fair cheek's imfading hue 

The young pomegranate's^ blossoms strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine^ flow. 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter. 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan i' 

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride. 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise : 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stem Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 



Stem Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train. 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war^ 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 



1 The celebrated labulous ruby ol Sultan Giamschid, the 
embellisher of Istakhar ; from its splendor, named Scheb- 
Kerag, " the torch of night ;" also " the cup of the sun," &c. 
In the first edition, " Giamschid" was written as a word 
of three syllables ; so D'Herbelot has it ; but I am told 
Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jam- 
shid." I have left in the text the ortnograph)^ of the one 
with the pronunciation of the other. — [In the first edition, 
Lord Byron had used this word as a trisyllable, — " Bright 
as the gem of Giamscliid,"— but, on my remarking to him, 
upon the authority of Richardson's Persian Dictionary, 
that this was incorrect, he altered it to " Bright as the ruby 
of Giamschid." On seeing this, however, 1 wrote to him, 
" that, as the comparison of his heroine's eye to a ruby 
might unluckily call up the idea of its being bloodshot, he 
had better change the line to " Bright as the jewel of 
Giamschid ;" which he accordingly did, in the folloifing 
edition. — Moore.] 

2 A.l-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, narrowei* than the 
tiuead of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge of a 
sword, over which the Mussulmans must skate into Para 
disc, to which it is the only entrance ; but this is not the 
worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into wliich, as 
may be expected, the unskilful and tender of foot contrive 



Stain'd with the best of Amaut blood. 

When in the pass the rebels stood, 

And few retum'd to tell the tale 

Of what befell in Fame's vale. 

The pistols which hif5 girdle bore 

Were those that once a pasha wore. 

Which still, tliough gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 

Even robbers tremble to behold. 

'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 

More true than her who left his side ; 

The faithless slave that broke her bower. 

And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour I 



The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
And sparkle in the fountain rill. 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer . 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord. 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar's in the gap. 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the mountain rears a peak. 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam. 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there . 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'd? 



to tumble with a "facilis descensus Averni," not very 
pleasing in prospect to the next passenger. There is u 
shorter cut downwards for the Jews and Christians. 

3 [The virgins of Paradise, called from their large black 
eyes, Hur al oyun. An intercourse with these, according to 
the institution of Mahomet, is to constitute the principal 
felicity of the faithful. Not formed of clay, like mortal 
women, they are adorned with unfading charms, and deem- 
ed to possess the celestial privilege of an eternal youth 
See D'Herbelot, and Sale's Koran.] 

4 A vulgar error : 'the Koran allots at least a third of 
Paradise to well-behaved women ; but by far the greater 
number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, 
and exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies 
to Platonics, they cannot discern " any fitness of things-' in 
the souls of the ether sex, conceiving them to be super 
seded by the Houris. • 

An oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though f^iirly 
stclen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Arabic." 

6 Hyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul ;" as common u ttioughfc 
in the eastern poets as it was among t)je Greeks 

' Franguestan," Circassia 



THE GIAOUR. 



79 



'fhey reach the grove of pine at last : 
" Bismillah !' now tlie peril's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And tliere we'll prick our steeds amain •" 
The Chlaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground I^ 

Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 

But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound. 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel misheath'd, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by the steed ; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock; 

Nor tamely stand to bleed 
Beneath the shaft of foes unseen. 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stem Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his coiurse, 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard' with ire, 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now the foe their covert quit. 
And call his vassals to submit ; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword. 
Nor of his little band a man 
Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun !* 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
Th? lately ambush'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Wlio leads them on with foreign brand 
Far flashing in his red right hand? 
" 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
I know him by his pallid brow ; 
I know him by the evil eye^ 
That aids his envious treachery ; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith. 
It shall not save him from the death : 
'Tis he I well me in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour I" 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion. 
In azure column proudly gleaming, 
Beats back the current many a rood. 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 



1 Bismillah—" In the name of God ;" tha commencenvent 
of all the chapters of the Koran but one, ai.d of prayer and 
IhanKSgiving. 

a [" Scarce had they time to check the rein, 

The foremost Tartar bites the plain."— MS.] 

s A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussul- 
man. In 180'J, the Capitan Pacha's whiskers at a diplomatic 
audience were no less lively with indignation than a tiger 
cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the portentous 
mustachios twisted, they stood erect of their own accord. 



While eddying whirl, and breaking wave. 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spra}^ in thundering clash, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore. 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the banus, whom mutual wrong. 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 

And pealing wide or ringing near 

Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The deathshot hissing from afar ; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 

Reverberate along that vale. 

More suited to the shepherd's tale • 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife, 
Tliat neither spares nor speaks for life !® 
Ah ! fondly youtiiful hcEris can press, 
To seize and share the dear caress ; 
But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor Hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith ; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death ! 
» * * * « 



With sabre shiver'd to the hilt. 

Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 

Yet strain'd within the sever'd hand 

Which quivers round tliat faithless brand ; 

His turban far behind him roU'd, 

And ,cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 

His flowing robe by falchion torn. 

And crimson as those clouds of morn 

That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 

The day shall have a stormy end ; 

A stain on every bush that bore 

A fragment of his palampore,'' 

His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 

His back to earth, his face to heaven, 

Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 

Yet lowering on his enemy. 

As if the hour that seal'd his fate 

Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 

And o'er him bends that foe with brow 

As dark as his that bled below. — 



" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave ; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour • 



and were expected eveiy moment to change their cnlor, but 
at last condescended to subside, which, probably, saved more 
heads than they contained hairs. 

4 "Amaun," quarter, pardon. 

5 The " evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant 
and of which the imat^inary effects are yet very singular ol 
those who conceive themselves affected. 

6 [" That neither gives nor asks for life."— MS.] 

' The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank- 



80 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



He call'd on Alia — but the word 

Arose unheeded or unheard. 

Thou Payiiim fool ! could Leila's prayer 

Be pass'd, and tlihie accorded there ? 

I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 

The traitor in his turn to seize ; 

My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 

And now I go — but go alone." 



The browsing camels' bells are tinkling :' 
His Mother look'd from her lattice high — '^ 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye, 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
" 'Tis twilight — sure his train is nigh."^ 
She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
" Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, 
Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised gift? 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift'' 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends ; 
And he bears the gift at his saddle bow-- 
H^w could I deem his courser slow ? 
Right well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed, and weary way." 

The Tartar lighted at the gate. 

But scarce upheld his fainting weight :* 

His swarthy visage spake distress. 

But this might be from weariness ; 

His garb with sanguine spots was dyed. 

But these might be from his courser's side ; 

He drew the token from his vest — ■ 

Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest ! 

His calpac^ rent — his caftan red — 

" Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wed : 



J [This beautiful passage first appeared in the fifth edition. 
" If you send more proofs," writes Lord Byron to Mr. 
Murray, (August 10th, 1813,) "I shall never finish this In- 
fernal story. Ecce signum — thirty-three more lines enclosed ! 
— to the utter discomfiture of the printer, and, J fear, not to 
your advantage."] 

2 [" The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and 
cried through the lattice. Why is his chariot so long in 
coming? why tarry the wheels of his chariot?" — Judges, c. 
V. V. 28.] 

3 [In the original draft— 

" His mother look'd from the lattice high, 
With throbbing heart and eager eye ; 
The browsing camel bells are tmkling, 
And the last beam of twiligh; '."'■inkling, 
'Tis eve ; his train should now oc nigh. 
She could not rest in her garden bower. 
And gazed through the loop of his steepest towe} 
' Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
And well are they train'd to the summer's heat.' " 
Another copy begins— 

" The browsing camel bells are tinkling, 

And the first beam of evening twinkling ; 

His mother look'd from her lattice high, 

With throbbing breast and eager eye — 

'Ti i twilight— sure his train is nigh.' "] 

» ['• The Tartar sped beneath the gate, 

And flung to earth his faulting weight.''— MS.] 
5 The calpfl! is the solid cap or centre part of the head- 
dress ; the shawl is wound rotuid it, and forms the turban. 
<= The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the 
tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the 
wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar 



Me, not from mercy, did they spare. 
Bat this impurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt 
Wo to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 



A turban^ carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
Whereoir can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden wine. 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of " Alia Hu !'" 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood. 
And unavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of Paradise 

Impatient to their halls invite. 
And the dark Heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance forever bright ; 
They come — their kerchiefs green they wave," 
And welcome with a kiss the brave I 
Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
Is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false Infidel ! shalt writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's' scythe ; 
Aird from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis'^" throne ; 
And fire unqueuch'd, unquenchable. 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
Tlie tortures of that inward hell I 
But first, on earth as Vampire" sent, 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 



mementoes ; and on inquiry you are informed that thdy re- 
cord some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

' " Alia Hu !" the concluding words of the Muezzin's call 
to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the 
minaret. On a still evening, when the iSIuezzin has a fine 
voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and 
beautiful beyond all the beUs in Christendom. — [Valid, the 
son of Abdalnialek, was the first who erected a minaret or 
turret ; and this he placed on the grand mosque at Damascus, 
for the muezzin, or crier, to announce from it the hour of 
prayer. The practice is kept to this day. See D'Herbelot.] 

s The following is part of a battle song of the Turks : — 
" I see— I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves 
a handkerchic ", a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, ' Come, 
kiss me, for I jj/c thee,' " &c. 

8 Monkir and Noi^ir ore the inquisitors of the dead, before 
whom the corpse undergoes a slight novitiate and prepara- 
tor^^training for damnation. If the answers are none of the 
clearest, he is hauled up with a scythe and thumped down 
with a red-hot mace till properly seasoned, with a variety 
of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is no 
sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox de- 
ceased being in a small proportion to the remainder, their 
hands are always full. See Relig. Ceremon. and Sale's 
Koran. 

10 Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — [D'Herbelot 
supposes tlus title to have been a corruption of the Greek 
Aia'SuXo;. According to Arabian mythology, Eblis had 
suffered a degradation from his primeval rank for having 
refused to worship Adam, in conformity to the supremo 
command ; alleging, in justiiication of his refusal, that him- 
self had been formed of ethereal fire, whilst Adam was only 
a creature of clay. See Koran.] 

n The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant 
Honest Tournefort tells a long story, winch Mr. Southey, in 
the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these " VroucolccliaJB," 



THE GIAOUR. 



81 



Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yst loathe the banquet which perforce 
Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire. 
As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
But one that for thy crime must fall, 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a father's name — 
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet mist thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark. 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair. 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn. 
But no'v is borne away by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony ! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip' 
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror slirink away 
From spectre more accursed than they !' 



" How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 

His featiu-es I have scann'd before 
In mine own land : 'tis many a year. 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I sav/ him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now. 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow. 

" 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 

Since first among owe freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name 
But never at our vesper prayer. 
Nor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies. 
But broods within his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknown. 



as he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha. I 
recollect a whole family being terrified by the scream of a 
child, which they imagined must proceed from such a visit- 
ation The Greeks never mention the word without horror. 
I find that " Br»«colokas" is an old legitimate Hellenic ap- 
pellation— at least is so applied to Arsenms, who, according 
to the Greeks, was after his death animated by the Devil.— 
The moderns, however, use the word I mention. 

1 The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip 
with blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The 
stories told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders 
Oi-J singular, and some of them most incredibly attested. 

» [With the death of Hassan, or ■with his interment on the 
place where he fell, or with some moral reflections on his 
fate, we may presume that the original narrator concluded 
the tale of which Lord Byron has professed to give us a frag- 



The sea from Paynim land he cross'd, 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Christian in his face : 
I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Repentant of the change he made. 
Save that he shuns our holy shrine. 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought. 
And thus our abbot's favor bought ; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ;' 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying. 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been known to stand, 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
Invisible to all but him. 
Which beckons onward to his grave. 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl* 

That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 

The flash of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of times gone by ; 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue. 

For in it lurks that nameless spell. 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high. 

That claims and keeps ascendency , 

And lilce the bird whose pmions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake. 

Will others quail beneath his look. 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook 

From him the half-affrighted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire. 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 

Not oft to smile descendeth he. 

And when he doth 'tis sad to see 

That he but mocks at Misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 

Then fix once more as if forever ; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 



ment. But every reader, we are sure, will agree with us in 
thinking, that the interest excited by the catastrophe is 
greatly heightened in the modern poem ; and that the im 
precations of the Turk against the " accursed Giaour," are 
introduced with great judgment, and contribute much to 
the dramatic effect of the narrative. The remainder of the 
poem, we think, would have been more properly printed 33 
a second canto ; because a total change of scene, and a 
chasm of no less than six years in the series of events, can 
scarcely fail to occasion some little confusion in the nnno 
of the reader.— George Ellis.] 

s [" Of foreign maiden lost at sea."— MS.] 

4 [The remaining lines, about five hundred in number, 
were, with the exception of the last sixteen, all added to 
the poem, either during its first progress through the pres5, 
or in subsequent editions.] 



11 



82 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Bnt sadder still it were to trace 

What ouce were feelings in that face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

Tlie common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas ! though both bestow'd in vain, 

Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain, 

It was no vulgar tenement 

To which such lofty gifts were lent. 

And still with little less than dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent. 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

" His floating robe around him folding, 

Slow sweeps he through the column'd aisle ; 

With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir, 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will be pause till all is done — 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See — by the half-illumined wall' 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall. 

That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 

For he declines the convent oath, 

And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth, 

But wears our garb in all beside ; 

And, not from piety but pride. 

Gives wealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vo.v nor word. 

Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky. 

That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 

Saint Francis, keep him from the sh-ine ! 

Else may we di^ad the wrath divm 

Made manilest by awful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wore : 

By all my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven I" 



1 [" Behold— as turns he from the wall."— MS. J 
s [" Must burn before it smite or shine."— MS.] 
3 [Seeing himself accused of having, in this passage, too 
closely imitated Crabbe, Lord Byron wrote to a friend—" I 
have read the British Review, and really think the writer in 
most points very right. The only mortifying thing is, the 
nccusation of imitation. Crabbe's passage I never saw ; and 
Scott I no further meant to follow than in his lyric measure, 
which is Gray's, Milton's, and any one's who hkes it. The 
Giaour is certainly a bad character, but not dangerous ; and 
i think his fate and liis feelings will meet with few prose- 



To love the softest hearts are prone, 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share. 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair , 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal 

The rugged metal of the mine. 

Must bum before its surface shine," 

But plunged within the funiace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same ;* 

Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 

'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hoiu' of need, 

Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear. 

Let those who shape its edge, beware ! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art. 

Can tiun and tamo the sterner heart ; 

From these its form and tone nre ta'en. 

And what they make it, must remain. 

But break — before it bend again. 



If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness 
Might thank the pang that made it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 'twere wo alone to bear; 
The heart once left thus desolate 
Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal, 
And shudder, as the (jjptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay ! 
It is as if the desert -bird,^ 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her fanTish'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd. 
Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void, 
The leafless desert of the mind. 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more — 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
Better to sink beneatli the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock ! 
***** 



lytes." The following are the lines of Crabbe which Lord 
Byron is charged with having imitated : — 

" These are like wax— apply them to the fire, 
Melting, they take the impression you desiro ; 
Easy to mould and fashion as you please, 
And again moulded with an equal ease ; 
Like smelted iron these the forms retain. 
But once imoress'd will never melt again." — 

Crabbe's Works, vol, v. p. 163, ed. 1834 ': 

i The pelican is, I believe, the bird so hbelled, by tte im 
putation of feeding her chickens with her blood 



THE GIAOUR. 



83 



*' Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 

To bid the sins of others cease, 
Tliyself without a crime or care, 

Save transient ills that all must bear. 

Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 

And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 

Of passions fierce and uncontroll'd, 

Such as thy penitents unfold, 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and pitying breast. 

My days, though few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of wo ; 

Yet still in hours of love or strife, 

I've 'scaped the weariness of life : 

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate, 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull, unvaiying days, 

Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish withm my breast 

For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
And I shall sleep without the dream 

Of what I was, and would be still, 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem :' 

My memory now is but the tomb 

Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom : 

Though better to have died with those 

Than bear a life of lingering woes. 

My spirit shrunk not to sustain 

The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 

Nor sought the self-accorded grave 

Of ancient fool and modem knave : 

Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 

And in the field it had been sweet. 

Had danger woo'd me on to move 

The slave of glory, not of love. 

I've braved it — not for honor's boast ; 

I smile at laurels won or lost ; 

To such let others carve then- way, 

For high renown, or hireling pay : 

But place again before my eyes 

Aught that I deem a worthy prize ; 

The maid I love, the man I hate. 

And I will hunt the steps of fate. 

To save or slay, as these require, 

Through rending steel, and rolling fire: 

Nor need'st thou doubt this swech from one 

Who would but do — what he nith done. 

Death is but what the haughty brave. 

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 



1 ["Though Hope hath long withdrawn! her beam."— MS.] 

2 Tliis superstition of a second hearing (for I never met 
with dowiingtit second-sight in the East) fell once under my 
own observation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, 
early in 1811 , as we passed through the defde that leads from 
the hamlet between Keratia and Colonna, I observed Dervish 
Taliiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his head 
upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up and inquired. " We 
are in peril," he answered. " What peril? we are not now 
in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, Messalunghi, or 
Lnpanto ; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Cho- 
riales have not courage to be thieves."— " True, Affendi, 
but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my ears."—" The 
shot ! not a tophaike has been fired this morning."—" I hear 
it notw-ithstandmg— Bom— Bom— as plainly as I hear your 



Then let Life go to him who gave : 
I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy — need I now ? 



" I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 

But these are words that all can use— 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
'Twas shed for her, who died for me. 

It wann'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start not — no — nor bond thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed. 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Uugratefii ool ! since but for brands 
Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey ; 
And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
If passion met not some reward — 
No matter how, or where, or why, 
I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
I wish she had not loved again. 
She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
But look — 'tis written on my brow ! 
There read of Cain the curse and crime, 
In characters unworn by time : 
Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
Yet did ho but what I had done 
Had she been false to more than one. 
Faithless to hun, he gave the blow ; 
But true to me, I laid him low : 
Howe'er deserved her doom might be. 
Her treachery was truth to me ; 
To me she gave her heart, that all 
Which tyranny can ne'er inthral ; 
And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
Yet all I then could give, I gave, 
'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 
His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
Has made me — what thou well mayst hate 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear'' 
The deathshot peal'd of murder near. 
As filed the troop to where they fell ! 



voice."—" Psha!" — "As you please, Affendi ; if it is written, 
so will it be."— I left this quick-eared predestinarian, and 
rode up to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose ears, 
though not at all prophetic, by n means relished the intel- 
ligence. We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, 
and returned leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in 
more languages than spoiled the building of Babel, upon 
the mistaken seer. Romaic, Arnaout, Turkish, Italian, and 
English were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the 
unfortunate Mussulman. While we were contemplating the 
beautiful prospect. Dervish was occupied about the columns. 
I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked 
him if he had become a " Palao-castro" man 1 " No,' said 
he, " but these pillars will be useful in making a stand :" and 
added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief 



84 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



He died too in the battle broL, 

A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 

One cry to Mahomet for aid, 

One prayer to Alia all he made : 

He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 

! gazed upon him where he lay, 

And watch'd his spirit ebb away : 

Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 

Ho felt not half that now I feel. 

I search'd, but vainly search'd, to find 

The workings of a wounded mind ; 

Each feature of that sullen corse 

Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 

Oh, %vhat had Vengeance given to trace 

Despair upon his dying face ! 

The late repentance of that hour. 

When Penitence hath lost her power 

To tear one terror from the grave. 

And will not soothe, and cannot save. 



" The cold in clime are cold in blood. 

Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
But mine was like a lava flood 

That boils in .(Etna's breast of flame 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein,* 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and madd'uing brain. 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt and feel. 
Betoken love — that love was mine. 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first I have possess'd, 
And come what may, I have been bless'd 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
No^reft of all, yet undismay'd' 



in his troublesome faculty o{ fore-hearing. On our return to 
Atnens we heard from Leon6 (a prisoner set ashore some 
days after) of the intended attack of the Mainotes, mention- 
ed, with the cause of its not taking place, in the notes to 
Childe Harold, Canto 2d. I was at some pains to question 
the man, and he describied the dresses, arms, and marks of 
the hors 's of our party so accurately, that, with other cir- 
cumstances, we could npt doubt of his having been in " vil- 
lar.ous company," and ourselves in a bad neighborhood. 
Dervish became a soothsayer for life, and I dare say is now 
hearing more musketiy than ever will be fired, to the great 
refreshment of the Arnaouts of Berat, and his native moun- 
tains. — I shall mention one trait more of this singular race. 
In March, 1811, aremarkably stout and active Arnaoutcame 
(I believe the fiftieth on the same errand) to offer himself as 
an attendant, which was declined : " Well, Affendi," quoth 
he, " may y )U live !— you would have found me useful. I 
shajl leave the tovra for the hills to-morrow : in the winter I 
return, perhaps you will then receive me." — Dervish, who 
was present, remarked as a thing of course, and of no con- 
sequence, " in the mean time he wUl join the Klephtes," 
(robbers,) which was true to the letter. If not cut off", they 
come down in the winter, and pass it unmolested in some 
town, where they are often as well known as their exploits. 

• [" 1 cannot prate in puling strain 

Of bursting heart and maddening brain, 
And fire that raged in every vein." — MS.] 
< I" Even now alone, yet undismay'd, — 
I know no friend and ask no aid." — MS.] 

' [These, in our opinion, are the most beautifoi passages 
of the poem ; and some of them of a beauty which it would 
not be easy to eclipse by many citations in the language. — 

J2FFBEY.] 

* [The hundred and twenty-six lines which follow, down 
to ' Tell me no more of fancy's gleam," first appeared in the 
fifth edition. In returning the proof to Mr. Murray, Lord 



But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
For him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the v/andering wave— ■ 
Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed." 
She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight ; 
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
The Morning-star of Memory ! 

" Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ;* 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia giver 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above. 
But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul i 
I crant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall ; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
She was my life's unerring light : 
That quench'd, what beam shall break my night?" 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrensy then their fate aocuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to wo ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath naught to dread from outward blow ; 



Byron says : — " I have, but with some difficulty, not ttddeil 
any more to this snake of a poem, which has been lengthen 
ing its rattles every month. It is now fearfully long, being 
more than a canto and a half of Childe Harold. The last 
lines Hodgson likes. It is not often he does ; and when he 
don't, he tells me with great energy, and I fret, and alter, t 
have thrown them in to soften the ferocity of our Infidel ; 
and, for a dying man, have given him a good deal to say for 
himself. Do you know anybody who can stop — I mean, 
point— comma.s, and so forth 1 for I am, I hear, a sad hand 
at your punctuation." 

6 [Among the iSiaour MSS. is the first draught of this pas- 
sage, which we subjoin : — 

" Yes f ( doth spring j 

> Love indeed ? descend ^ from heaven ; 
If > (be bom ) 

r immortal i 
A spark of that < eternal > fire, 
( celestial J 
To human hearts in mercy given. 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 

To wean from self S ^^^ j sordid thought ; 

Devotion sends the soul above. 
But Heaven itself descends to love. 
Yet marvel not, if they who love 
This present joy, this future hope. 
Which taught them with all ill to cope, 
In madness, then, their fate accuse- 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

to add but guLlt to ) 

but to augment their 

breast 



That seem 



Alas ! the | ^^^^^ I that inly bleed.-. 

Has naught to dread from outward foe,' &c , 

6 [<< 'Tis quench'd, and I am lost in night. —MS ^ 



THE GIAOUR. 



85 



Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abhorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
But this was taught me by the dove. 
To die — and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn 
The bird that sings within the brake, 
The swan that swims upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, will take. 
And let the fool still prone to range,* 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys, 
But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my wo, 
My hope on high — my all below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee. 
Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 



'• And she was lost — and yet I breathed, 
But not the breath of human life : 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackn'ess of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my wo. 
But talk no more of penitence ; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from hence 
And if thy holy tale were true. 
The deed that's done canst thou undo? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief.' 
My soul's estate in secret guess :' 
But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
When thou canst bid my Leila live. 
Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young. 



1 [" And let the light, inconstant fool 

That sneers his coxcomb ridicule."— MS.] 

i The monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so 
uttl ^ effect upon the patient, that it could have no hopes 
from tne reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of a 
customary length, (as may be perceived from the interrup- 
tions and uneasiness of the patient,) and was delivered in 
the usual tone of all c- rhodox preacliers. 



And calm the lonely lioness : 

But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 

" In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend. 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers* 

I had — All ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send. 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end :' 

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom. 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth : 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask him not to mouni, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier? 
But bear this ring, his own of old. 
And tell him — what thou dost behold! 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left behind, 
A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief ! 

***** 

" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, 
I only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear ; 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 
Waste not thine orison, despair" 
Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
I want no paradise, but rest. 
'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar,' 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 



' but this grief 



In truth is not for thy reUef, 

My state thy thought can never guess."— MS.] 
4 [" Where rise my native city's towers."— MS ] 
6 [" I have no heart to love him now, 

And 'tis but to declare my end."— MS.] 
6 [" Nay, kneel not, father, rise— despair," &c —MS 1 
"> " Symar," a shroud. 



80 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Which now I gaze on, as on her, 

W)io look'd and looks far loveUer ; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark ;' 

To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 

And I, before its rays appear, 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father ! for my soul' 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

I saw her, friar ! and I rose 

Forgetful of our former woes ; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart. 

And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 

I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 

No breathing form within my grasp. 

No heart that beats reply to mine, 

Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 

And art thou, d jarest, changed so much, 

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 

Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 

I care not ; so my arms enfold 

The all they ever wish'd to hold. 

Alas I around a shadow press'd. 

They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 

Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 

And beckons with beseeching hands ! 

With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 

I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 

But he is dead ! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell ; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 

From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 



1 P' Which now I view with trembling spark." — MS."] 

2 The circumstance to which the above story relates was 
not very uncommon in Turkey. A few years ago the wife of 
Muchtar Pacha complained to his fattier of his son's sup- 
posed infidelity , he asked with whom, and she had the bar- 
barity to give in a list of tiie twelve handsomest women in 
Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and 
drowned in the lake the same night ! One of the guards 
who was present informed me, that not one of the victims 
uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden 
a " wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate 
of Phrosine, the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of 
many a Romaic and Amaout ditty. The story in the text 
is one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now 
nearly forgotten. I heard it by accident recited by one of 
the coffee-house storytellers who abound in the Levant, and 
sing or recite their narratives. The additions and interpo- 
lations by the translator will be easily distinguished from 
the rest, by the want of Eastern imagery ; and I regret that 
my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. 
For the contents of some of the notes I am indebted partly 
to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as 
IM'. Weber justly entitles it, " sublime tale," the " Caliph 
Vathek." I do not know from what source the author of 
that singular volume may have drawn his mater" i,.s ; some 



They told me wild waves roll'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail ; 
If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; 
Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
This brow that then will bum no more ; 
Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art. 
In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Than winds can waft or waters roll? 
***** 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail. 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never shed. 
Then lay me with the hiunblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither name nor emblem spicad. 
By prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread.'"* 

He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day : 
This broken tale was all we knew^ 
Of her he loved, or him he slew.* 



of his incidents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Orien- 
tale ;" but for correctness of costume, beauty of description, 
and power of imagination, it far surpasses all European imi- 
tations ; and bears such marks of originality, that tliose who 
have visited the East will find some difficulty in believing 
it to be more than a translation. As an Eastern tale, even 
Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley" will no*, 
bear a comparison with the " Hall of Eblis." 

3 [" Nor whether most he moum'd none knew, 
For her he loved, or him he slew."— MS.] 

■4 [In this poem, which was published after the first two 
cantos of Childe Harold, Lord Byron began to show liis 
powers. He had now received encouragement which set 
free his daring hands, and gave his strokes their natural 
force. Here, then, we first find passages of a tone peculiar 
to Lord Byron ; but still this appearance was not uniform : 
he often returned to his trammels, and reminds us of the 
manner of some favorite predecessor : among these, I think 
we sometimes catch the notes of Sir Walter Scott. But the 
internal tempest — the deep passion, sometimes buried, and 
sometimes blazing from some incidental touch— the intensity 
of agonizing reflection, which will always distinguish Lord 
Byron from other writers — now began to display them- 
selves.— Sir Egeeton Brybges.] 



Canto i. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



87 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 

A TURKISH TALE.» 



«' Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

BVBNS 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 

WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF KEGARD AND RESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND, 

BYRON. 



THE BKIDE OF ABYDOS.' 



CANTO THE KIRST. 



I. 

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle' 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their dime, 
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shme : 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 

perfume. 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul* m her bloom ; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun- 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 
done?^ 



Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tules whicli 
they tell. 

II. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 

Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride. 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 

"Let the chamber be clear'd."— The tram disnp- 
pear'd — 

" Now call me the chief of the Harem guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son. 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's aWard. 

" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 

(Wo to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Zuleilca's face unveil'd !) 



irThe "Bride of Abydos" was published m the begin- 
ning of December, 1813. The mood of mind i; which it 
was struck off is thus stated by Lord Byron, m d letter to 
Mr. Gifford;— "You have been good enough to look at a 
thing of mine in MS.-a Turkish story— and I sliould feel 
eratified if you would do it the same favor m its probation- 
Iry state of prmting. It was written, I cannot say for 
amusement, nor ' obliged by hunger and request of friends, 
but in a state of mind, from circumstances which oc- 
casionally occur to ' us youth,' that rendered it necessary 
for me to apply rny mind to something, any thing, but re- 
ality ; and under this not very briUiant inspiration it was 
composed. Send it either to the flames, or 

■ ' A hundred hawkers' load, 

On wings of winds to fly o> fall abroad.' 
It deserves no better than the first as the work of a week, 
tind scribbled ' stans pede in uno' (by the by, the only toot 
I have to stand on ;) and I promise never to trouble you 
again under forty cantos, and a voyage between each."] 



2 r" Murray tells me that Croker asked him why^the thing 
is called the Bride of Abydos ? It is an awkward question, 
being unanswerable : she is not a bride; only about to be 
one. I don't wonder at his finding out the Bull ; but the de- 
tection is too late to do any good. I was a great fool to 
have made It, and am ashamed of not bemg an Irishman. 
—Byron Diary, Dec. 6, 1813.] 

3 [To the Bride of Abydos, Lord Byron made many addi- 
tions during its progress through the press, amounting to 
about two hundred lines ; and, as in the case of the Criaour, 
the passages so added will be seen to be some of the most 
splendid in the whole poem. These opening lines, wh-cU 
are among the new insertions, are supposed to have Ifui 
suggested by a song of Goethe's— 

" Kennst du das Land wo die citronen liUhn ' ] 
< " Gill," the rose. 
i " Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 

With whom revenge is virtue."- Young s KcDcrge. 



88 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Hence, lead my da-ighter from hei i,ower ; 
Her fato is fix'd this very hour : 
Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
By me alone be duty taught I" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake. 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

" Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — lot the old and weary slecj) — 
I could not ; and to view alono 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart boat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke. 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the harem's grating key. 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;* 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour^ 
Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
To thee, and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flow 
But there Zuleika wanders j'et — 
Nay, Father, rage not — nor forgot 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower " 

IV. 

" Son of a slave" — the Pacha said — 

" From unbelieving mother bred. 

Vain were a father's hope to see 

Aught that beseems a man in thee. 

Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 

Must pore where babbling waters flow. 

And watch unfolding roses blow. 

Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 

Thy listless eyes so much admire. 

Would lend thee something of his fire ! 

Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 

By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 

Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 

Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 

Nor strike one stroke for life and death 

Against the curs of Nazareth ! 

Go — let thy less than woman's hand 

Assume the distaff" — not the brand. 



' Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. 
Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

' Ihirkisli drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, ar 1 'wi- 
Lght. 



But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
And hark — of thine own head take heed- 
If thus Zuleika ;ft takes wing — 
Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string !" 



No sound from Selim's lip was heard. 

At least that met old Giaffir's ear. 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear I 

Those gibes had cost anotlier dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ?" 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 

Flash forth, then r>:intly disappear. 
Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done ; 
He saw rebellion J:here begun : 

" Come hither, boy — wliat, no reply? 
I mark thee — and I know tliee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do 
But if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I'd joy to see thee break a lance. 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell. 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye retum'd him glance for glance 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giaffir's quail'd and shrunk askance — 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth. 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope. 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more- 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab' to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
- Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear : 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and naught to fear — 
My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave. 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine. 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 

VI. 

Fair, as the first that fell of womankind. 
When ou that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 



3 The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compb 
ment a hundred- fold) e-en more than they hate thv) Cana 
tians. 





Tier gracerul arms in TTioetoeBsTjendmg 

AcTORK hai' ?s..iiliv/ l.Tjaaiml, ireast. ■« 

/illleika CfUUO- lUBriJr, ot' ii^eU'spfii 



Canto i. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 



S<) 



Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 
But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 

Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
To Sorrow's pliantom-peopled slumber given, 

When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 

Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 

Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; 

Was she — the daughter of that rudo old Chief, 

Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay' 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
The light of love, the purity of grace. 
The mind, the Music^ breathing from her face,* 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — 
And, oh I that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 

Across her gently-budding breast ; 
At one kind word those arms extending 

To clasp the neck of him who blest 

His child caressing and caress'd, 

Zuleilia came — and Giaffir felt 

His purpose half within him melt: 

Not that against her fancied weal 

His heart though stern could ever feel ; 

Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 

Ambition tore the links apart. 

VII. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 



1 [These twelve fine lines were added in the course of 

printing.] 

' This expression has met with objections. I wll not refer 
to " Him who hath not Music in his soul," but merely request 
the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the 
women whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and, if 
he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed 
in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. For an elo- 
qiien', passage in the latest work of the first female writer of 
thi'i erhaps of any, age, on the analogy (and the immediate 
compa.ison excited by that analogy) between "painting and 
music," see vol. iii. cap. 10, De l'Allejiagne. And is not 
this connection still stronger with the original than the copy ! 
with the coloring of Nature than of Art? After all, this is 
rather to be felt than descrioed ; still I think there are some 
who will understand it, at least they would have done had 
they beheld the countenance whose speaking harmony sug- 
gested the idea ; for this passage is not drawn from imagina- 
tion but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking down upon the fragments, only beholds the 
reflection multiplied ! — [" This morning, a very pretty billet 
from the Stael. She has been pleased to be pleased with my 
slight eulogy in the note annexed to th'j ' Bride.' This is to 
be accounted for in several ways : — firstly, all women like 
all, or any praise ; secondly, this was unexpected, because 
I have never courted her ; and, thirdly, as Scrub says, those 
who have been all their lives regularly praised by regular 
critics, like a little variety, and are glad when any one goes 
out of his way to say a civU thing ; and, fourthly, she is a 
very good-natured creature, which is the best reason, afte'r 
all, and, perhaps, the only one." — B. Diary, Dec. 7, 1813.] 

3 [Among the imputed plagiarisms so industriously hunted 
out in his writings, this Ime has been, with somewhat more 
plausibility than is frequent in such cliarges, included ; the 
lyric poet Lovelace having, it seems, written, " The melody 
and music of her face." Sir Thomas Browne, too. in his 
Religio Medici, says, " There is music even in beautv." The 



12 



In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the Une of Carasman^ 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands, 
Enough that ho who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
His years need scarce a thought employ 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger^ what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now t'cKS. know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 

VIII. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed. 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as througli her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped. 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfuluess, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 

Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
Or if remcmber'd, mark'd it not ; 
Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed,* 
Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,'' 



coincidence, no doubt, is worth observing, and the task of 
" tracking thus a favorite writer in the snow (as Dryden ex- 
presses it) of others," is sometimes not unamusing ; but to 
those who found upon such resemblances a general charge of 
plagiarism, we may apply what Sir Walter Scott says : — " It 
is a favorite theme of laborious dulness to trace such coin- 
cidences, because they appear to reduce genius of the liigher 
order to the usual standard of humanity, and of course to 
bring the author nearer to a level with his critics." It is not 
only curious, but instructive, to trace the progress of this 
passage to its present state of iinish. Having at first written — 

" Mind on her lip and music in her face," 
he afterwards altered it to — 

" The mind of music breathing in her face" — 
but this not satisfying him, the next step of coi .-ection 
brought the line to what it is at present. — BIoore.] 

i Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal 
landowner in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those who, 
by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of ser- 
vice, are called Timariots : they serve as Spahis, according 
to the extent of territory, and bring a certain number into 
the field, generally cavalry. 

6 When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single 
messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his 
death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one 
after the other, on the same errand, by command of the re- 
fractory patient ; if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he 
bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is bow- 
strung with great complacency. In 1810, several of these 
presents were exhibited in the niche of tlie Seraglio gate ; 
among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young 
man, cut otf by treachery, after a desperate resistance. 

Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate 
a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no belU. 

' " Chibouque," the Turkish pipe, of wliioh the amber 



90 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



Canto i. 



And mounting featly for the mead, 
With ISIaugrabeo' and Mamaluke, 
His way amid his Delis took," 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or bhmt jerreed. 
Tlie Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Harem's massy doors. 

IX. 

His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter. 
Careering cleave the folded felt^ 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs* wild and loud — 
He thought but of old GiafRr's daughter ! 



No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Palo, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was tuni'd. 
But little from his aspect learn'd ; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
Sh3 knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yei speak she must — but when essay? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 

And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 

She snatch'd the lun wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's^ perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof and marble floor : 
The drops, that through his glittering ves 
The playful girl's appeal addressed, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Sellm, this from thee !" 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck'd zud wreathed ; 



mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the 
leaf, Is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the 
wealthier orders. 

1 " Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 

a " Delis," bravoes who form the forlorn hope of the caval- 
ry, and always begin the action. 

3 A twisted fold of felt is used for cimeter practice by the 
Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a 
single stroke : sometmies a tough turban is used for the same 
pjirpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated 
and graceful. 

* " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies," as the Spanish 
poets call tnem, the sound is Ollah ; a cry of which t)ie Turks, 
for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during 
Ibc jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Their ani- 



The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the BulbuF bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad. 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee oest ? 
Oh, Selim dear, ch, more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast. 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must laL, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was steru 
But this from thee had yet to learn 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine : 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow. 
Without thy free consent, command. 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah ! were I sever'd from thy side. 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen, Time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul froin thee : 
Even Azrael,* from his deadly quiver 

When fhes that shaft, and fly it must. 
That parts all else, shall doom forever 

Our hearts to undivided dust !" 

XII. 

He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt ; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt 
As the stream late concea. d 

By the fringe of its willows. 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows ; 



mation in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and comboloios, form an amusing contrast. 

5 " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 

6 The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mus- 
sulman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, 
with one eternal and highly colored view of Consthntinople, 
wherein the principal ftat'ure is a noble contempt of per- 
spective ; below, arms, cimeters, &e! are in general fanci- 
fully and not inelegantly disposed. 

7 It has been much doubted whether the notes of thia 
" Lover of the rose" are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox's re- 
marks on the subject have provoked some learned controversy 
as to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not 
venture a conjecture on the point, though a little inclined 
to the " errare mallem." &c. if Mr. Fox was mistaken. 

8 " Azrael," the angel of death. ' 



Canto i. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



91 



As the bolt bursts on high 

From the black cloud that bound it, 
Flash'd the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it. 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Thai) he, who heard that vow, display'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
" Now thou art mme, forever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims more from me than tenderiaess ; 
I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar.' 
This morning clouds ypon me lower'd, 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
Now I have motive to be brave ; 
The son of his neglected slave. 
Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, 
May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to thee. 
Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
But let our plighted secret vow 
Be only known to us as now. 
I know the wretch who dares demand 
From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
Holds not a Musselim's'' control : 
Was he not bred in Egripo ?^ 
A viler race let Israel show ; 
But let that pass — to none be told 
Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
I've partisans for peril's day : 
Think not I am what I appear ; 
I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 

XIII. 

' Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before. 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 



1 The treasures of the Pre-adamite Sultans. See D'Her- 
bclot, article Istakar. 

« •■ Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; 
8 Wa>-wode is the tliird ; and thsn come the Agas 



My own have nearly caught the same. 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
For that I coidd not live to try ; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do ? or thou require ? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery ? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms' and ' friends,' 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been ? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childliood's earliest hourl 

Wliat other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy? 
These cherish'd thoughts, with life begun. 

Say, why must I no more avow? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and thine till now ? 
To" meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
No ! happier made by that decree ! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good : 
And he so often storms at naught, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime. 

And such it feels while lurking here; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time. 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar,^ 
My father leaves the mimic war ; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?" 

XIV. 

' Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
Betake thee — Giafilr I can greet : 
And now with him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 
There's fearful news from Danube's banks. 
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 



s " Egripo," the Negropont. According to the proverh, 
the Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks 
of Athens, are the worst of their respective races. 

< " Tchocadar" — one of the attendants who precedes it 
man of authority. 



92 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Our Sultan hath a shorter vay 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
T 'nto thy coll will Selim come : 
Then softly from the Harem creep 
Where we may v/ander by the deep 
Our garden-battlemenls are steep ; 
Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our worda, or stint our time ; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feel. 
Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before • 
Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a harem key 

" Fear thee, my Selim . ne'er tih now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key — and Harouu's guard 
Have some, and hope of jnore reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The winds are high on Hello's wave, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her urret-torch was blazing high. 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam. 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below. 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long !" — 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young h"?arts to prove as true. 



1 The wrangling abouv this epithet, " the broad Helles- 
pont" or the " boundless Hellespont," whether it means one 
or the other, or what it means at all, has been beyond all 
possibility of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the 
spot ; and not foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the con- 
troversy, amused myself with swimming across it in the 
mean time ; and probably may again, before the point is 
settled. Indeed, the question as to the truth of " the tale 
of Troy divine" still continues, much of it resting upon the 
tulismiuiic word " aretpos :" probably Homer had the same 
notion of distance that a coquette has of time ; and when 
he talks of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a 
like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply speci- 
fics three weeks. 

2 Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with 
laurel, &c. He was afterwards imitated by Caracalla m 



II. 

The winds are high, and Hello's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And Night'a descending shadows hide 

That fielcT with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky i«le ! 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own " broad Hellespont'" still dashes, 
Bo long my lot ! aird cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 

IV. 

The night hath closed on Hello's stream, 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme: 
No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gathered ground 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round,' 
By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd. 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow I 
Without — can only &tfar.gers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
But Thou — thy very dust is gone I 

V. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear : 

Till then — no beacon on tlie cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zideika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;' 



his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, 
named Festus, for the sake of new Pafroclan games. I 
have seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of ^sietes and 
Antilochus : the first is in the centre of the plain. 

s When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slight but not disagreeable. [On discovering that, 
in some of the earlv copies, the all-important monosyllable 
"no<" had ceen oirntted, Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Alur 
ray,—" There is a diabolical mistake which must be cor- 
rected ; it is the omission of ' nof before disagreeable, in tho 
note on the amber rosary. This is really horrible, and 
nearly as bad as the stumble of mine at the threshold— I 
mean the misnomer of Bri<le. Pray do not let a copy go 
without the ' not : it is nonsense, and worse than nonsense. 
I wish the printer was saddled with a vampire."] 



Canto ii. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



03 



Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her mother's sainted amulet,' 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her comboloio^ lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 
The richest work of Iran's loom. 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite. 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? 

VI. 

Wrapp'd in the darkest sable vest. 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And starting oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow meanings made. 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat. 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, , 

How could she quit her Selim's side ? 

How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

VII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
And oft in youthful revery 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
But Selim's mansion was secure. 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? 
What Hour; soothe h ji half so well ? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 



' The belief in amulets engraved on gems, o enclosed in 
gold boxes, contammg scraps from the Koran worn round 
the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The 
Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. of the Koran de- 
scribes the attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in 
this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed 
and sublime of all sentences. 

2 " Comboloio"— a Turkish rosarj'. The MSS., particu- 
larly those of the Persians, are richly adorned and illumi- 
nated. The Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; 
but many of the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, 
though not actually quaUiiea for a Christian coterie. Per- 



But in a nook within the cell 
Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
There arms were piled, not such eis wield 
The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
And one was red — perchance with guilt! 
Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
A cup too on the board was set 
That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ?" 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside. 

His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
Where pistols unadoru'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote : 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuiras to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand. 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some yomig Galiougee ' 

X. 

" I said I was not what I seem'd ; 

And now thou see'st my words were true : 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd. 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika ! I am not thy brother !" 

XI. 

" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day* 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
But know me all I was before, 



haps some ot our own "blues'" might not be worse fci 

bleaching. 

3 " Galiongfee"— or Galiongi, a eailor, that is, a Turkish 
sailor ; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Their 
dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the Capitan Pacha 
more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, how- 
ever, are generally naked. The buskins described in the 
text as sheathed behind with silver are those of an Arnaut 
robber, who was my host (he had quitted tlie profession) at 
his Pyrgo, near Gastouni in the Morea ; they were p ated in 
scales one over the otlier, Uke the back of an armadillo. 

* [•' To curse— if I could curse— the day."— MS.] 



94 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto n. 



Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
Thou led'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see . 
My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than .ive thus nothing now to thee : 
Perhaps far jvorse, for now I know 
Why Giaflir "klways seem'd thy foe ; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave !" 

XII. 

" My slave Zuleika! — nay, I'm thme : 

But, gentle love, this transport calm 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm 
So may the Koran' verse display'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
Jn danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that awful oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath pridec 

Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And lull d me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ;" 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 

That gnaws and yet may break his chair. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
How Giafiir wrought this deed of fear 

XIII. 

" How first their strife to rancor grew 
If love or envy made them foes, 

It matters little if I knew ; 

In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 

In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 

Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 



1 The characters on all Turkish cimeters contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but more 
generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst 
those in my possession is one with a blade of singular con- 
struction ; it is very broad, and the edge notched" into ser- 
pentine curves like the ripple of water, or th6 wavering of 
flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible use 
such a figure could add ; he said, in Italian, that he did not 
know ; but the Mussulmans had an idea that tho»e of this 
form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it was 
" piu feroce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought 
it for its peculiarity. 

" It is to be observed, that every allusion to any tiling or 
personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, 
is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew ; indeed, 
the former profess to be much better acquainted with the 
lives, true and fabulous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted 
by our own sacred writ ; and not content with Adam, they 
have a biography of Pre- Adamites. Solomon is the monarch 
of all necromancy, and Moses a propliet inferior only to 
Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Poti- 



And Paswan's' rebel hordes attest 

How little love they bore such guest 

His death is all I need relate. 

The stem effect of Giaffir's hate ; 

And how my birth disclosed to me, 

Whate'er beside it makes, hath made roe free 

XIV. 

" When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life. 
In Widin's walls too proudly sate. 
Our Pachas rallied romid the state ; 
Nor last nor least in high command. 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horse-tails'' to the wind, 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of words? the deadly bowl, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Keclined and feverish in the bath. 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught,^ nor needed more ! 
. If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt. 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

XV. 

" Tlie deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalic was gain'd : — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man — 

Abdallah's honors were obtaiu'd 
By him a brother's murder stain'd ; 
'Tis tnie, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Wouldst question whence ? Survey the waste 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
Why mo the stern usurper spared. 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none. 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peaco . 



phar's wife ; and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of 
the finest jioems in their language. It is, therefore, no 
violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, 
into the mouth of a Moslem.— [Some doubt having been ex- 
pressed by Mr. Murray, as to the propriety of putting the 
name of Cain into the mouth ;if a Mussulman, Lord Byron 
sent him the preceding note — "for the benefit of the igno- 
rant." " I don't care one lump of sugar," he says, " for my 
poetry ; but for my costume, and my correctness on those 
points, I will combat lustily."] 

3 Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widin ; who, for the last years 
of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at defiance, 

4 " Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha. 

6 Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutan, I am not 
sure which, was actually taken off" by the Albanian Ab, in 
the maimer described in the text. Ali Pacha wnile I was 
in the country, married the daughter of his victim, some 
years after the event had taken place at a bath in Sopliia, 
or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, 
which is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, 
after dressing. 



Canto ii. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



95 



Ho cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XVI 

" Witnm Iny father's house are oes ; 

Not al£ who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were low : 
They only want a neart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Harouu only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him die 
But what could single slavery do? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ? 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
Tlie knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from mo ; 
Thus Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 

xvn. 

" All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth t^ thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to 93e, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Gaii mgee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is swoni, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes. 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
Those arms thou see'st mj'- band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd — once quaff 'd, they ne'er repine : 
Our prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They're only b.'idels in wine. 

XVIII. 

*• Wliat could I be ? Proscribed at home, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 
Denied the courser and the spear — 



I The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined 
to the Archipelago, the sea alluded to. 

* Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 1789- 
90, for tne mdependence of his country. Abandoned by the 
Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago was the 



Though oft — Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! — 

In full Divan the despot scofF'd, 

As if my weak unwilling hand 

Refused the bridle or the brand: 

He ever went to war alone, 

And pent me here untried — unknown ; 

To Haroun's care with women left, 

By hope unbless'd, of fame bereft. 

While thou — whose softness long endear'd, 

Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer' d— 

To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 

Awaitedst there the field's event. 

Harouu, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke. 
On promiso to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart. 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through. 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
The World — nay. Heaven itself was mine ! 

XIX. 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
I sought by turns, and saw them all ;* 

But when and where I join'd the crew, 
With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 

When all that wo design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 

XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place : 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chief's co«imand ; 
A soul for every enterprise. 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all. 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank. 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire. 

The last of Lambro's'* patriots there 

Anticipated freedom share ; 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate. 
To snatch the Rayahs' from their fate. 



scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive ut 
Petersburg. He and Riga are the two most c elebrated o: 
the Greek revolutionists. 

3 " Rayahs,"— all who pay tie capitation taz, called th« 
" Haratch." 



r" 



96 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



So let them ease their hearts with prate 
Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
I have a love for freedom too. 
Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch' roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home I^ 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale, 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! 
But bo the star that guides the wanderer, Thou I 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark I' 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away. 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray l* 
Bless' d — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. 
Shall sound each tone tliy long-loved voice endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is builf a bower 
Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Selim's jieart and hand. 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Harem's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these : 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils, — but one only love ! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay. 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill. 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
To soothe each soitow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide : 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside :' 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By jatal Nature to roan's warring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 



1 The first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

2 The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turko- 
mans, will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern 
travels. That it possesses a charm peculi:;r to itself, cannot 
be denied. A young French renegade confessed to Chateau- 
briand, that he never found himself alone, galloping in the 
desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture, which 
was indescribable. 

3 fThe longest, as well as most splendid, of those pas- 
sages, with which the perusal of his own strains, during re- 
vision, inspired him, was that rich flow of eloquent feeling 
which follows the couplet,—" Thou, my Zuleika, share and 
bless my bark," &c.— a strain of poetry, which, for energy 
and tenderness of thought, for music of versification, and 
selectness of diction, has, throughout the greater portion 
of it, but few rivals in either ancient or modern song.— 
Moore.] 

* [Originally written thus — 

" And tints to-morrow with | o'\5"^^ j | ray." 

The follovsdng note being annexed :— " Mr. Murray, choose 
which of the two epithets, ' fancied,' or ' airy,' may be best ; 
01 if neither will do, tell me, and I will dream another." 
Ju a subsequent letter, he says : — " Instead of— 

' ;uid tints to-morrow with a. fancied ray. 



I like tne rest must use ray skill or strength, 

But ask no land beyond my sabre's length . 

Power sways but by division — her resource 

Tile blest alternative of fraud or force ! 

Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 

When cities cage us in a social home : 

There ev'u thy soul might err — how oft the heart 

Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 

And woman, more than man, when death or wo, 

Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low, 

Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 

Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name ! 

But life is hazard at the best ; and here 

No more remains to win, and much to fear: 

Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 

By Osmar t power, and Giaffir's stern decree. 

That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale. 

Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : 

No danger daunts the pair his smile hath bless'd, 

Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 

With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charmii ; 

Earth — sea alike — our world within our anns ! 

Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck. 

So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 

The deepest mumuir of this lip shall be^ 

No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 

The war of elements no fears impart 

To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art : 

There lie the only rocks our course can check : 

Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 

This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 

Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 

Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 

Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 

And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 

XXI. 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 
Retiu-n'd in time my guard to save ; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my baud, 
Too seldom now I leave the land. 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do. 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 



Print— 

" And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ; 
Or— 

" And I Fjl!{g ( the hope of mornmg with its ray 

Or— 

" And gilds to-morrow's hope with heavenly ray. 

I wish you would ask Mr. Gilford wliich of them is best 
or rather, not worst."} 

6 " Jaimat al Aden," the perj. ""tual abode, the Mussulman 
paradise. 

6 [" You wanted some reflections ; and I send you, per 
Selim, eighteen lines in decent couplets, of a pensive, if not 
an ethical, tendency. One more revise — positively the last, 
if decently done— at any rate, the penultimate. Mr. Can- 
ning's approbation, I need not say, makes me proua.* To 
make you some amends for eternally pestering you with al- 
terations, I send you Cobbett, — to confirm yous- orthodoxy." 
Lord B. to Mr. Murray.} 

' [" Then if my lip once murmurs, it must be."— MS.] 

* [Mr. Canning's note was as follows : — " I received the 
books, and among them, the ' Bride of Abydos.' It is veiy, 
very beautiful. Lord Byron (when I met him, one day, al 
a dinner at Mr. Ward's) was so kicd as to promise to give 
me a copy of it. I mention this, not to save my purchase, 
but because I should be really flattered by the present,"] 



Canto n. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



97 



I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain: 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 

Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
With me, this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now. 
Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head !" 



XXII. 

Znleika, mule and motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope forever gone. 

The mother harden'd into stone : 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niob6. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply. 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

"Oh! fly — no more — yet now my more 

brother !" 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread. 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pvu-sne, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
And last of all, his sabre waving. 
Stem Giaflir in his fury raving : 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? 



XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood — " 'Tis come — soon past- 
On« kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 

Bpt yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too few — the attempt were rash 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth t6 the cavern mouth he stepp'd ; 

His pistol's echo rang on high : 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 'tis but to see rno die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth my father's scimitar. 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war I 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within — here linger safe. 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance 
Fear'st thou for him T — may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd : 
No — though again he call me coward ! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No — as each crest save his may feel !" 



J3 



than 



XXIV. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sinik 
The foremost of the prj'ing band, 

A gasping head, a quivering tnuik : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his path he cleft. 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars' length — 
His comrades strain with desperate strengtlt- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save? 
His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay. 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 



XXV. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset. 
To where the strand and billows met : 
There as his last step left the land. 
And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate. 
The son hath found a quicker fate : 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan. 
The rushing billows choked the tone ! 



XXVI 

MoriT slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there : 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each shiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an earless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
'Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weop, 



98 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burden round Sigaeum's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow. 
His head heaves with tlie heaving billow ; 
That hand, whose motion is not life. 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by the tossing tide on high. 
Then levell'd with the wave — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

i Within a living grave ? 

! The bird that tears that prostrate form 

i Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 

I The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed. 
And mourn'd above his turban stone,'^ 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
Yea — closed before his own ! 



XXVII. 

By Hello's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale ; 
Zuleika ! last of GiafRr's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late : 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
Tlie loud Wul-wulleh^ warn his distant ear? 

Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 

The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 

The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy tale I 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill : 
He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 

And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild crj' — and all was still. 

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy 

first! 
Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light. 
That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
Wo to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 

Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 

Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread ; 

By that same hand Abdallah — Selim bled. 



1 [" While the Salsette layoff the Dardanelles, Lord By- 
Ton saw the body of a man who had been executed by being 
cast intcythe sea, floating on the stream to and fro with the 
focmbling of the water, which gave to its arms the effect of 
scarmg away several sea-fowl that were hovering to devour. 
This incident has been strikingly depicted "— Galt.) 

3 A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men 
ouiy. 

Tie dcath-.song of the Turkish women. The " silent 



Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy Daughter's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
Tlie Star hath set that shone on Hello's stream 
What qucnch'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast 

shed ! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair: 
" Where is my child ?" — an Eche anewerg — 
" Where "• 



XXVIII. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms. 

And withers not, tliough branch and leaf 
Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n m that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So wliite — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stein — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with delestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Hourl strings 

His long entrancing note I 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat. 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain: 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and gneve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell. 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the daj^-blush bm'sts from high 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe, 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 



slaves" are the men, whose notions of decorum forbid com- 
plaint in public. 

4 " 1 came to the place of my birth, and cried, ' The frjends 
of iny youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, 
' Where are they V " — Prom an .Arabic MS. The above quo- 
tation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must tie 
already familiar to every reader : it is given in the first an- 
notation, p. 07. of " The Pleasures of Memory :" a poem so 
well known as to render a reference almost superfluous ; 
but to whose pages all wil. be delighted to recur. 



THE CORSAIR. 



99 



Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable' its sound 

Into Zuleika's name.'^ 
'Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fix'd pillar to the shore ; 



For there, as Helle's legends tell. 

Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 

Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 

Denied his bones a holier grave : 

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said, 

Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 

And hence extended by the billow, 

'Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow !" 

Where first it lay that mourning flower 

Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour, 

Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 

As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's ta.e 



THE CORSAIR, 



A TALE.' 



■ I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

Tasso, Gerusahmme Liberata, cantO ^ 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

My dear Moore, — 

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which 
I shall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious 
to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity 
of adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by 
unshaken public principle, and the most undoubted 
and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among 
the firmest of her patriots ; while you stand alone 
the first of her bards in her estimation, and Britain 
repea's and ratifies the decree, permit one, whose 



1 " And airy tongues that syllable men's names." — Milton. 
For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of 

birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton's ghost 
story, the belief of the Duchrss of Kendal, that George I. flew 
into her wmdow in the shape of a raven, (see Orford's Remi- 
niscences,) and many other instances, bring this superstition 
nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Wor- 
cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape 
of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral 
with cages full of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a bene- 
factress m beautifying the church, no objection was made ic 
her harmless folly. For this anecdote, see Orford's Letters. 

2 [The heroine of this poem, the blooming Zuleika, is all 
purity and loveliness. Never was a faultless character more 
delicately or more justly deUneated. Her piety, her intelli- 
gence, her strict sense of duty, and her undeviating love of 
truth, appear to have been originally blended in her mind, 
rather than inculcated by education. She is always natural, 
always attractive, always aflectionate ; and it must be ad 
mitted that her affections are not unworthily bestowed. 
Selim, while an orphan and dependent, is never degraded 
by calamity ; when better hopes are presented to him, his 
buoyant spirit rises witJi his expectations: he is enterprising, 
with no more rashness than becomes his youth ; and when 
disappointed in the success of a well-concerted project, he 
meets, with intrepidity, the fate to which he is exposed 
through his own generous forbearance. To us, " The Bride 
tf Abydos" appears to be, m every respect, superior to 
' The Giaour," though, in point of diction, it has been, per- 
haps, less warmly admired. We will not argue this point, 
but. will simply observe, that what is read with ease is gen- 
erally read with rapidity ; and that many beauties of style 
which escape observation in a simple and connected narra- 
tive, would be forced on the reader's attention by abrupt 
tind perplexing transitions. It is only when a traveller is 
obliged to stop on his journey, that he is disposed to ex- 
amine anc admire the prospect.- George Ellis.] 



only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been 
the years he had lost before it commenced, to add 
the humble but sincere suffrage of friendship, to 
the voice of more than one nation. It will at least 
prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
gratification derived from your society, nor aban- 
doned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your 
leisure or inclination allows you to atone to your 
friends for too long an absence. It is said among 
those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in 
the composition of a poem whose scene will bo laid 
in the East ; none can do those scenes so much jus- 
tice. The wrongs of your owii country,^ the mag- 



3 [" The ' Bride,' such as it is, is my first entire composi- 
'tion of any length, (except the Satire, and be d— d to it,) for 
the ' Giaour' is but a string of passages, and ' Childe Harold' 
is, and 1 rather think always will be, unconcluded. It was 
published on Thursday, the 2d of December ; but how it is 
liked, I know not. Whether it succeeds or not, is no fault 
of the public, against whom I have no complaint. But I 
am much more indebted to the tale than I can ever be to 
the most important reader ; as it wrung my thoughts from 
reality to imagination ; from selfish regrets to vivid recol- 
lections ; and recalled me to a country replete with the 
brightest and darkest, but always most lively colors of my 
memory."— Byron Diary, Dec. 5, 1813.] 

* [" The Corsair" was begun on the 18th, and finished on 
the 31st of December, 1813 ; a rapidity of composition 
which, taking into consideration the extraordinary beauty 
of the poem, is, perhaps, unparalleled in the literary his- 
tory of the country. Lord Byron states it to have been 
written " con mnore. and very much from existence." In the 
original MS. the chief female character was called Fran- 
cesca. in whose person the author meant to delineate one of 
his acquaintance ; but, while the work was at press, he 
changed the name to Medora.'i 

5 [This political allusion having been objected to by a 
friend, Lord Byron sent a second dedication to Mr. Moore, 
with a request that he would " take his choice." It ran as 
follows : — 
"My dear Moore,— January 7th, 1814. 

"I had written to you a long letter of dedication, which 
I suppress, because, though it contained something relating 
to you, which every one had been glad to hear, yet thers 
was too much about politics, and poesy, and all things what 
soever, ending with that topic on which most men are 
fluent, and none very amusing,— one's self. It might have 
been rewritten ; but to what purpose 1 My praise could add 
nothing to your well-earned and firmly established fame ; 



LcfC. 



100 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



nificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and 
ColUus, when ho denominated his Oriental his Irish 
Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a 
part of his parallel. Your imagination will create 
a warmer sun, and less clouded sky ; but wildness, 
tenderness, p.zd originality, are part of your national 
claim of oriental descent, to which you have already 
thus far proved your title more clearly than the most 
zealous of your country's antiquarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all 
men are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? 
— Self. I have written much, and published more 
than enough to demand a longer silence than I now 
meditate ; but, for some years to come, it is my in- 
tention to tempt no fmther the award of " Gods, 
men, nor columns." In the present composition I 
have attempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, 
the best adapted measure to our language, the good 
old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for 
narrative ; though, I confess, it is the measure most 
after my own heart: Scott alone, ^ of the present 
generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over 
the fatal facility of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this 
is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty 
genius : in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our 
dramatists, are the beacons that shine along the 
deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock 
on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet .is 
not the most popular measure certainly ; but as I 
did not deviate into the other from a wish to flatter 
what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without 
further apology, and take my chance once more 
v/ith that versification, in which I have hitherto 
published nothing but compositions whose former cir- 
culation is part of my present, and will be of my 
future, regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, 
I should have been glad to have rendered my per- 
sonages more perfect and amiable, if possible, inas- 
much as I have been sometimes criticised, and con- 
sidered no less responsible for their deeds and quali- 
ties than if all had been personal. Be it so — if I 
have deviated into th- ^.oomy vanity of " drawing 
from self," the pictures are probably like, since they 
are unfavorable ; and if not, those who know me are 
undeceived, and those who do not, I have little in- 
terest in undeceiving. I have no particular desire 
that any but my acquaintance should think the author 
better than the beings of his imagining ; but I can- 
not help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at 
some odd critical exceptions in the present uistance, 
when I see several bards (far more deserving, I allow) 
in very reputable plight, and quite exempte'd from all 
participation in the faults of those heroes, who, never- 
theless, might be found with little more morality than 
" The Giaour," and perhaps — but no — I must admit 



and with my most hearty admiration of your talents, and 
delight in your conversation, you are already acquainted. 
In availing myself of your friendly permission to inscribe 
this poem to you, I can only wish the offering were as 
worthy your acceptance, as your regard is dear to 
'< Yours, most affectionately and faithfully, 

" Byron."; 
- [Alter the words " Scott alone," Lord Byron had in- 
serted, in a parenthesis—" He will excuse the ' Mr.'— we 
do not say Mr. Caesar."] 

a Lit is difficult to say whether we are to receive this 



Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and 
as to his identity, those who like it must give him 
whatever " alias" they please.^ 

If, however, it were worth while to remove tho 
impression, it might be of some service to me, <liat 
the man who is alike the delight of his readers and 
his friends, tho poet of all circles, and the idol of his 
own, perm'ts me here and elsewhere to subscribe 
myself, 

Most truly, 

And affectionately, 

His obedient servant, 

BYRON 
January 2, 1814. 



THE CORSAIR. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



nessun maggior 'dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria, "—Dante 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam. 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot please — 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight. 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeol, 
And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it will — wo snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — bj' disease or strife ? 
Let hiin who crawls enamor'd cf decay. 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 



passage as an admission or a denial of the opinion to which 
it refers ; but Lord Byron certainly did the public injustice, 
if he supposed it imputed to him the criminal actions with 
which many of his heroes were stained. Men no more ex- 
pected to meet in Lord Byron the Corsair, who '■ knew him- 
self a villain," than they look for the hypocrisy of Kehama 
on the shores of the Derwent \V£.ter, or the profligacy oi 
Marmicn on the banks of the Tweed. — Sir Walter Scott.] 
3 The time in this poem may seem too short for the oc- 
currences, but the whole of the JEgean isles are witliin a 
few hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be 
kind enough to *,ake the wina o.s I have often found it 



Canto i. 



THE CORSAIR. 



101 



Heavo his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours — the fresh turF, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 
And they who loathed his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
Wlien Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 

II. 

Such wore the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 

Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 

Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 

And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 

In scatter'd gi'oups upon the golden sand. 

They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand • 

Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 

And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 

Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 

While others straggling muse along the shore ; 

For the wild bird the busy springes set. 

Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 

Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies. 

With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; • 

Tell o'er the tales of many a niglit of toil, 

And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 

No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief? his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots. 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits. 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense. 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

" Steer to tha* shore !" — they sail. " Do this " — 'tis 

done . 
" Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won 
Thus prompt his accents s,zl his actions still. 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief ansv/er and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, r.3T further deign reply. 

HI. 

" A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to Hopo I 

Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope ? 

No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 

The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 

Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ero the dark. 

Already doubted is the cape — our bay 

Receiyss that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 

Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 



She walks the waters like a thing of life. 

And seems to dare the elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle-fire — the wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck 1 



IV 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swings : 

And gathering loiterers on the land discern 

Her boat descending fro^n the latticed stern. 

'Tis mann'd — the oars keep concert to the strand. 

Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 

Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 

When hi-L d grasps hand unitir.g on the beach ; 

The smilCj the question, and the quick reply. 

And the heart's promise of festivity ! 



The tidings spread, and gathering growb the crowd . 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud. 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each dear word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? wo ask not of success — 
But shall we see them? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars — the billows chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
Aiid kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 

VI. 

" Where is our chief? for him wo bear report — 

And doubt that joy — which hails our coming — short; 

Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief ; 

But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 

Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return. 

And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 

Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way. 

To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 

By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming. 

And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 

Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst. 

Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 

From crag to cliff" they mount — Near yonder cave, 

What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 

In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 

Not oft a resting-staff" to that red hand? 

" 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 

On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 

The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 

His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 

We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 

When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 

VII 

Him Juan sought, and told of their Inieui ; — 

He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 

These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 

He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 

" These letters. Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 

Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating 

short. 
Wondering they turn, abasli'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings lock ; 



102 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



But, tliis as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
Ho read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Wiiere is Gousalvo ?" 

" In the aiichor'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear — 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

" To-night, Lord Conrad?" 

" Ay ! at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust. 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of ray trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand. 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armorer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes: 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired. 
To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired." 

VIIL 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so tliat Conrad guides ; 
And who dare question aught that he decides? 
That man of loneliness and mystery. 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of jiis crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
•Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? 
The power of Thought — the magic Of the Mind ! 
Liuk'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will ; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknov/n. 
Makes ever 'heir mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labor for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils 
Accuse not, hate not hiin who v/ears the spoils. 



1 [In the features of Conrad, those who have looked upon 
Lord Byron will recognise some likeness ; and the ascetic 
regimen i.' hich the noble poel himself observed, was no less 
rnarL ~i i , Ihe preceding description of Conrad's fare. To 
what are ^"i to ascribe the shignlar peculiarity which in- 
duced an au-hor of such talent, and so well skilled in tracing 
the darker impressions which guilt and remorse leave on 
the human character, so frequently to afhx features pecu- 
liar to himself to the robbers and corsairs which he sketched 
with a pencil as forcible as that of Salvator ? More than 
one answer may be returned to this question nor do we 
pretend to say which is best warranteil bj' the facts The 
practice may arise from a temperamerit which radical and 
constituUpnal melancholy had, as in the case of Hamlet, 
predisposed to identify its owner with scenes of that deep 
and amazing interest which arises from the stings of con- 
science contending with the stubborn energy of pride, and 
delighting to be placed in supposed situations of guilt and 
danger, as some men love instinctively to tread the giddy 
edge of a precipice, or, holding by some frail twig, to stoop 
forward over the abyss into which the dark torrent dis- 
charges itself. Or, it may be that these disguises were as- 
sumed capriciously, as a man might choose the cloak, 
poniard, and dark lantern of a bravo, for his disguise at a 
masquerade. Or, feeling his own powers in painting the 
sombre and the horrible, Lord Byron assumed m his fervor 
•.he very stmblance of the characters he describes ; like an 
fictor who presents on the stage at once his own person and 
the tragic character with which for the time he is invested. 
Nor, is it altogether incompatible with his character to be- 



Oh ! if he knew th« weight of splendla chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ;* 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sunburnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mien, 

Still seems there something he ■Rould not have seou : 

His features' deepening lines and varying hue 

At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 

As if within that murkiness of mind 

Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 

Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 

Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 

There breathe but few v/hose aspect might defy 

The full encounter of his searching eye : 

He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seek 

To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 

At once the observer's purpose to espy, 

And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 

Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 

Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to day. 

There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 

That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 

And Vi^here his frown of hatred darkly fell, 

Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell !' 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought. 
Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
Love shows all changes : Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 



lieve that, in contempt of the criticisms wJiich, on this ac- 
count, had attended " Childe Harold," he was determined 
to show to the public how little he was affected by them, 
and how effectually it was in his power to compel attention 
and respect, even when imparting a portion of his own like- 
ness and his own peculiarities, ^ pirates and outlaws. — Sis 
Walter Scott.] 

2 That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature, 
I shall attempt to prove by some historical comcidences 
which I have met with since writing " The Corsair:" — 

" Eccelin, prisonnier," dit Rolandini, " s'enfermoit dans 
un silence menacant ; il fixoit sur la terre son regard it-roce, 
et ne donnoit point d'essor a sa profonde indignation. De 
toutes partes cependant les soldats et les peuples accou- 
roient ; ils vouloient voir cet homme, jadis si puissant, et la 
joie universelle eclatoit de toutes paries. * * * 

" Eccelin etoit d'ane petite taille ; inais tout I'aspect de sa 
personne, tous ses mouvemens, indiquoient un soldat. Son 
langage etoit amer, son dcportement superbe — et par son 
seul regard, 11 faisoit trembler les plus hardis." — Sismondi, 
tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, " Gisericus, (Genseric, king of the Vandals, the 
conqueror of both Carthage and Rome,) statura mediocris, 
et equi casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermone rarus, 
luxuria; contemptor, ir^ turbidus, habendi cupidus, ad so- 
licitandas gentes providentissiinus," &c. &;c. — Jomandci de 
Rebus Gcticis, c. 33. 

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in 
countenance my Giaoui and Corsair. 



Canto 



THE CORSAIR. 



103 



Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
Witli feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his sou! — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 



XI. 

Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 

To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 

His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 

Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 

Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 

In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 

Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 

Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe. 

He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill. 

And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 

Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 

Had left him joy, and means to give again. 

Fear'd — shunu'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 

force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse. 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loathed him, crouch'd and dreaded 

too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His nauf > ?ould sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering v^3om of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — out not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
And he may crush — no^ conquer — still it stings ! 



JCII. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 

One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 

Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 

By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 

Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 

Arid even in him it. asks the name of Love ! 

Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 

Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 

Thouf;h fairest capti-ves daily met his eye. 

Ha shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bower, 

Ncne ever soothed his mosi unguarded hour. 

Yes — it was Love — if thouglits of tenderness, 

Tried ia temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 



Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime. 

And yet — Oh more than all ! — untired by time ; 

Which nor defeated hope, nor bafiled wile, 

Could render sullen were she near to smile, 

Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 

On her one murmur of his discontent ; 

Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, 

Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 

Wliich naught removed, nor menaced to remove — 

If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 

He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 

On him — but not the passion, nor its power. 

Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 

Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one 



xin. 

He paused a moment — till his hastenrng men 

Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 

" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I pass'd, 

Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 

Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear. 

Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 

'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 

Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 

And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune ehiile. 

We'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 

Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams ! 

Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 

As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou bieezo !) 

To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 

Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart. 

Long may her own be lighter than thou art 1 

Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are brave , 

Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 

This common courage which with brutes we share, 

That owes its deadliest efforts to despair. 

Small merit claims — but 'twas my nobler hope 

To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 

Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed: 

No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 

So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 

But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 

My lot hath long had little of my care. 

But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 

Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 

Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 

Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 

She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 



XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung. 
And these the notes the bird of beauty sung : 

1. 

" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells. 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore. 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells. 
Then trembles into silence as before. 

2 

" There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



104 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Canto i. 



3. 

" Remember me— Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there rechno 

The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



'•' My fondest— famtest — latest accents hear : 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove ; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

The first — last — sole reward of so much love !" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 

And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 

" My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 

Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 

Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 

Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 

My heart uuhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 

Oh ! many a night on tliis lone couch reclined. 

My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind. 

And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 

The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 

Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 

That moum'd thee floating on the savage surge : 

Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fare, 

Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 

And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star. 

And morning came — aad still thou wert afar. 

Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 

And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 

And still I gazed and gazed— and not a prow 

Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 

At length — 'twas noon— I hail'd and bless'd the 

mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it passed ! 
Another came — Oh God 1 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er. 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam • 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear 
I only tremble when thou art not here , 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Wliich flies from love and languishes for strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still. 
Should war with nature and its better will !"^ 

i^Yea, strange indeed— that heart hath long been 

changed ; 
Worm-like 'twas trampled— adder-like avenged, 
Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn. 
My very love to thee is hate to them. 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind . 
Yet dread not this— the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last • 
But— Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
This hour again — but not for long — we part." 



1 [Lord Byron has made a fine use of the gentleness and 
Kibmission of the females of these regions, as contrasted 
\nth tlie lordly pride pjid martial ferocity of the men • and 
though we suspect he has lent them more soul than of rirfit 
twlongs to them, as well as n.ore delicacy and reflection • 
yet, theie is something so true to female nature in general' 



" This hour we part !— my heart foreboded this • 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hoiu' — it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay ; 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew : 

My love I thou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress. 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guese'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest ; thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweei.y few, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow . 
The grapes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along. 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We'll turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old.= 
Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these clifTs the while : 
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said. 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 

" Again — again — and oft again — ^my love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 

The tune of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why — the where — what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 

Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 

Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with t'lee stay ; 

And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet, 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

List ! — 'tis the bugle" — Juan shrilly blew — 

" One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 



in his representations of this sort, and so much of the ori- 
ental softness and acquiescence in his particular delniea- 
tions, that it is scarcely possible to refuse the picture the 
praise of being characteristic and hai raonious, as well as 
eminently sweet and beautiful in itself.— Jeffkey. J 
2 Orlando Furioso, Canto x. 




He pass'd tbe portal - CTOSs'i tlie oorridor 
Ani Teach'i the ctEinibac as tlie Btroiii gave o'er. 
My own Med oral. gTj.te thy song is aad.- 



Canto i. 



THE CORSAIR. 



105 



Her long fair hair lay floatino: o'er his arms, 
In all the wildiiess of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gim I 
It told 'twas simset — and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
Wliich mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd I 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Coiu-ad gone ? 

XV. 

*' And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 

How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 

•' 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 

And now" — without the portal's porch she rush'd. 

And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 

Big — bright — and fast, unluiown to her they fell ; 

But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell !" 

For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 

We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair. 

O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 

Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 

The tender blue of that large loving eye 

Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy. 

Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 

And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim. 

Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 

With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 

" He's gone !" — against her heart that hand is driven, 

Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 

She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 

The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 

But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 

" It is no di-eam — and I am desolate !'" 

XVI. 

From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 

Stem Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 

But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 

Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 

His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 

That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 

And she — the dim and melancholy star, 

Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar, 

On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 

There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 

Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 

His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 

But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 

May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 

He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 

And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 

Again he hiuries on — and as he hears 

The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 

The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 

The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 

As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 

The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 

The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge ' 

That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 

And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft. 

Ho marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft 



1 [We do not know any thing in poetry more beautiful or 
to iching than this picture of their parting.— Jeffhet.] 



14 



Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast. 
He feels of all his former self possess'd ; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the clifF, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to \ailgar view: 
P'or well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd. 
By arts that veil, and oft preser\'e the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
That seems to shun the sight — aud awes if seen: 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
All these he wielded to command assent ; 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard, 
And ethers' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When ocho'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood. 
He cared not what ho soften'd, but subdued ; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 

XVII. 

Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — " Are all prepared?" 

" They are — nay more — embark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here !" He comes — and Conrad bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
Ou our return — till then all peace be thine I" 
Tills said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flasli'd the dipp'd oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
Around the waves' phosphoric'^ brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her holm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, aftd inly seem to mourn? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower. 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must }'et be done ere ddwn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends. 
And there imfolds his plan — his means — and ends : 
Before them- burns the lamp, and spreads the chart, 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 



2 By night, particularly in a warm latitude, eve-y stroke 
of the oar^ every motion of tlie boat or ship, is fol owed by 
a slight flash lilie sheet lightning from tlie water 



lOG 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — long ere morning smile: 
And soon the night-glass tlirough the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
'r\\e liglits in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ! 
Screon'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood. 
And cahnly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood I 



TPIE COESAIR, 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



" Conosoeste i dubiosi desiri ?"— Dante 



In Coron's bay floats many a galley light. 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night: 
A feast for promised triimiph yet to come, 
Wlien he sliall drag the fettcr'd Rovers homo : 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword. 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His sunmion'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
'Tia but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their liaven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber,' if they will. 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
Hov/ well such deed becomes the turbcUi'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwellinsr — lut forbear to slay, 
Their arms are sttong, yet merciful to-day. 
And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hoiurs beguile. 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer. 
And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear 

II. 

High Jn his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around — the bearded chiefs ho came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilafl"— ' 
Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he d^ared to quaff", 



» Coffee. 2 " Chibouque," pipe. * Dancing girls. 

* It has been observed, that Conrad s entering disguised 
as a spy is out of nature. Perhaps so. 1 find something 
not unlike it in history : — " Anxious to explore with his 
OW71 eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after 
disguisi:ig the color of his hair, to ^sit Carthago in the 



Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,* 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use : 
The long chibouque's^ dissolving cloud supply. 
While dance the Almas' to wild minstrelsy. 
The rismg morn will view the chiefs embai'k ; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark. 
And Tevellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep ; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must. 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Miaht warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 



III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose oflrce there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor. 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest."* 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-gfeen vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look depress'd ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more tlian years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from feta-b. 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore. 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
And wrapp'd a breast bestow'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 

IV. 

•' WTience com'st thou, Dervise ?" 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when?" 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle. 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and ofFer'd chance of flight ; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ?" 

"How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fii'e their scorpion nest consumed?" 

" Pacha ! the fettor'd captive's mourning eye. 

That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 

I only heard the reckless waters roar. 

Those waves that would not bear me from the shore ; 

I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 

Too Bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 



character of his own ambassador ; and Genseric was after- 
wards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained 
and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anec- 
dote may be rejected as an improbable fiction : but it is a 
fiction which would not have been imagined unles s in the life 
of a hero."— See Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 180 



Canto ii. 



THE CORSAIR. 



107 



And felt — ^that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
Tliis mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of auglit in peril's shape ; 
Else vairdy had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The ctireless guard that did not see me fly, 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
^ermit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all aromid ! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
Tlie supper doue — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 

Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
Nor show'd high relish for the banquet press'd, • 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 
Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
He sate him down h\ silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thy foes? 
Why dost thou shun the salt? that sacred pledge. 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight !" 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my driuk the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's' laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread. 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's ragf 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 

One question answer; then in peace depart 

How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 

What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 

It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 

Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar! 

The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 

Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 

Some villain spy — seize — cleave hun — slay him now . 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the siglit : 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb. 
But lilie a warrior bounding on his barb. 



1 The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as 
the monks. 
» " Zatanai," Satan. 
* A common and not very novel effect of JMussulman 



Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray I 
His close but glittering casque, and s^ble plume. 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fiirht. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below ; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell I 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waives ; 
Naught heeded they the Pacha's angrj' cry. 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai !^ 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him Jut to stand and perish there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their tenor — from his baldric drew 
His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
'Tis answer'd — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem desigu had left me single here ?" 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fuiy what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd with rage, sur- 
prise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow. 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled tlie fight ;' 
For now the pirates pass'd the Harem gate. 
And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaimed how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair I 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
Much hath been done — but more remains to do- - 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 



Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 

And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 

A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye. 

But sudden sunk — for on his ear tlie crv 

Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 

Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 

" Oh ! burst the Harem — wrong not on your lives 

One female form — remember — we have wives. 

On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 

Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 

But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 



anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24 " Tho 
Serasto'er received a wound in the thigh : lie plucked up 
his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the 
field." 



108 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will Bot forgive 

If at my word the helpless cease to live : 

Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 

Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 

He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 

Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 

His breath choked gapping with the volumed smoke, 

But still from room to room his way he broke. 

They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 

Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 

Calm their loud feare ; sustain their sinking frames 

Witli all the care defenceless beauty claims : 

So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood. 

And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 

But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 

From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 

Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 

The Harem queau — but still the slave of Seyd ! 



VI. 

Brief tune had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 

Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 

For in that pause compassion snatch'd from war, 

The foe before retiring, fast and far, 

With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 

First slowlier fled — then rallied — tlien withstood. 

This Seyd perceives, tlien first perceives how few. 

Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew. 

And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 

The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 

Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 

Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 

And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 

The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 

When wrath returns to renovated strife. 

And tliose who fought for conquest strike for life. 

Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 

His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 

" One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 

They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost 1 

Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 

Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 

Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 

Hemm'd in — cut ofF — cleft down — and trampled 

o'er; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
HL5 last faint quittance rendering with his breath. 
Till tho blade glLinmers in the grasp of death ! 



VII. 

Bat first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Harem handmaids freed. 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd ; 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thou-ghts late wandering in despair, 
Mu Ji did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd, 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood 



Gulnare, a female name it means, literally, the flower 
of the pomegranate. 



Tlie Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
Tlie Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
" The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — rain 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — my loving lord remember'd not !" 



VIII. 

And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 

But gathcr'd breathing from the happier dead ; 

Far from his band, and battling with a host 

That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 

Foll'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he sought, 

And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 

Preserved to linger and to live in vain. 

While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 

And stanch'd tho blood she saves to shed again — 

But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 

Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 

Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw. 

When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law , 

'Tis he indeed — disarm'd but undepress'd. 

His solo regret the life he still possess'd ; 

His wounds too slight, though taken with that vriW, 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that tnon could 

kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given. 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 
Must he alone of all retain his brc^Ui, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel. 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen. 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wound, 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 
Though the far shouting of the d stant crowd. 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 
The better warriors who beheld him near. 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 

To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 

Ho found enough to load witli heaviest chain. 

And promise feeling for the wrench of pain: 

To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 

Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 

And rising with the wonted blush of mom 

Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 

Of torments this the longest and the worst. 

Which adds all other agony to thirst, 

That day by day death still forbears to slake, 

While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 

" Oh ! water — water !" — smiling Hate denies 

Tlie victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 

This was his doom: — the Leech, tho guard, vrcit) 

gone. 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 



Cantc II. 



THE CORSAIR. 



109 



'Twere vam to paint to what his feelings ^ew— 

It ev'n were doubtful if their victim knew. 

There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 

When all its elements convulsed — combined — 

Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 

And gnashing p/ith impenitent Remorse ; 

Thai juggling liend — who never spake before — 

But cries " I wani'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 

Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent. 

May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 

Ev'n in that lonely hour when most it feels. 

And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 

No single passion, and no ruling thought 

That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 

But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 

All rushing through their thousand avenues, 

Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 

Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 

The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 

'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 

Tlie hopeless past, the hasting future driven 

Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 

Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember'd not 

So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 

Things light or lovely in their acted time. 

But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 

The withering sense of evil unreveal'd. 

Not cankering less because the more conceal'd — 

All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 

That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 

Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 

To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 

Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 

All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 

Each has some fear, and he who least betrays. 

The only hypocrite deserving praise : 

Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flies ; 

But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 

So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career. 

He half-way meets him should he meaace near 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 

Sate Conrad, fettefd in the Pacha's power. 

His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 

Contain'd at y.ic.e his captive and his court. 

Not much coula Conrad of his sentence blame. 

His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 

Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 

His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd . 

One thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 

" Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ?" 

Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 

And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed : 

But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd relief. 

And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 

" And now come to-'ure when it will — or may 

More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 

This said, with languor to his mat ho crept. 

And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 

'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun. 

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done : 

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of t'me. 

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime 

One hour beheld him since the tide he sttmm'd — 

Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 

^emn'd — ■ 
A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and a^eop 1 



XIT. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept — Wlio o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face .' 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid .♦ . 

Of that closed eye, ^'hich opens but to pain. 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair. 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
With shape of fairy lightnefes — naked foot. 
That shines like snov/, and falls on earth as mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it there ? 
Ah! rather ask what will not "•oman dare? 
Whom youth and pity lead liko thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw bis pirate-guest. 
She left his side — hit. signet-ring she bore. 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door. 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no more : 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask cr what or who the sign may bring. 



XIIL 

She. gazed iji wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe. 
And me and mine he spared from worse than wo • 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes I" 



He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 

His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 

He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 

Too harshly told him that he lived again. 

" Wliat is that form ? if not a shape of air, 

Methinks, my jailer's face shows woud'rous fair!" 



" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one. 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band 
I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 



" If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

Tliat would not hero in that gay hope delight : 

Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 

But still I thanli their courtesy or thine. 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine !" 



Strange though it seem — yet with extremest griof 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 



110 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



.Canto ii. 



And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
Till even the scaffold' echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
it may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Wliate'er it was that fiash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
Ana these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
Fev/ thoughts had ha to spare from gloom and strif 

XIV. 

" Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power . 

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 

Thee would I spare — nay more — would save thee no^v. 

But this— time— hope — nor even tb.y strength allow ; 

But all I can, I will : at least, delay 

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 

More now were ruin^ — ev'n thyself were loth 

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

« Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 

Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope, 

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 

Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly. 

The one of all my band that would not die ? 

Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings. 

Till to tliese eyes her own wild softness springs. 

My sole resources in the path I trod 

Were these — mj' bark — my sword — my love — my 

God! 
The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. • 

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer 
Wrang from the coward crouching of despair; 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnare I 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then? — ^but what to me 
Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — so.: i as mine hath wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

" My love stem Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love — 

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove 

To meet his passion — but it would not be. 

I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 

I am a slave, a favor'd slave at best. 

To share his splendor, and seem very blest ! 



1 In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and 
Anne Boleyn, in the Tower, wlien, gras-ing her neck, she 
remavkeJ, that it " was too slender to trouble the heads- 
inaii much." During one part of the French Revolution, 



Oft must my soul the question undergo. 

Of — ' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, « No !' 

Oh I hard it is that fondness to sustain. 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 

And hide from one — perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 

Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken'd — calmly cold . 

And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 

From one I never loved enough to hate. 

No warmth these lips return by his impress'd. 

And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 

Yes — had I ever proved that passion's, zeal. 

The change to hatred were at least to feel: ^ 

But still — he goes unmonrn'd — returns unsought— 

And oft when present — absent from my thought. 

Or when reflection comes— f<ud come it must — 

I fear that henceforth 'twill ha bring disgust ; 

I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 

'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 

Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease I 

Or seek another and give mine release, 

But yesterday — I could have said, to peace I 

Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 

Remember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 

To give thee back to all endear'd below, 

Wlro share such love as I can never Know. 

Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 

'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day I" 

XV. 

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart. 

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 

And was she here? and is he now alone? 

Wliat gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chaiu? 

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain. 

That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's miue. 

Already polish'd by the hand diviiie ! 

Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 

In woman's eye ilie unanswerable tear ! 

That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 

To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 

Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs. 

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 

What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 

By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe. 

And seal their own to spare some wanton's wo. 

XVI. 

'Tis mom — and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night? perchance a lliing, 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt ; 
While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
Chiil — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb. 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 



it became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a lepicv 
and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that 
period would form a melancholy jest-book of a consider 
able size 



Canto hi. 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ill 



THE COESAIR. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



Come verli — ancor non m' abbandona.' — Dante. 

I. 

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,' 

Along Morea's h.lls the setting sun ; 

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 

But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows 

On old ^gina's rock, and Idra's isle, 

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 

Though there his fvltars are no more divine. 

Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 

Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 

Their azure arches through the long expanse 

More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance. 

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to deep. 






On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
^hat closed their murder'd sage's^ latest day ! 
ot yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
he precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But here ho sank below Cithoeron's head, 
The cup of wo was quafF'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

Bu , lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. 
No murky vapcfr, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play. 
There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of >.8 gay kiosk,* 



' The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, 
little business here, and were annexed to an unpubhshed 
(though printed) poem ; but they were written on the spot, 
in the Spring of 1811, and — I scarce know why — the reader 
must excuse their appearance here — if he can. [See post, 
" Curse of Minerva."] 

2 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset, 
(the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of 
Lis disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

3 The twilight in Greece Is much shorter than in our own 
country : the days in winter are longer, but in summer of 
Shorter duration. 

* The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm is 
without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple 
of Tlieaeus, between wluch and the tree the wall intervenes. 



And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm. 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the iEgean, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with tlie shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile.' 

II. 

Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to thee? 

Oh ! who can look along thy native sea. 

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 

So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 

Who that beheld that Sua upon thee sot, 

Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forge * 

Not he — wliose heart nor time nor distance frees, 

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain. 

His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 

Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 

The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart — the tliird day's come and gone — 
With it ho comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; qnd storms were 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet [none. 

His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 

Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 

Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 

Scarce know they how escaped — this all they knew 

In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 

His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 

Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 



—Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, ar.d Ilissus has no 
stream at all. 

6 [Of the brilhant skies and variegated landscapes of 
Greece every one has foimed to himself a general notion, 
from having contemplated them tlirough the liazy atmo- 
sphere of some prose narration ; but, in Lord Byi on's poetry, 
every image is distinct and glowing, as if it were illumina- 
ted by its native sunshine ; and, in the figures which people 
the landscape, we behold not only the general form and 
costume, but the countenance, and the attitude, and the 
play of features and of gesture accompanying, and indi- 
catmg, the sudden impulses of momentary feelings. The 
magic of coloring by which this is effected is, perhaps, the 
most striking evidence of Lord Byron's talent.— Geobgb 
Ellis.] 



112 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ui. 



Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 

That deem'd not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they softou'd — flutterd— 

wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength wliich said, 
" With nothing left to love — there's naught to 

dread." 
'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 

What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well — 

Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 

The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

" Lady I wo know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

Ho saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then with- 
stood ; 
Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued • 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes. 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
liaise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

IV. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange. 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's sj)irit, and forbade despair ; 
Whato'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led. 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo .J his foes ! there yet survive a few. 
Whoso deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 

V. 

Within the Harem's secret chamber sate' 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 

His thoughts on love and liate alternate dwell. 

Now with Gulnarc, and now in Conrad's coll ; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind ; 

While many an anxious glance her largo dark eye 

Sends in its idle scarcli for sympathy, 

His only bends in seeming o'er his be ids,'' 

But inly views his victim as ho bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies : and well his fato 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 



> [The whole of tJiis section was added in the course of 
pruiting.] 



While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
But once cut off"— the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 



" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were off'er'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not redoom I 

It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; 

And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 



" Nay Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for theo 
His riches — thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
His capture coidd but wait thy first command." 



" His capture could I — and shall I then resign 

One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thine ! 

Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood. 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair. 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear I ^ 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : H 

I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 

Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 

Thou need'st not answer — thy confession speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 

Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 

'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 

Another word and — nay — I need no more. 

Accursed was the moment when he bore 

Theo from the flames, which better far — but — no^ 

I tlien had mouni'd thee with a lover's wo — 

Now 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 

Kuow'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 

In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 

Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe !" 

Ho rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew. 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little rcck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quoU'd, nor menaces subdued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, difl«rmg but in name ;■, 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woee ' 



2 The comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads aie in 
number ninety-nine. 



Canto hi. 



THE CORSAIR. 



113 



VI 

Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 

Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 

This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 

When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 

Wlien every step that echo'd by the gate 

Might entering lead where axe and stake await 

When every voice that grated on his ear 

Might bo the last that he could ever hear; 

Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 

Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 

'Twas worn — perhaps decay'd — yet silent bore 

That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 

The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 

Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 

But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude. 

To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 

To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 

Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 

Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 

To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 

With not a friend to animate, and tell 

To other ears that death became thee well ; 

Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 

And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 

Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 

Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 

But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 

To valor's praise thy last and dearest claun ; 

The life thou leav'st below, denied above 

By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 

And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 

Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 

Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 

And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain: 

And those sustain'd he — boots it well'or ill? 

Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

VII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gulnare — 

The second — third — and still she came not there ; 

But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 

Or else he had not seen another sun. 

The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 

Came storm and darkness m their mingling might : 

Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 

That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 

And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 

Roused by the rotir of his own element ! 

Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 

And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 

And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 

A long-known voice — alas! too vainlyiiear I 

Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 

Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 

And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 

To him more genial than the midnight star : 

Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain. 

And hoped tJiat peril might not prove in vain. 



• I" By the way— I have a charge against you. As the 
great Mr Dennis roared out on a similar occasion, 'By 
G— d, that is !Hy thunder I' — so do I exclaim, ^This is my 
lightning 1' I allude to a speech of Ivan's, in the scene with 
Petrowna and the Empress, where the thouglit, and almost 
expression, are similar to Conrad's in the third canto of the 
' Corsair.' I, however, do not say this to accuse you, but to 
except myself from suspicion ; as Jicre is a priority of six 
months' publication on my part, between the appearance of 
th£,t composition and of your tragedies."— Lord Byron to 



15 



He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made •} 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to s'trike j 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 
As if some faithless friend had spum'd his groan { 

VIIL 

The midnight pass'd — and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once more 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame . 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource. 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — r"y lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare. 
And change the sentence I desei-ve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Wliy should I seek? because — Oh ! didst thou uot 
Redeem my life from woree than slavery's lot? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved: 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd — 

loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril wliich she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were tnily dear. 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam . 
What hath such gentle dame to do with liome ? 
But speak not now — o'er thuie and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me !" 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adorimients, o'er each slumbering head I 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ?" 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain : 
Without some aid how hero could I remain ? 



Mr. Sotheby, Sept. 25, 1815.— The following are the lines in 
Ml S jtheby's tragedy : — 

• " And I have leapt 



In transport from my flinty couch, to welcome 
The thunder as it burst upon my roof; 
And beckon'd to the lightning, as it ilash'd 
And sparkled on these fetters." 

Notwithstanding Lord Byron's precaution, the coincidence 
in question was cited against liira, some years after, in a 
periodical journal.] 



114 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto in. 



Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 

If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 

The crimQ — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain' d. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well, 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a, toy for dotard's play. 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save. 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife,) 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love — that natred are the first — 

Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not 

start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
*Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead. 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd !" 



" Gulnare — Gulnare — I never fdc till now 

M_' abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 

Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 

From earth with ruthless but with open hand. 

And therefore came I, in my bark of wi..'. 

To smite tlie smiter w...^ a scimitar ; 

Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 

Who spares a woman's seeks not slumbei '; life. 

Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this— 

Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 

Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast I 

Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest !" 



" Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life — ray lov6 — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — ^how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid. 

My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 



But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

1^11 try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o er — > 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud. 



IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 

But his glance foUow'd far with eager eye ; 

And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 

His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 

Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 

He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 

'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there ; 

He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 

Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 

Chance gviides his steps — a freshness seems to bear 

Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 

He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 

Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 

Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 

From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 

Towards it ho moved ; a scarcely closing door 

Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 

With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, 

Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis She at 

last! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
"Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill!" 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair. 
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
Her hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crimj — 'tis blood ! 



X. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 

O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 

He had been tempted — cliasten'd — and the chain 

Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 

But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 

From all his feelings in their inmost force — 

So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein, 

As now they froze before that purple stain. 

That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 

Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 

Blood ho had view'd — could view unmoved — but thon 

It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 



XL 

" 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair I he perish'd — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine. 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join. 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand. 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 



Canto hi. 



THE CORSAIR. 



115 



XII. 

She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 

Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor ; 

Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 

Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 

But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 

As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 

No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 

Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 

The city lies behind — they speed, they reach . 

The gliid waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 

And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 

Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 

Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 

Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew — 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
His fleeting triumph, and his failing hand ; 
He thought en her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw — Guluare, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
" Thou mayst forgive though Allah's self detest ; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now .' 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 

XV. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he made ; 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexpress'd, 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge, 
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry. 
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high ; 
She bears her down majestically near, 
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
" 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again — 
,1 am not all deserted on the main !" 
They own the signal, answer to the hail. 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
*' 'Tis Ctnrad ! Conrad !" shouting from the deck. 
Command nor duty could their transport check ! 



> [" I have added a sect'on for Gulnare, to fill up the part 
vac, and dismiss her more ^ceremoniously If Mr. Gilford or 



With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 

A smile relaJfing in each rugged face, 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 

He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp Ansehno's hand. 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 

XVI. 

These greetings o'ei ♦he feelings that o'erfiow. 
Yet grieve to win Iilr.i Dack without a blow ; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they knowa 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own. 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above — beneath her sex. 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye. 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
Though worse than phrensy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 

XVII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less?' — 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash away. 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt. 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave. 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and 

meek. 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare !" — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare !" 
She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
If he had driven her from that resting-place. 
His had been more or less than mortal heart. 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips where Love had lavish'd all his breath. 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XVIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 



you dislike, 'tis but a sponge and another midnight."— Loi J 
Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 11, 1814.] 



116 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through tlie spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 

Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Tlieir fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 

XIX. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 

And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 

Ho looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 

Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 

'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 

Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only voil'd. 

With the first boat descends he for the shore, 

And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 

Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 

To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 

With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 

He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave. 

Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 

Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
Ho knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd. 
And fail'd to frame tho question they delay'd ; 
Ho snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that nviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 

XX. 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 

And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 

And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain I 

In life itself she was so still and fair. 

That death vnth ger.ller aspect wither'd there ; 

And the cold flowerf her colder hand contain'd.; 

In that last grasp as ienderly were strain'a 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 

The long dark lashes fringed ha: lids of snow, 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might. 
And hurls tho spirit from her throne of light ; 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, tho charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they foreboro to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 



1 In tho Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
b.>dies of the dead, and in tlie hands of young persons to 
pluie a nosegay 



But the white shroud, and each extended tressj 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier- 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he hero ? 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
n was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never sour . 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 
Lose n that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight 7 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost. 
In smiles that least befit who wear ihcm most 

XXII. 

By those, that deepest feel, is ill express'd 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none 5 
No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion pross'd 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain. 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen. 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart^ 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart ; 
The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from hini. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Grief's vain eye- — the blindest of the blind 
Which may not--dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide I 

XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong ;' 

Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 

Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 

Within the grot ; like that had harden'd too ; 

Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd. 

But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 

Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 

If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 

There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow. 

Though dark the shade — it shelter'd — saved till now 

The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 

The Grani(?'s firmne-ss, and the Lily's growth: 

The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 

Its tale, but shrank and wither'd wliere it feli • 

And of its cold protector, blacken round 

But shiver'd fragments on the barren ground . 



a ; These sixteen lines are not in the original MS i 



Canto n» 



THE CORSAIR. 



117 



XXIV. 

'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; Ihoagh now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain. 
They find on shore a seaboat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 



1 That the point of honor whicti is represented in one in- 
stance of Conrad"s character has not been carried beyond 
the bounds uf probabihty, may perhaps be in some degree 
contivraeii by the following anecdote of a brother buccaneer 
ui the year 1814 : — " Our readers have all seen the account 
of the enterprise against the pirates of Barrataria ; but few, 
we believe, were informed of the situation, history, or na- 
ture of thcii establishment. For the information of such as 
were unacquainted with it, we have procured from a friend 
the following interesting narrative of the main facts, of 
wliich he has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to 
interest some of our readers. — Barrataria is a bay, or a nar- 
row arm of the Gulf of Mexico ; it runs through a rich but 
very tiat country, until it reaches within a mile of the 
Mississippi river, fifteen miles below the city of New Or- 
leans. The bay has branches almost innumerable, in wliich 
persons can lie concealed from the severest scrutiny It 
communicates with three lakes which lie on the southwest 
side, and these, with the lake of the same name, and which 
lies contiguous to the sea, where there is an island formed 
by the two arms of this lake and the sea. The east and 
west points of this island were fortified, in the year 1811, 
by a band of pirates, under the command of one Monsieur 
La Fitte. A large majority of these outlaws are of that 
class of the population of the state of Lquisiana wlio fled 
from the island of St. Domingo during the troubles there, 
and took refuge in the island of Cuba ; and when the last 
war between France and Spain commenced, they were 
compelled to leave that island with the short notice of a 
few days. Without ceremony, they entered the United 
•States, the most of them the state of Louisiana, with all 
the negroes they had possessed in Cuba. They were noti- 
fied by the Governor of that State of the clause in the con 
slitution which forbade the importation of slaves ; but, at 
the same time, received the assurance of the Governor that 
he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the Gen- 
eral Government for their retaining tliis property. — The 
island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 20 deg. 15 min., 
Ion. 92 30 ; and is as remarkable for its health as for the 
superior scale and shell fish with whicli its waters abound. 
The chief of this horde, like Charles de Jloor, had mixed 
with his many vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this 
party had, from its turpitude and boldness, claimed the at- 
tention of the Governor of Louisiana ; and to break up the 
establishment, he thought proper to strike at the head. He 
therefore offered a reward of 500 dollars for the head of 
ilonsieur La Fitte, wlio was well known to the inhabitants 
of the city of New Oi leans, from his immediate connection, 
and liis once having been a fencing-master in that city of 
great reputation, wb.ii art he learned in Bonaparte's 
army, wlere he was a captain. The reward which was of- 
fered by the Governor for the head of La J'ltte was an- 
swered by the offer of a reward from tlie latter of 15,000 for 
the iiead of the Governor. The Governor ordered out a 
company to march from the city to La Fitte's island, and 
to D'lru'and destroy all the property, and to bring to the 
cIlV o; New Orleans all his banditti. This company, under 
'lie fiOt(,mand of a man who had been the intimate asso- 
ciate o! yiis bold Captain, approached vei;y near to the 
fbrlific'i island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, 
unLil lie heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call 
Then If was he found himself surrounded by armed men 
who had emerged from the secret avenues which led into 
3:iyoii Here it was that the modern Charles de JNIoor de 
voioped his few noble traits ; for to this man who had come 
CO destroy his life and all that was dear to him, he not 
o:ily spared his life, but offered him that which would have 
luadc the honest soldier easy for the remainder of 'his 
flays; which was indignantly refused. He then, with the 
iipprobation of his captor, returned to the city. This cir- 
eumytance, and some concomitant events, proved that this 
band of pirates was not to be taken by land. Our naval 
force having always been small in that quarter, exertions 
tor the destruction of this illicit 'establishment could not be 
expjctea from them until augmented ; for an ofiicer of the 
navy, with most of the gunboats on that station, had to re- 
treat from an ovcrwhelining force of La Fitte's. So soon 



'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 

And Conrad comes not — came not since that day . 

Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 

Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair 

Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside ; 

And fair the monument they gave his bride : 

For him they raise not the recording stone — 

His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 

He left a Corsair's name to other times, 

Link'd with one virtue,' and a thousand crimes.'' 



as the augmentation of the navy authorized an attack, one 
was made : the overthrow of this banditti has been the re- 
sult ; and now this almost invulnerable point and key to 
New Orleans is clear of an enemy, it is to be hoped the 
government will hold it by a strong military force." — 
American Newspaper. 

In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical History 
there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop 
Blackbourne ; and as in some measure connected with the 
profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, I cannot resist 
the temptation of extracting it. — " There is something mys- 
terious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. 
The former is but imperfectly known ; and repori, i.as c-'en 
asserted he was a buccaneer ; and that one of his brethren in 
that profession having asked, on his arrival in England, what 
had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered, He 
is Archbishop of York. We are informed, that Blackbourne 
was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which office he re- 
signed in 1702 ; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, 
in 1704, he regained it. In the following year he became 
dean ; and in 1714, held with it the arclideanery of Cornwall. 
He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 1716; 
and translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, ac- 
cording to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess 
of Munster. This, however, appears to have been an un- 
founded calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great 
prudence, and was equally respectable as the guardian of the 
revenues of the see. Rumor whispered he retained the 
vices of his youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed 
an item in the list of liis weaknesses ; but so far from being 
convicted by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have 
been directly criminated by one. In short, I look upon these 
aspersions as the effects of mere malice. How is it possible 
a buccaneer should have been so good a scholar as Black- 
bourne certainly was ? He who had so perfect a knowledge 
of the classics, (particularly of the Greek tragedians,) as to 
be able to read them with the same ease as he could 
Shakspeare, must have taken great pains to acquire the 
learned languages ; and have had both leisure and good 
masters. But he was undoubted ' educated at Christ 
Church College, Oxford. He is allowed to have been a 
pleasant man : this, however, was turned against him by its 
being said, ' he gained more liearts than souls.''" 

" The only voice that could soothe the passions of the 
savage (Alphonso III.) was that of an amiable and virtuous 
wife, the sole -^bi set of his 'ovo ; the voice of Donna Isabella, 
the daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the grand-daughter of 
Plulip II. King of Spain.— Her dying words sunk deep into 
his memory ; his fierce spirit melted into tears ; and after the 
last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail 
his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
life."— Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 473. 

2 [In " The Corsair," Lord Byron first felt himself at full 
liberty ; and then all at once he shows the unbroken stream 
of his native eloquence, of rapid narrative, of vigorous and 
intense, yet unforced imagery, sentiment, and thought ; of 
extraordmai-y elasticity, transparency, purity, ease, and har- 
mony of language ; of an arrangement of words, never trite, 
yet always simple and flowing ; — in such a perfect expression 
of ideas, always impressive, generally pointed, frequently 
passionate, and often new, that it is perspicuity itself, with 
not a superfluous word, and not a word out of its natural 
place.— Sir E. Brydges. " The Corsair" is written in the 
regular heroic couplet, with a spirit, freedom, and variety 
of tone, of which, notwithstanding the example of Dryden, 
we scarcely beUeved that measure susceptible. It was yet 
to be proved that this, the most ponderous and stately verse 
in our language, could be accommodated to the variations 
of a tale of passion and of pity, and to all the breaks, 
starts, and transitions of an adventurous and dramatic nar- 
ration. This experiment Lord Byron has made, with equal 
boldness and success ; and has satisfied us, that the oldest 
and most respectable measure that is known amongst us, is 
at least as flexible as any other, and capable, in the hands 
of a master, of vibrations as strong and rapid as those of a 
lighter structure. — JEFrREV.] 



118 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



LARA: 

A TALE.' 



LARA. 



CANTO THK FIRST. 



The Serfs' are glad through Lara's wide domaui, 
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored: 
There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, aud with eyes all mirth. 

II. 

The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
And Avhy had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Loft by his sire, too young such loss to know. 
Lord of himself ; — that heritage of wo. 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 



1 [A few days after he had put the finishing hand to the 
" Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte," Lord Byron adopted the 
most extraordinary resolution that, perhaps, ever entered 
into the mind of an author of any celebrity. Annoyed at the 
tone of disparagement in which his assailants— not content 
with blackening his moral and social character — now af- 
fected to speak of his g 3nius, and somewhat mortified, there 
is reason to believe, by finding that his own friends dreaded 
the effects of constant publication on his ultunate fame, he 
came to the determination, not only to print no more in fu- 
ture, J s' to purchase back the whole of his past copyrights, 
and supp'3ss every line he had ever written. With this 
view, on tne 29th of April, he actually enclosed his pub- 
lisher a draft for the money. " For all this," he said, " it 
might be as well to assign some reason : I have none to 
give, except my own caprice, and I do not consider the cir- 
cumstanc3 of consequence enough to require explanation." 
An appea., however, from IMr. Murray, to his good-nature 
and considerateness, brought, in eig t and forty hours, the 
following reply : — " If your present note is serious, and it 
really would be inconvenient, there is an end of the matter: 
tear my draft, and go on as usual : that I was perfectly 
serious, in wishing to suppress all future publication, is 
true ; but certainly not to interfere with the convenience of 
others, and more particularly your own." 

The following passages in his Diary depict the state of 
Lord Byron's mind at this period : — " Murray has had a 
letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who says, 
' he is lucky in having such a pocC — something as if one 
was a pack-horse, or ' ass, or any thing that is his ;' or like 
Mrs. Packwood, who replied to some inquiry after the Odes 
on Razors, ' Laws, sir, we keeps a poet.' The same illus- 
trious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an order for books, 
poesy, and cookery, with tliis agreeable postscript — ' The 
Harold and Cookery are much wanted.' Such is fame ! and, 
tfter all, quite as good as any other ' life in others' breath.' 
"Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah 
GlQsse or Hannah More."—" March ITth, Redde the ' Quar- 
rols of Authors,' a new work by that most entertaining and 
researching writer, D'Israeli. They seem to be an irritable 
set, and I wish myself well out of it. ' I'll not march through 
Coventry witr them, that's flat.' What the devil liad I to 



With none to check and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to cruno ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, thei) 
Had Lara's daring boyhood goveni'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone.' 

in. 

And Lara left in youth his father-land , 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 

do with the scribbling ? It is too late to inquire, and all re 
gret is useless. But 'an it were to do again — I should write 
again, I suppose. Such is human nature, at least my share 
of it ;— though I shall think better of myself if I have sense 
to stop now. If I have a wife, and that wife has a son, I 
will bring up mine heir in the most anti-poetical way — 
make him a lawyer, or a pirate, or any thing. But il he 
writes, too, I shall be sure he is none of mine, and will cut 
him off with a Bank token."— "April 19, I will keep no 
further journal ; and, to prevent me from returning, like a 
dog, to tlie vomit of memory, I tear out the remaining 
leaves of this volume. ' Oh fool ' "1 shall go mad.' " 

These extracts arefrom the Diary of March and April, 1814- 
Before the end of May he had begun the composition of 
" Lara," which has been almost universally considered as 
the continuation of " The Corsair." This poem was pub- 
lished anonymously in the following August, in the same 
volume with Mr. Rogers's elegant tale of " Jacqueline ;" an 
unnatural and unintelligible conjunction, which, however, 
gave rise to some pretty good jokes. " I believe," says 
Lord Byron, in one of his letters, " I told you of Larry 
and Jacquy. A friend of mine — at least a friend of his-- 
was reading said Larry and Jacquy in a Brighton coach. A 
passenger took up the book and queried as to th^autniil. 
The proprietor said, ' there were two ;' — to which the 
answer of the unknown was, ' Ay, ay, — a joint concern, i 
suppose, summot like Sternhold and Hopkins.' Is not this 
excellent ? I would not have missed the ' vile comparison' 
to have escaped being the ' Arcades ambo et cantare 
pares.' "] 

2 The reader is apprized, that the name of Lara bemg 
Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural descrip- 
tion fixing the scene or hero of the poem to any country or 
age, the word " Serf," which could not be correctly apjilied 
to the lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of 
the soil, nas nevertheless been employed to designate the 
followers of our fictitious chieftain. — [Lord Byron el.se- 
where intimates, that he meant Lara for a chief of ibc 
Morea.] 

3 [Lord Byron's own tale is partly to., .n this section. — 
Sir Walter Scott.] 



Canto i. LARA. 



119 



But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now wera welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

lie comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And wlience they know not, why they need not gness ; 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's o'er. 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page. 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roli'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another ciime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime. 
Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by time ; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
IVIight be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 

V. 

And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 

Whate'er he be, 'twes not what he hud been : 

That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 

And spake of passions, but of passion past : 

The pride, but not the fire, of early days. 

Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 

A high demeanor, and a glance that took 

Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 

And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 

The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,' 

That darts in seeming playfulness around, 

And makes those feel that will not own the wound ; 

All these seem'd his, and something more beneatli. 

Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 

Ambition, glory, love, the common aim. 

That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 

Within his breast appcar'd no more to strive, 

Yef, seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 

And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 

At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 



1 [It Is a remarkable property of the poetry of Lord Byron, 
that although his manner is frequently varied,— although lie 
appears to have assumed for an occasion 'he characteristic 
stanza and style of several contemporaries, -vet not only is 
his poetry marked in every instance by the sti .ngest cast of 
originality, but in some leading particulars, and especially in 
the character of his heroes, each story so closely resembled 
the other, that, managed by a writer of less power, the effect 
would have been an unpleasant monotomy. All, or almost all, 
his heroes have somewhat the attributes of Childe Harold :— 
all, or almost all, have minds which seem at variance with 
their fortunes, and exhibit high and poignant feelings of pain 
and pleasure ; a keen sense of what is noble and honorable ; 
and an equally keen susceptibility of injustice or injury,under 
the ga/b of stoicism or contempt of mankind. The strength 
of early passion, and the glow of youthful feeling, are uni- 
formly painted as chilled or subdued by a trainof early impru- 
dence's or of darker guilt, and the sense of enjoyment tarnish- 
ed, by too intimate an acquaintance with the vanity of human 
wishes. These general attributes mark the stern features of 
all Lord Byi on's heroes, from those which are shaded by the 
scalloped hat of the illustrious Pilgrim, to those which lurk 
under the turban of Alp the Renegade. It was reserved to 
him to present the same character on the puhli::; stage again 
and againj varied only by the exertions of that powerful 



VI. 



Not much ho loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — unknown : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew. 
His brow fell darker, and his words more lew. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Bom of high lineage, link'd in high command. 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay. 
And saw mem smile or sigh their hours away ;' 
But still ho only saw, and did not share. 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued. 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof. 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near. 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 

VIII. 

'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
Burnmg for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave. 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompense in joy or wo, 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt, beyond the sky: 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme. 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream? 



genius which, searching the springs of passion and of <-^dl- 
ing in their innermost recesses, knew how to combine Vi^ir 
operations, so that the interest was eternally varying, .und 
never abated, although the most important personage of the 
drama retained the same lineaments. It will one day be 
consi iered as not the least remarkable literary phenomenon 
of this age, that during a period of four years, notwith- 
standing the quantity of distinguished poetical talent of 
which we may be permitted to boast, a single author — and 
he managing his pen with the careless and negligent ease 
of a man of quality, and choosing for his theme subjects so 
very similar, and personages bearing so olos" a resemblance 
to each other, — did, in despite of these circumstances, of 
the unamiable attributes with which he usually invested iiis 
heroes, and of the proverbial fickleness of the public, main- 
tain the ascendency in their favor, which he had acquired 
by liis first matured production. So, however, it indisputa- 
bly has been.— Sir Walter Scott.] 

2 [This description of Lara, suddenly and unexpectedly 
returned from distant travels, and reassuming his station 
in the society of his own country, has strong points of re- 
semblance to the part which the author hmiself seemed 
occasionally to bear amid the scenes where the great mingle 
with the fair.— Sir Walter Scott.] 



120 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto 



Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 

To curse tlie wither'd heart that would not break. 

IX. 

Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 

With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 

And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 

From all communion he would start away : 

And then, his rarely call'd attendants said, 

Through night's long hours would sound hLs hurried 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper' d — " that must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who cliose might smile, but some had seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the dead. 
That still beside his open'd volume lay. 
As if to startle all save him away? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why hoard no music, and received no guest? 
All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong? 
Some knew perchance — but 'twere a tale too long ; 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
But if they would — they could" — around the board, 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 



It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars aro studding, each with imaged beam ; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 

The immortal lights that live along the sky: 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the beo ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 

And Innocence would offer to her love. 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a. spirit there ; 

Secure that naught of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he .stood, 

But turu'd in silence to his castle-gate ; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemi^late : 

Such scene reminded him of other days. 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze. 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 

No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow 

Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, mock'd such breast as his 

XI. 

He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall : 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes. 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults • 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults ; 
And half a column of the pompous page. 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 



Wliere history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam ^hono 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone. 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 
His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that t-^rror gives the grave. 

XIL 

'Twas midnight — all v; ub, slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek — and si.cnce — did they hear 
That frantic echo bmst the sleeping ear? 
They hoard and rose, and, tremulously brave. 
Rush where the sound invokeo .heir aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers m. their hands. 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 

Palo as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 

Was Lara stretch'd ; his half-drawn sabre near, 

Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now. 

And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 

Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay. 

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairing pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 

Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose. 

And now was fix'd m horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him ; — hush ! he breathes, he 

speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolors in his checks. 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not — alas ! that cannot hear I 

XIV. 

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard ; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow. 
They w.ere not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes. 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside. 
And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A breast that needed not ideal wo. 

XV. 

Whate'er his phrensy dream'd or eye beheld. 
If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 



Canto i. 



LARA. 



121 



Rests at his heart: the custom'd morning came, 
And breathed new vigor in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, — • 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 
Than these were won't ; and if the coming night, 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not. 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door. 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing flour ; 
The long dim shadows of siurounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 



XVI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 

Came not again, or Lara could assume 

A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 

His vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 

Had memory vanish'd then with sense restored ? 

Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 

Betray'd a feeling that recall'd to these 

That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 

Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 

Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 

Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'orlabor'd heart 

That ceased to beat, the look that made them start ? 

Could ho who. thus had sufFer'd so forget. 

When such as saw that suflering shudder yet? 

Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 

Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 

In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 

The heart to show the effect, but not the cause? 

Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 

Nor common gazers could discern the growth 

Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 

They choke the feeble words that would mifold. 



XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his 

fate. 
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown, 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near. 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by. 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
An(J steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half-withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung fronr rest ; 



le 



In vigilance of grief that would compel 
^Bio soul to hate for having loved too well. 



XVIIL 

There was in him a vital scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fallen whicli could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped , 

But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 

His mind would half exult and half regi-et : 

With more capacity for love than earth 

Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 

His early dreams of good ontstripp'd the truth. 

And troubled manhcvd follow'd baffled y, uth ; 

With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path. 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame. 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 

And charged all faults upon the fleshy form 

She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill, 

And half mistook for fate tlio acts of will : 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good, 

But not in pity, not because ho ought. 

But in some strange perversity of thought. 

That Bway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath. 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own : 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 

H"is blood in temperate seeming now would flow: 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd 1 

'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start ; 

His madness was not of the head, but heart. 

And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 

His thou'xhts so forth as to off'end the view. 



XIX. 

With all that chilling mystery of mien. 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hato, 
If greeted once ; however brief the date 



122 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



That friendsiiip, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims. 
Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
To Otho's hail came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined hall. 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well-according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth. 
And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth. 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 

His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 

And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair. 

Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 

He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 

With folded arms and long attentive eye, 

Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 

111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 

At length ho caught it — 'tis a face unknown, 

But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 

Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 

Who still till now had gazed on him unseen : 

At length encountering meets ihe mutual gaze 

Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 

On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 

As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 

Along the strangers aspect, fix'd and stern, 

Fiash'd more than thence the vulgar eyo could learn. 



XXII. 

" 'Tis he !" the stranger cried, and those that heard 
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper'd word. 
" 'Tis he '," — " 'Tis who?" tiiey question far and near. 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look: 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his oye round, though still the stranger gazed ; 
And drawing nigh, exclaim'd, with haughty sneer, 
" 'Tis he ! — how came he thence ? — what doth he 
here ?" 



xxin. 

It wore too much for Lara to pass by 

Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 

With look collected, but with accent cold, 

M^ra mildly firm than petulantly bold. 

He tum'd, and met the inquisitcH-ial tone — 

" My name is Lara I — when thine own is known. 



Doubt not my fitting answer to requ'te 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 



" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 

Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun? 

And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 

At least thy memory was not given in vain. 

Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 

Eternity forbids thee to forget." 

With slow and searching glance upon his face 

Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 

They knew, or chose to know — witli dubious look 

He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook. 

And half contemptuous tum'd to pass away ; 

But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 

" A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 

To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer ; 

But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord. 

If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 

But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down 

Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he ? whose deeds " 

" What-e'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed— 
" Whate'er there be between you undiscjosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting witii a wordy war. 
If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 
From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
I augur right of courage and of worth, . 
He will not that untainted line belie. 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 



" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

" And here our several worth and truth be tried : 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the bless'd !" 

What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetfulness away — away — 

Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 



XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow I" further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spolce ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone, 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 



Canto i. 



LARA. 



123 



He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 

And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 

And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 

With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down: 

It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 

That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 

But^that of one in his own heart secure 

Of all that he would do or could endure. 

Could this mean peace? the calmness of the good? 

Or guilt grown old in desperate hardUiood ? 

Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 

For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 

From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 

Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learii. 



XXV 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brigliter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall. 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no othei guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 



XXVI. 

Light was his fonn, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon his native sun had sate. 

But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew. 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and ligliten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
I Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 
And pleased not him tlie sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
He seem'd, like him he servec/.; to live apart 
From all tliat lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 



XXVIL 

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 



In mute attention ; and his care, which gness'd 

Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue expr&ss'd 

Still there was haugiitiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more. 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheels, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 

But from his aspect might be more than guess' d. 

Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh. 

That name repeated loud without reply. 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused agahi. 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake. 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 



XXVIII. 

He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 

And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 

And when the crowd around and near him told 

Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 

Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 

Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore. 

The color of young Kaled went and came. 

The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 

And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 

The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 

That rises as the busy bosom sinks 

With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 

Yes — there be things which we must dream and dare, 

And execute ere thought be half aware : 

Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 

To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 

He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 

That sidelong smile upon the knight he pass'd : 

When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 

As if on something recognised right well ; 

His memory read in such a meaning more 

Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 

Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 

And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 

Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 

All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 

That when his long dark shadow through the porch 

No moie relieves the glare of yon high torch. 

Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 

To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 



124 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is tliere, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air; 
But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

Tlio crowd are gone, the revellers at rest; 

The courteous host, and E.il-approving guest. 

Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 

Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 

And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife. 

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 

There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile. 

Hate's working brain, and hiU'd ambition's wile ; 

O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave. 

And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 

What better name may slumber's bed become ? 

Night's sepulchre, the universal hom3; 

Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine. 

Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 

Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath, 

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 

And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased. 

That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



LAM. 



CAJJTO THE SECOND.' 



I. 



NianT wanes — the vapors round the mountains cii-.'d 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
Tlie sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the streann 
Immortal man ! behold her glorJe"' shine. 
And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine I" 
Gaze on, while yet tliy gladden'd eye may see ; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earih nor sky wUl yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall. 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil. 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

II. 

'Tis mom — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall. 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call ; 
'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame : 



1 [Lord Byron seems to have taken a whimsical pleasure 
in disappointing, by his second Canto, most of the expecta- 
tions which he had excited by the first. For, viithoui rhe 
resuscitation of Sir Ezzelin, Lara's mysterious vision in his 
antiiiue hall becomes a mere use.ess piece »3f lumber, inap- 
plicable to any intelligible purpose. The character of Me- 
dora, whom we had been satisfied to behold very contented- 
I7 domesticated in the Pirate's Island, without inquiring 



When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold. 

And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 

His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise given, 

To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 

Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 

Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 

in. 

The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast. 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd. 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

Ho ceased — and Lara answer'd, " I am here 

To lend at thy demand a listening ear 

To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue. 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him' not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where — but I must not trifle too . 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
" The last alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his own or othtr's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare. 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's phrensy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lip those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash. 
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
Ho bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground 
" Demand thy life !" He answer'd not : and tlM* 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again. 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 



whence or why she had emigrated thither, is, by means of 
some mysterious relation between her and Sir Ezzelin, in- 
volved in very disagreeable ambiguity ; — and, further, the 
high-minded and generous Conrad, who had preferred death 
and torture to life and liberty, if purchased by a nightly 
murder, is degraded into a vile and cowardly assasa-Ji — 
Geokge Ellis.] 



Canto ii. 



LARA. 



]25 



Then all was stern collectedness and art, 

Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 

So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 

That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld, 

Ho almost turn'd the thirsty point on those, 

Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 

But to a moment's tliought that purpose bent ; 

Y'X look'd he on him still with eye intent, 

As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 

That left a foe, howo'cr o'erthrown, with lifs j 

As if to search how far the wound he gave 

Had w*nt its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
The others met within a neighboring hall, 
And he, incensed, and heedless of them all, 
TiiG cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took. 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



VI. 

But where was he? that meteor of a night. 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn. 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it: near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded naught 
E.\cept the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires distress'd : 
Their search extends along, around the path. 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass. 
Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to toll the tale. 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When agonized hands that ceasii! ,j guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft. 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And st-ange suspicion, whispering Lara's name. 
Now da ./ mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent wher. his form appear'd. 
Awaits the absence of the -ilng i fear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

VII. 

Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd. 
But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 
The friend of all who sought to work him wo, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence ? who had made him disappear. 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had sate too deeply were he loft at large ? 
Tha general rumor ignorantly loud. 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 



The seeming friendlessnoss of him who strove 
To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart? 
For it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
WitFx aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
These, link'd with that desire whici ever sways 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
'Gamst Lara gathering raised at length a storm. 
Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
And he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 



VIIL 

Within that land was many a malecontent, 

Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 

That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 

Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 

Long war without and frequent broil within 

Had made a path for blood and giant sm, 

That waited but a signal to begin 

New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 

Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friends ; 

Fix'd in his feudal fortress eaclj, was lord. 

In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 

Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 

And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 

But that long absence from his native clime 

Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 

And now, diverted by his milder sway. 

All dread by slow degrees had woni away. 

The menials felt their usual awe alone. 

But more for him than them that fear was grown ; 

They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 

Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 

And each long restless night, and silent mood, 

Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 

And though his lonely habits threw of late 

Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful weis his gate ; 

For thence the WTretched ne'er unsoothed with 

drew. 
For Hiem, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold tc the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who watch'd might mark that, day by 

day, 
Some new retainers gather'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 'twas sound. 
The million judged but of him as they found ; 
From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
By him no peasant mourn'd his rifled cot, 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 



126 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Youth present cheer and promised recompense 

Detain'd, till all too late to part from thence ; 

To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 

The deep reversion of delay'd revenge ; 

To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 

The well-won charms success was sure to eia. eh. 

All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 

That slavery nothing which was still a name. 

The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 

Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 

His summons found the destined criminal 

Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 

Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven. 

Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 

That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 

Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 

Such is their crj' — some watchword for the fight 

Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 

Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 

A word's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 

Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed ! 



IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 

Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd ; 

Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 

The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 

They waited but a leader, and they found 

One to their cause inseparably bound ; 

By circumstance compell'd to plunge again. 

In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 

Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 

Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes. 

Had Lara from that night, to him accursed, 

Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 

Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 

Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 

By mingling with his own the cause of all, 

E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 

The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 

The storm that once had spent itself and slept 

Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 

His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 

Burst forth, and made him all he once had been. 

And is again ; he only changed the scene. 

Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 

But not less fitted for the desperate game : 

He deem' i himself n; irk'd out for others' hate. 

And monk'd at ruin bo they shared his fate. 

What cared he for the freedom of the crowd 1 

He rai'^i^d the humble but to bend the proud. 

He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair. 

But man and destiny beset him there : 

Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 

And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 

Stem, unambitious, silent, he had been 

Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 

But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 

A leader not unequal to the feud ; 

In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spcks, 

And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



X. 

What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 
The varying fortune of each separate field. 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 



The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 

In this the struggle was the same with all ; 

Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 

In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 

None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 

The captive died upon the battle-slain : 

In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 

The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 

And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 

Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 

It was too late to check the wasting brand, 

And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 

The torch was lighted, and the flame was cpread, 

And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 



XL 

Fresh with the nerve the new-bom impulse strung. 

The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 

They form no longer to their leader's call : 

In blind confusion on the foe they press, 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 

In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame, 

The hand that kindles cannot quench tlie flame ; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood. 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 

The long privation of the hoped supply. 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art. 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart. 

Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 

They could encounter as a veteran may ; 

But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 

And present death, to hourly suffering hfe : 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 

His numbers melting fast from their array ; 

Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 

And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 

But few remain to aid his voice and hand. 

And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 

Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 

To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 

One hope sun'ives, the frontier is not fctr. 

And thence they may escape from native war ; 

And bear within them to the neighboring state 

An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 

Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 

But harder still to perish or submit. 



XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight : 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream , 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank? 
Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear? 
'Tis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight • 
Cut off" from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil 



Canto ii. 



LARA. 



127 



XIII. 



A moment's pause- -'tis but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
] t matters litt'ie — if they charge the foes 
Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
'' The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, reia'd is every steed. 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death I 



XTV. 

His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 

A something of indifference more than then 

Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 

He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 

It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart. 

His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 

Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 

Farewell to hfe, but not adieu to thee !" 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven. 
Pours the link'd band though ranks asunder riven ; 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel. 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outuumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 



XV. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
\Vhe"o foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall. 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for v ?ll they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waiter turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high. 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast ! 
That fatal gesture left the imguarded side. 
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung I 
But yet the sword instinctively retains. 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to hoed the slain ! 



XVI. 



Day glimmers on the dying and the dead. 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
The war-horse masterless is on the earth. 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
And near, yet quivering with what life remain'd. 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rem'd ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie. 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive eflbrt swept. 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause-? No further thirst have they to slake— 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forjjot ! 



XVIL 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide, 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush, 

With each convulsion, in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low. 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow: 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain. 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page. 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees. 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, v/here the eye, though dim, 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 



XVIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field. 
Their triumph naught till Lara too should yield ; 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
And he regards them with a calm disdain. 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate. 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue. 
To wliich some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
Whib gazed the rest in dumb amazement round: 
Thej seem'd even then — that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past 
To share between themselves some separate fate. 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 



128 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ji. 



XIX. 

Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
Tlioii import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
S(j sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The aeoents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's nice, though low, at fu'st was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely near: 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
Sai^e that when struggling nearer to his last. 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 'twas chance, or some rcmembec'd scene, 
That raised his arm to point where such had been. 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light, 
To look on Lara's brow — where all grov/ night. 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
For when one near display'd the absolving cross. 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead. 
Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
And smiled— Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view. 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
Nor seem'd to know his life but the7i began. 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs str^tch'd fluttering, and his head droop'd o'er 

The weak y>jt still untiring knee that bore ; 

He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 

It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 

With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 

For that faint throb which answers not again. 

" It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 

It oii.ce was Lara which thou look'st upon.^ 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 

And those around have roused him from his trance. 

But cannot tear from thence his. fixed glance ; 



» [The (leatli of Lara is, by far, the finest passage in the 
poem, and is fully equal to any thing else which the author 
ever wrote. The physical horror of the event, though de- 
scribed with a terrible force and fidelity, is both relieved 
and enhanced by the beautiful pictures of mental energy 
and affection with which it is combined. The whole sequel 
of the poem is written with equal vigor and feeling, and may 
b<! put in competition with any thing that poetry has pro- 
iuce<i, in point either of pathos or energy. — Jeffrey.] 

s T;.J event in this section was suggested by the descrip- 
tion of the death, or rather burial, of the duke of Gandia. 
The most interesting and particular account of it is given 
by Burchard, and is in substance as follows ;— " On the 
eighth day of June, the Cardinal of Valenza and the Duke 
0£ Gandia, sons of the Pope, supped with their mother, 



And when, in raising him from where he bore 
Within his arms the form that felt no more. 
He saw the head his breast would still sustain. 
Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair. 
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell. 
Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
Than that he lov«d ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
The breast of mE.n such trusty love may breathe ! 
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
111 baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 
And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fatherg sleep. 

But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 

Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 

Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the 

mound ; 
And he was moum'd by one whose quiet grief, 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him? Curious fool ! — be still — 
Is human love thb growth of human will ? 
To her he might bo gentleness ; the stem 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern. 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Boats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold. 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have tcL. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life. 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt. 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more — that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale,^ 



Vanozza, near the church of S. Pietro ad vmcula ; several 
other persons being present at the entertainment. A late 
hour approaching, and the cardinal having reminded his 
brother that it was time to return to the apostolic palace, 
they mounted their horses or mules, with only a few at- 
tendants, and proceeded together as far as the palace of 
Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, when the duke informed the car- 
dinal that, before he returned home, he had to pay a visit 
of pleasure. Dismissing therefore all his attendants, ex- 
cepting his staffiero, or footman, and a person in a mask, 
who had paid him a visit win 1st at supper, and who, during 
the space of a month or thereabouts, previous totliis time, 
had called upon him almost daily, at the apostolic palace, 
he took this person behind hi'ii on his mule, and proceeded 
to the street of the Jews, where he quitted his servant, 
directing lum to remain thee until a certain hour ; when. 



Canto ii. 



LARA. 



129 



When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain: 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapp'd round some burden at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course. 
Who reacii'd the river, bounded from his horse. 
And lifting thence the burden which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore. 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to 

watch. 
And still another hurried glance would snatch. 
And follow with hia step the stream that fiiow'd. 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
y^t once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more than common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
And something glitter'd starlike on the vest ; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
It rose again, but indistinct to view. 
And left the waters of a purple hue. 
Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 



if he did not return, he might repair to the palace. The 
duke then seated the person in the masK beliind him, and 
rode, I know not whither ; but in that night he was assassi- 
nated, and thrown into tlie river. The servant, after having 
been dismissed, was also assaulted and mortally wounded ; 
and although he was attended with great care, yet such was 
his situation, that he could give no intelligible account of 
what had befallen his master. In the morning, the duke 
not having returned to the palace, his servants began to be 
alarmed: and ire of them informed the pontiff of the even- 
ing excursion of nis sons, and that the duke had not yet 
made his appearance. This gave the pope no small anxiety ; 
but he conjectured that the duke had been attracted by 
some courtesan to pass the night with her, and, not choosing 
to quit tlie house in open day, had waited till the following 
eveinng to return home. When, however, the evening 
arrived, and he found himself disappointed in his expecta- 
tions, he became deeply afflicted, and began to make inquiries 
from different persons, whom he ordered to attend hnn for 
that purpose. Amongst these was a man named Giorgio 
Schiavoni, who, having discharged some timber from a bark 
in the river, had remained on board the vessel to watch it ; 
and bemg interrojited whether he had seen any one thrown 
into the river o.. :e night preceding, he replied, that he 
saw two men on fooi, who came down the street, and looked 
diligently about, to observe whether any person was pass- 
mg. That seeing no one, they returned, and a short time 
afterwards two others came, and looked around in the same 
manner as the former : no person still appearing, they gave 
a sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted on 
a white horse, having behind him a dead body, the head and 
arms of which hung on one side, and the feet on the other 
side of the horse ; the two persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its falling. They thus proceeded towards 
that part where the filth of the city is usually discharged 
into the river, and turning the horse, with his tail towards 
the water, tlie two persons took the dead body by the arms 



Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
If thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he ■^oU 



XXV 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 

Alike without their monumental stone ! 

The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 

From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been ; 

Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 

Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 

But furious woiUd you tear her from the spot 

Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 

Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 

That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 

But left to waste her weary moments there, 

She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 

Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 

And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 

And she would sit beneath the very tree 

Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 

And in that posture where she saw him fall, 

His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 

And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair. 

And oft would snatch it from her bosom there. 

And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 

As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's woimd 

Herself would question, and for him reply ; 

Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 

From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 

Then seat her down upon some hnden's root, 

And hide her visage with her meager liand, 

Or trace strange characters along the sand — 

This coidd not last — she lies by him she loved ; 

Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved.' 



and feet, and with all their strength flung it into the river 
The person on horseback then asked if they had fhrown it 
in ; to which they replied Signor, si (yes, Sir.) He then 
looked towards the river, and seeing a mantle floating on 
the stream, he inquired what it was that appeared black, to 
which they answered, it was a mantle ; and one of them 
threw stones upon it, in consequence of which it sunk. The 
attendants of the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, why he 
had not revealed this to the governor of the city ; to which 
he replied, that he had seen in his time a hundred dead 
bodies thrown into the river at the same place, without any 
inquiry being made respecting them ; and that he had not, 
therefore, considered it as a matter of any importance. The 
fishermen and scjnen were then collected, and ordered to 
search the river, where, on the following evening, they 
fo ;.nd the body of the Quke, with his habit entire, and thirty 
ducats in his purse. He was pierced with nine wounds, one 
of which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and 
limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of 
his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, into the 
river, than, giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a 
chamber, and wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovia, and 
other attendants on the pope, went to the door, and aftev 
many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations prevailed 
upon him to admit them. From the evening of Wednr 'Sday 
till the following Saturday the pope took no food ; nor cMd he 
sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the en- 
suing day. At length, however, giving way to the entreaties 
of his attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to 
consider the injury which his own health might sustain, by 
the further indulgence of his grief." — Roscoe^s Leo the Tenth, 
vol. i. p. 265. 

J [Lara, though it has many good passages, is a further 
proof of the melancholy fact, which is true of all sequels, 
from the contmuation of the jEneid, by one of tne famous 
Italian poets of the middle ages, down to " Polly, a se- 
quel to the Beggar's Opera," that " more last words" may 



17 



130 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH/ 



TO 

JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED 
BY HIS 



Janvary 22, 1816. 



FRIEND. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

"The grand army of the Turks, (in 1715,) under 
the Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into 
the heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli 
di Romania, the most considerable place in all that 
country,^ thought it best in the first place to attack 
Corinth, upon which they made several storms. The 
garrison being weakened, and the governor seeing it 
was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, 
thought it fit to beat a parley : but while they were 
treating about the articles, one of the magazines in 
the Turkish camp, wherein they had six hundred 
barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six 
or seven hundred men were killed ; which so enraged 
the infidels, that they would not grant any capitula- 

generally be spared, without any great detriment to the 
world. — Bishop Heber. 

Lara has some charms which the Corsair has not. It is 
rn')re domestic ; it calls forth more sympathies with polish- 
ed society ; it is more intellectual, but much less passionate, 
less vigorous, and less brilliant ; it is sometimes even lan- 
guid,— at any rate, it is more diffuse. — Sir E. Brydges. 

Lara, obviously the sequel of " The Corsair," maintains 
in general the same tone of deep interest and lofty feel- 
ing ; — though the disappearance of Medora from the scene 
deprives it of the enchanting sweetness by which its terrors 
are there redeemed, and makes the hero, on the whole, less 
captivating. The character of Lara, too, is rather too 
elaborately finished,* and his nocturnal encounter with the 
apparition is worked up too ostentatiously. There is infinite 
beauty in the sketch of the dark Page, and in many of the 
moral or general reflections which are interspersed with 
the narrative. — Jefkret.] 

1 [The " Siege of Corinth," which appears, by the original 
MS., to have been begun in July, 1815, made its appearance 
in January, 1816. Mr. Murray having enclosed Lord Byror. 
a thousand guineas for the copyright of this poem, and of 
" Parisina," he replied, — " Your offer is liberal in the ex 
treme, and much more than the two poems can possibly be 
worth ; but I cannot accept it, nor will not. You are most 
welcome to them as additions to the collected volumes ; but 
I cannot consf r. to their separate publication. I do not 
like to ribk any fctme (whether merited or not) which I have 
been favored nith upon compositions which I do not feel to 
be at all equc. .o my own notions of what they should be ; 
thougli they may do very well as things without pretension, 
to add to the publication with the lighter pieces. 1 have 
enclosed your draft torn, for fear of accidents by the way — 
I wish you would not throw temptation in mine. It is not 
from a disdain of the universal idol, nor from a present su- 
perfluity of his treasures, I can assure you, that I refuse to 
worship him ; but what is right is right, and must not yield 
to circumstances. I am very glad that the handwriting was a 
favorable omen of the morale of the piece ; but you must not 
trust to that, for my copyist would write out any thing I 
desired, in all the ignorance of innocence — I hope, how- 
over, in this instance with no great peril to either." The 
copyist VI as Lady Byron. Lord Byron gave Mr. Giffbrd 



* [" AVlial do the Reviewers mean by ' elaborate V Lara 
I wrote while undressing, after coming home from balls and 
masquerades, in the year of revelry, 1814,"— £yron Letters-, 
18?21 



tion, but stonned the place with so much fury, that 
they took it, and put most of the garrison, with Sig- 
nior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, 
with Antonio Bembo, provoditor e.xtraoidinary, were 
made prisoners of war." — History oj i,\e Turks, vol. 
iii. p. 151. 



THE SIEGE OF COEINTH.^ 



In the year since Jesus died for men,* 
Eighteen hundred years and ten, 



carte-hlanche to Strike out or alter any thing at his pleasure 
in this poem, as it was passing through the press ; and the 
reader will be amused with the varia Icctioncs which had 
their origin in this extraordinary confidence. Mr. Gilford 
drew his pen, it will be seen, through at least one of the 
most admired passages. 1 

2 Napoli di Romania is not now the most considerable 
place in the Morea, but Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, 
and maintains his government. Napoli is near Argos. I 
visited all three in 1810-11 ; and, in the course of journey 
ing through the country from m)' first arrival in 1809, i 
crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way from Attica to 
the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, 
when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that of Lepanto. 
Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very 
different: that by sea has more sameness; but the voyage 
being always within sight of land, and often very near it, 
presents many attractive views of the islands Salamis, 
iEgina, Poro, &c., and the coast of the Continent. 

s [" With regard to the observations on carelessness, &c.," 
wrote Lord Byron to a friend, " I think, with all humility, 
that the gentle reader has considered a rather uncommon, 
and decidedly irregular, versification for haste and negli- 
gence. The measure is not that of any of the other poems, 
which (I believe) were allowed to be tolerably correct, ac- 
cording to Byshs and the fingers — or ears— by which bards 
write, and readers reckon. Great part of the " Siege' is in 
(I think) what the learned call anapests, (though I am not 
sure, being heinously forgetful of my metres and my 
Gradus,) and many of the lines intentionally longer or 
shorter than its rhjming companion; and the rhyme also 
occurring at greater or less intervals of caprice or con- 
venience. I mean not to say that this is right or good, but 
merely that I could have been smoother, liad it appeared 
to me of advantage ; and that I was not otherwise without 
being aware of the deviation, though 1 now feel sorry for 
it, as I would undoubtedly rather please Mian not. My wish 
has been to try at something difli'erent fmm my former 
efforts ; as I endeavored to make them differ from each 
other. The versification of the ' Corsair' is not that of 
' Lara ;' nor the ' Giaour' that of the ' Bride :' ' Childe Harold' 
's, again, varied from these ; and I strove to vary tne last 
somewhat from all of the others. Excuse all this nonsense 
and egotism. The fact is, that I am rather trying to thinis 
on the subject of this note, than really thinking on it." — 
Bi/ron Letters, Feb. 1816.] 

i [On Christmas-day, 1815, Lord Byrcn, enclosing this 
fragment to Mr. Murray, says, — " I send some lines, written 
some time ago, and intended as an opening to the ' Siege of 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



131 



We were a grallant company, 

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er seeu 

Oh ! i3ut we went merrily ! 

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, 

Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our yleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,' 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles i^jread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head. 

Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope. 

We had health, and we had hope. 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search. 

Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and^ome are gone. 
And some are scatter'd and alone. 
And somo are rebels on the hills" 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Wliere freedom still at moments rallies. 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh ! never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily. 
And when they now fall drearily. 
My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 
And bear my spirit back again 



Corinth.' I had forgotten them, and am not sure tliat they 
had not better be left out now ;^on that, you and your 
synod can determine." — •' They are written," say.s Moore, 
" in the loosest form of that rambling style of metre, which 
lus admiration of Mr. Coleridge's ' Christabel' led him, at 
this time, to adopt." It will be seen, liereafter, that the 
poet had never read " Christabel" at the time when he 
wrote these Imes ; — he h:.d, however, the " Lay of the 
Last Minstrel." With regard to the character of the spe- 
cies of versification at this time so much in favor, it may be 
observed, that feeble imitations have since then vulgarized 
it a good deal to the general ear ; but that, in the hands of 
Mr. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, and Lord Byron himself, 
it has often been employed with the most happy effect. Its 
irregularity, when moulded under the guidance of a deli- 
cate taste, is more to the eye than to the ear, and in fact not 
greater than was admitted in some of the most delicious of 
the lyrical measures of the ancient Greeks.] 

1 [In one of his sea excursions, Lord Byron was nearly 
lost in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of 
the captain and crew. " Fletcher," he says, '' yelled ; the 
Greek called on all the saints; the Mussulmans on Alia; 
while the captain burst into tears, and ran below deck. I 
did what I could to console Fletcher ; but finding him in- 
corrigible, I wrapped myself up in my Albanian capote, and 
lay down to wait the worst." This striking instance of the 
poet's coolness and courage is thus confirmed by Mr. Hob- 
house : — " Finding that, from his lameness, he was unable 
to be of any service in the exertions which our very serious 
danger called for, after a laugh or two at the panic of his 
valet, he not only wrapped himself up and lay down, in the 
manner he has described, but when our difficulties were 
terminated was found fast asleep."! 

2 The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the 
Arnaouts who followed me) state him to be in revolt upon 
the mountains, at the head of some of the bands common 
in that country in times of trouble. 

s [Iji the original MS.— 

" A marvel from her Moslem bands."] 



Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer, 

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain. 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay. 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow now. 

And sit with me on Acro-Coriuth's brow 



I. 

Many a vanish'd year and age. 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage. 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands.* 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 

Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, 

The keystone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill. 

The landmark to the double tide 

That ptirpling rolls on either side, 

As if their waters chafed to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother Hed,* 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank, 

That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below : 

Or could the bones of all the slain. 

Who perish'd there, be piled again. 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss.* 

< [Timoleon, who had saved the life of his brother Timo- 
phanes in battle, afterwards killed hiin for aiming at the 
supreme power in Corinth, preferring his duty to his country 
to all the obligations of blood. Dr. Warton says, that Pope 
once intended to write an epic poem on the story, and that 
Dr. Akenside had the same design.] 

6 [The Giaour, the Bride of Abydos, the Corsair, Lara, the 
Siege of Corinth, followed eacli other with a celerity, which 
was only rivalled by their success ; and if at times the author 
seemed to pause in hi.-; poetic career with the threat of for- 
bearing further adventure for a time, the public eagerly 
pardoned the breach of a promise by keeping which they must 
have been sufferers Exquisitely beautiful in themselves, 
these tales received a new charm from the romantic climes 
into which they introduced us, and from the oriental costume 
so strictly preserved and so picturesquely exhibited. Greece, 
the cradle of the poetry with whicli our earliest studies are 
familiar, was presented to us among her ruins and her sor 
rows. Her delightful scenery, once dedicated to those dei- 
ties who, though dethroned from their own Olympus, still 
preserve a poetical empire, was spread before us in Lord 
Byron's poetry, varied by all the moral effect derived from 
what Greece is and what she has been, while it was 
doubled by comparisons, perpetually excited, between the 
philosophers and heroes who formerly inhabited that ro- 
mantic country, and their descendants, who either stoop to 
their Scythian conquerors, or maintain, among the recesses 
of their classical mountains, an independence as wild and 
savage as it is precarious. The oriental manners also and 
diction, so peculiar in their picturesque effect that they can 
cast a charm even over the absurdities of an eastern tale, 
had herethe more honorable occupation of decorating that 
which in itself was beautiful, and enhancing by novelty 
what would have been captivating without its aid. The 
powerful impression produced by this peculiar species of 
poetry confirmed us in a principle, which, though it will 
hardly be challenged w-hen stated as an axiom, is very 
rarely complied with in practice. It is, that every author 
should, like Lord Byron, form to himself, and communicate 
to the reader, a precise, defined, and distinct view of the 
landscape, sentiment, or action which he intends to de- 
scribe to the reader.— Sir Walter Scott. 1 



132 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



II. 

On dull Cithceron's nago appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spahi's bands' advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's car:? el kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,^ 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from tiie wall, 
Which crumbles with the ponderous ball 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and weu 
The summons of the Infidel. 



III. 

But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall. 
With deeper skill in war's black art, 
Thau Othmau's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable. 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
The first and freshest of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boas 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade I 

IV. 

From Venice — once a race of worth 

His gentle sires — h » drew his birth ; 

But late an exile frcn her shore. 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To Greece and Venice equal foes. 



1 [Turkish holders of military fiefs, which oblige them to 
join the army, mounted at their own expense.! 

2 The life of the Turcomans is wandering ana patriarchal : 
they dwell in tents. 

3 AU Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and Grand 
Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering rcloponnesus from 
the Venetians in one campaign, was moi tally wounded in 
the next, against the Germans, at the battle of Pcterwaradin, 
(in the plain si Carlowitz,) in Hungary, endeavoring to 



He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
Which young and fiery converts feel, 
Within whoso heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wronga. 
To him had Venice ceased to be 
Her ancient civic boast — " tlie Free ;" 
And in the palace of St. Mark 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
Within the " Lion's mouth" had placed 
A charge against him unefFaced : 
He fled in time, and saved his life, 
To waste his future years in strife, 
That taught his land how great her loss 
In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
'Gainst which he rear'd thu Crescent high, 
And battled to avenge or d'e. 

V. 

Coumourgi' — he whoso closing scene 
Adorn'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain. 
He sank, regretting not* to die, 
But cursed the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
Tlie freedom Venice gave of yore? 
A hundred years have rolTd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem & sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 

VI. 

The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unabating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin : 

And hero and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

And as the fabric sank beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven. 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun 

Impervious to the hidden sun. 

With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

VII. 

But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 



rally his guards. He died of liis wounds next day. Hi3 
last order was the decapitation of General Brcuner, and 
some other German prisoners; and his last words, "Oh 
that I could thus serve all the Christian dogs !" a speech 
and act not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man 
of great ambition and unbounded presumption : on being 
told that Prince Eugene, then op|)osed to him, " was a 
great general," he said, " I shall become a greater, and at 
his expense." 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



133 



The Moslem warriors sternly teach 

His skill to pierce the promised breach : 

Within these walls a maid was pent 

His hope would win, without consent 

Of that inexorable sire, 

Whose heart refused him in its ire, 

When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 

Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 

In happier mood, and earlier time. 

While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime. 

Gayest in gondola or hall, 

He glitter'd through the Carnival ; 

And tuned the softest serenade 

That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 

At midnight to Itahan maid.' 

VHI. 

And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd • 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lauciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival ; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes. 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to prize 
With listless look she seems to gaze ; 
With humbler care her form arrays ; 
Her voice less lively in the song ; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
Wliile Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Yens';? wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers. 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke 
With him his gentle daugliter came ; 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love. 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore 



The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 



'■ [" In midnight courtship to Italian maid."— MS.] 
' [" And make a melancholy moan, 

To mortal voice and ear unknown." — MS.] 



The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
Wlio hold the thought of death in scorn, 
And win their way with falcliion's force. 
Or pave the path with many a corse. 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 

XI. 

'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So WLdly, spiritually bright ; 
Who ever gazed upon them shining 
And tuni'd to earth without repining, 
Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
And mix with their eternal ray ? 
The waves on either shore lay there 
Calm, clear, and azure as the air , 
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook 
But miu-mur'd meekly as the brook. 
The winds were pillow'd on the ■^'aves ; 
The banners droop'd along their states. 
And, as they fell around them furling. 
Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
And that deep silence was unbroke. 
Save where the watch his signal spoke. 
Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
And echo answer'd from the hill. 
And the wide hum of that wild host 
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
It rose, that chanted mournful strain. 
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
And take a long unmeasured tone. 
To mortal minstrelsy unknown." 
It seem'd to those within the wall 
A cry prophetic of their fall : 
It struck even the besieger's ear 
With something ominous and drear. 
An undefined and sudden thrill. 
Which makes the heart a moment still. 
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
Of t'nat strange sense its silence framed ; 
Such as a sudden passing-bell 
Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.' 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er j 

The watch was set, the night-round made, 

All mandates issued and obey'd : 

'Tis but another anxious night. 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay. 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to neme for many a deed 

Of slaughter : but within his soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters rol 



3 [" Which rings a deep, internal knell, 
A visionary passing bell."— MS.] 



134 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


He stoo<l alone among the host ; 


XIV. 


Not his the loud fanatic boast 


He felt his soul become more light 


To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 


Beneath the freshness of the night. 


Or risk a life with little loss, 


Cool was the silent sky, though calm,. 


Secure in paradise to be 


And bathed his brow with airy balm : 


By Houris loved immortally : 


Behind, tjie camp — before him lay, 


Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 


In many a winding creek and bay, 


The stern exaltedness of zoal. 


Lepanto's gulf; and, ou the brow 


Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 


Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 


When battling on the parent soil. 


High and eternal, such as shone 


.He stood alone — a renegade 


Through thousand summers brightly gone, 


Against the country he betray'd ; 


Along the gulf, tho mount, the clime ; 


He stood alone amidst his band, 


It will not melt, like man, to time : 


Without a trusted heart or hand : 


Tyrant and =lave are swept away, ' 


They follow'd him, for he was brave. 


Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 


And great the spoil he got and gave ; 


But that white veil, the lightest, frailest. 


They croucli'd to him, for he had skill 


Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 


To warp and wield the vulgar will : 


While tower and tree are torn and rent. 


But still his Christian origin 


Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 


With them was little less than sin. 


In fonn a peak, in height a cloud. 


They envied even the faithless fame 


In texture like a hovering shroud. 


He earn'd beneath a Moslem name ; 


Thus high by parting Freedom spread. 


Since he, their mightiest chief, had booQ 


As from her fond abode she fled. 


In youth a bitter Nazarene. 


And linger'd on the spot, where long 


They did not know how pride can stoop, 


Her prophet spirit spake in song. 


When baffled feelings withering droop ; 


Oh ! still her step at moments falters 


They did not know how hate can burn 


O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars. 


In hearts once changed from soft to steru ' 


And fain would wake, in souls too broken. 


Nor all the false and fatal zeal 


By pointing to each glorious token : 


The convert of revenge can feel. 


But vain her voice, till better days 


He ruled them — man may rule the worst. 


Dawn in those yet remember'd rays. 


By ever daring to be first : 


Which shone upon the Persian flying. 


So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 


And saw the Spartan smile in dyhig. 


The jackal points, he fells the prey,* 




Then on the vulgar yelling press, 




To gorge the relics of success. 


XV. 




Not mindless of these mighty times 


XIII. 


Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 


His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 


And through this night, as on he wander'd. 


The quick successive throbs convulse 


And o'er the past and present pouder'd. 


In vain from side to side he tlirows 


And thought upon the glorious dead 


His form, in courtship of repose ;^ 


Who there in better cause had bled. 


Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 


He felt how faint and feebly dim 


Awoke him with a sunken heart. 


The fame that could accrue to him, 


The turban on his hot brow press'd. 


Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 


The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast. 


A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 


Though oft and long beneath its weight 


And led them to the lawless siege. 


Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 


Whose best success were sacrilege. 


Witliout or couch or canopy. 


Not so had those his fancy number'd, 


Except a imigher field and sky 


The chiefs whose dust around him slumber'd ; 


Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 


Their phalanx marsliall'd on the plaiii. 


Than now along the heaven was spread. 


Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 


He could not rest, he could not stay 


They fell devoted, but undying ; 


Within his tent to wait for day. 


The very galo their names seem'd sighing : 


But walk'd him forth along the sand. 


The waters murmur'd of their name ; 


Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand 


The woods were peopled with their fame ; 


What piljow'd them ? and why should he 


The silent pillar, lone and gray. 


More wakeful tiian the humblest be ? 


Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 


Shice more their peril, worse their toil. 


Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky momitaiu. 


And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 


Their memory sparkled o'er tlie fountain ; 


While he alone, where thousands pass'd 


The meanest rill, the mightiest river 


A night of sleep, perchance their last, 


RoU'd mingling with their fame forever. 


In sickly vigil wauder'd on. 


Despite of every joke she bears. 


And envied all he gazed upon. 


That land is glory's still and theirs !' 


I [•* As lions o'er tho jackal sway 


1 s [" He vainly turn'd from side to side, 


By springing dauntless on the prey j 


1 And each reposing posture tried."— MS.] 


They follow on, and yelling press 


8 [Here follows, in MS.— 

" Immortal— boundless— undecay'd— 


To gorge the fragments of success."— MS ] 




Their souls the very soil pervade."] 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



135 



'Tis Btill a watchword to the earth : 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He pohits to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won.' 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 

And woo'd the freshness Night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,^ 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood. 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay. 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unv/orn its base doth bare. 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 

And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 

On the line that it left long ages ago : 

A smooth short space of yellow sand 

Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot 1^ 
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That tlank'd the seaward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sulien words of the sentinel. 
As his measured step on the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival,'' 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They vere too busy to hark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull,' 
As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, [dull, 
Wlieii .joy scarce could rise from the spot where they 
fed: 



1 [" "V/here Freedom loveliest may be won."— MS.] 

2 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no 
perceptible tides m the Mediterranean. 

3 [" Or would not waste on a single head 

The ball on numbers better sped."— MS.] 
■1 [Omit the rest of this section.— Gifford.] 
5 This spectacle I Jtave seen, such as described, beneath 
the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little 
cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow ter- 
race of which projects between the wall and the water. I 
think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. 
The bodies were probably those of some refractory Jani- 
zaries. [" The sensations produced by the state of the 
weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin, were in unison 
with the impressions which we felt when, passing under the 
palace of the sultans, and gazing at the gloomy cypresses 
which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs gnawing a 
dead body."— Hobhouse.] 

8 [This passage shows the force of Lord Byron's pencil.— 
Jeffrey.] 

' This tuft, or long lock, is left, from a superstition tnat 
Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 
* [Than the mangled corpse in its own blood 'yiiig. — G.J 



So well had they broken a lingering fast 

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.' 

And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 

The foremost of these were the best of his band : 

Crimson and green were the shawls of their v/ear, 

And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair,' 

All the rest was shaven and bare. 

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 

The hair was tangled round his jaw. 

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 

There sat a vulture flapping a wolf. 

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 

Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 

But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 

Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 



XV n. 

Alp tum'd him from the sickening sight • 

^ever had shaken his nerves in fight ; 

But he better could brook to behold the dying, 

Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,* 

Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vaiu 

Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.' 

There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 

Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower • 

For Fame is there to say who bleeds. 

And Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 

O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead," 

And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 

Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 

All regarding man as their prey, 

All rejoicing in his decay." 



xvin. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone. 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before !'' 

Out upon Time ! who forever will leave 

But en ugh of the past for ^the future to grieve [be : 

O'er tl at which hath been, and o'er that which must 

Wha* we have seen, our sons shall see ; 

Remnants of things that have pass'd away. 

Fragments of stoue, rear'd by creatures of clay !" 



" [Strike out— 

" Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
Than the perisliing dead who are past all pain." 
What is a " perishing dead?" — Gifford.] 

10 [O'er the weltering limbs of the tombless dead.— G.] 

11 [" All that liveth on man will prey, 

All rejoice in his decay, 

All that can kindle dismay and disgust 

Follow his frame from the oier to the dust.' —MS. 

12 [Omit this couplet.— G.] 

13 [After this follows in MS.— 

" Monum.ents that the commg age 
Leaves to the spoil of the seasons' rage- 
Till Ruin makes the relics scarce, 
Then Learning acts her solemn farce, 
And, roaming through the marble waste, 
Prates of beauty, art, and taste. 

XIX. 

" That Temple was more in the midst of the plain , 
What of that shrine did yet remain 
Lay to his left ."] 



136 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base/ 

And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Dechning was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fevor'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went. 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily. 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind through some hollow stone, 

Sent that soft and tender moan ?" 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade : 

How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 

He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 

So did the leaves on Cithoeron's hill, 

And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 

What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 

He tum'd to the left — is he sure of sight >. 

There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament?" 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour. 

But conscience wrung away the power 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side. 

The maid who might have been his bride I 

The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 
Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 
The ocean's calm within their view, 
Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
But like that cold wave it stood still, 
And its glance,^ though clear, was chill 
Around her form a thin robe twining. 
Naught conceal'd her bosom shining ; 
Through the parting of her hair, ^ 

Floating darkly downward there. 
Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 



1 [From this, all is beautiful to— 

" He saw not, he knew not ; but nothing is there." — Gif- 

FORD.] 

2 I must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, 
resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpub- 
lished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." It was 
not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild 
and singularly original and beautiful poem recited ; and the 
MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by the 
kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced 
that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original idea 
undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has 
been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by 
a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a 
production, of which I can only add my mite of approbation 



And ere yet she made reply, 

Once she raised her hand on high, 

It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, tJiat can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood. 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the 'eaguering infidel. 

I come — and if I comt '.n vain. 

Never, oh never, we meet again ! 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In fallii;g away from thy father's cieed: 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and forever be miue ; 

Wring the black drop from thy heart, 

And to-morrow vuiites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 

Shall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 

Wliere our hands shall be join'd, and our soitow forget. 

There thou yet shalt be my bride, 

When once again I've quell'd the pride 

Of Venice ; and her hated race 

Have felt the arm they would debase 

Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 

Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own — 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart. 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though sliglit was that grasp so mortal cold, • 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did- clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white. 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone. 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone. 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue. 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint — without the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ^ 



to the applause of far more competent judges. — [The fol- 
lowing are the lines in " Christabel" which Lord Byron had 
unintentionally imitated : — 

" The night is chill, the forest bare. 
Is it the wind that moneth bleak t 
There is not wind enough in the air 
To move away the ringlet curl 
From the lovely lady's cheek — 
There is not wind enough to twirl 
The one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
On the topmost twig that looks at the sky "J 

3 [And lis thrilling glance, &c.— Giffobd.] 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



137 



Aiid her motionless lips lay still as death, 

And her words came forth witliout her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her besom's swell, 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd 

With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air,' 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down 

From the shadowy wall where their images frown ;^ 

Fearfully flitting to and fro, 

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 

Again I say — that turban tear 

From off thy faithless brow, and swear 

Thine injured country's sons to spare. 

Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 

Not earth — that's past — but heavcu or me 

If this thou dost accord, albeit 

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 

Tliat doom shall half absolve thy sin. 

And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 

But pause one moment more, and take 

The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 

And look once more to heaven, and see 

Its love forever shut from thee. 

Tliere is a light cloud by the moon — ' 

'Tis passing, and will pass full soon — 

If, by the time its vapory sail 

Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil. 

Thy heart within thee is not changed, 

Tlien God and man are both avenged ; 

Dark will thy doom be, darker still 

Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turn'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 



1 [" Like a picture, that magic had charm'd from its frame. 

Lifeless but life-like, and ever the same." — MS.] 

2 [In the summer of 1803, when in his sixteenth year. 
Lord Byron, though offered a bed at Annesley, used at first 
to return every night to sleep at Newstead : alleging as a 
reason, that he was afraid of the family pictures of the 
Chaworths ; that he fancied " they had taken a grudge to 
him on account of the duel." Mr. Moore thinks it may pos- 
sibly have been the recollection of these pictures that sug- 
gested to him these lines.] 

3 I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the 
five following lines has been admired by those whose appro- 
bation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original— 
at least not mine : it may be found much belter expressed in 
pages 162-3-4, of the English version of " Vathek," (I forget 
the precise page of the French,) a work to which I have 
before referred ; and never recur to, or read, vvitnout a re- 
newal of gratification.— [The following is the passage : — 
" ' Deluded prince I' said the Genius, addressing the Caliph, 
' to whom Providence hath confided the care of innumer- 
ublo subjects ; is it thus that thou fulfillest thy mission ? 
Thy crimes are already completed ; and art thou now hast- 
enuig to thy punishment ? Thou knowest that beyond those 



18 



No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
And charged to crush him — let it burst ! 

He look'd upon it earnestly 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 

And thus lie spake — " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me !" 
He turn'd, but she is gone ! 
Nothing is there but the column stone. 
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 
He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is past, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one.* 

Lightly and bjightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray. 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day.' 

Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum. 
And the clash, and the sliout, " They come ! they 

come !" 
The horsetails" are pluck'd from the ground, and the 
sword [word. 

From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your teiits, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in tlie Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.'' 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar. 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before :* 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar ; 



mountains Eblis and his acoursoj dives hold their infernal 
empire ; and, seduced by a malignant phantom, thou art 
proceeding to surrender thyself to them ! This moment is 
the last of grace allowed thee : give back Nouronahar to 
her father, who still retains a few sparks of life ; destroy 
thy tower with all its abominations : drive Carathis from 
thy councils : be just to thy subjects : respect the ministers 
of the prophet : compensate for thy impieties by an exem 
plary life ; and, instead of squandering thy days in voluptu 
ous indulgmce, lament thy crimes on the sepulchres of thy 
ancestors. Thou beholdest the clouds that obscure the 
sun : at the nstant he recovers his splendor, if thy heart 
be not changed, the time of mercy assigned thee wUl be past 
forever.' "] 

* [Leave out this couplet. — Gifford.] 

6 [Strike out—" And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
-G.] 

6 The horsetails, fixed upon a lance, a pacha's standard. 

7 [Omit— 

" While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 

Bloodstain the breach through which they pass."~G.3 
6 [And crush the wall they have shaken befcre.— G.] 



138 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 

The vizier himself at the head of the host. 

When the culveriu's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a Uving one — 

A otiest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye 

fail? 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave' 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have !" 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 

xxni. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die : 

Thus against the wall tliey went, 

Thus the first were backward bent ;^ 

Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 

Strow'd the earth like broken glass, 

Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 

The ground whereon they moved no more : 

Even as they fell, in files they lay, 

Like the mower's grass at the- close of day. 

When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 

Such was the fall of the foremost slain.' 

XXIV. 

As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs invading dash 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 

Till white and thundering down they go. 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below ; 

Thus at length, cutbreathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Claargo of the Moslem multitude. 

In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel. 

Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 

Nothing there, save death, was mute j 

Stroke, and thrust, and Hash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victoiy, 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which make the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes. 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice, 



1 [" He who first downs with the red-cross may crave," &c. 
What vulgarism is this I — 

" He wlio lowers, — or plucks doivn," &c. — Gifford.] 

' [Thus against the wall they bent, 
Thus thj first were b-.ickward sent.—G.] 
[Such was the fall of tlie foremost train.— G.] 

* [There stood a man, &c. — G.] 

* [" Lurk'd," a bad word— say " Was hid."— G.'i 



Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

XXV. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the raninart is won, and the spoil oegun, 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks now mingling come 

From withni the phr/.uer'd dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet. 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 

But here and there, where 'vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found. 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

With banded backs against 'he wall, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fa.l. 

There stood an old man* — his hairs were white, 

But his veteran arm was full of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray. 

The dead before him, on that day. 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded. 

Though retreating, unsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd^ beneath his corslet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore. 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our j'outh could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his thin hairs^ of silver gray 

From right to left his sabre swept : 

Many an Othman. mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd' 

His weapon first in Moslem gore. 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire® 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago. 

His wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait* 

His onl^ boy had met his fate. 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb.'" 

If shades by carnage bo appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on tuo shore ; 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves : 
But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 



6 [Outnumber'a his nairs, &c.— Gifford.] 

' [Sons that were unborn, when he dipp'd.— G j 

e [Bravo !— tills is better than King Priam's fifty sons 

-G.] 
9 In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, lie- 

tween the Venetians and Turks. 
I" [There can be no such thing ; but the whole of this 13 

poor, and spun out.— G.] ' 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



139 



XXVI. 

Hark to the Allah shout !' a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand • 

Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known : 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 

Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 

Many a loftier turban may wear, — 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 

Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there i 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before ; 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 

It glances like a falling star ! 

Where'er tha mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been ;* 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 

Or the hero, silent lying. 

Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 

Mustering his last feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 

Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 

Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect. 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 
For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 

" Never, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of thy gift would last forever.'" 

" Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride !* 
Must she too perish by thy pride?" 

" She is safe." — " Where ? where ?" — " In heaven ; 

From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 

Far from thee, and undefiled." 

Grimly then Minotti smiled. 

As he saw Alp staggering bow 

Before his word«, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she?" — " Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and ihee — 

Come on !" — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp's already with the slain ! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to wound, 



1 [Hark to the Alia Hu ! &c. — Gifford.] 

2 [Omit the remainder of the section. — G.] 
8 [In the original MS — 

" Though the life of thy giving would last forever."] 
* [" Where's Francesca? — my proinised bride !" — MS.] 
s [Here follows in MS.— 

" Twice and once he roll'd a space, 
Then lead-like lay upon his face.";] 

" [One cannot help suspecting, on longer and more ma- 
ture consideration, that one has been led to join in ascribing 
Ujuch more force to the objections made against such char- 



From within the neighboring porch 

Of a long-defended church. 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew. 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as ho bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk f 

Naught of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 

They tum'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed. 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb. 

Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death : 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unaneled he pass'd away, 

Without a hope from mercy's aid,— 

To the last — a Renegado." 

XXVIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury those :' 

Then again in conflict mixing. 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blow and thrust, 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot. 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command ; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable. 

Whence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back. 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, with their faces to the foe. 

Dealing wounds with every blow,* 

The chief, and his retreating train. 

Join to those within the fane ; 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing -time ! the turban'd host, 
With adding ranks and raging boast, 



acters as the Corsair, Lara, tne Giaour, Alp, &c., than be- 
longs to them. The inindents, habits, &c. are much too 
remote from modern and European life to act as mischievous 
examples to others ; while, under the given circumstances, 
the splendor of imagery, beauty and tendi^rness of senli 
ment, and extraordinary strength and felicity of language, 
are apphcable to human nature at all times, and in all coun- 
tries, and convey to the best faculties of the reader's mind 
an impulse which elevates, refines, instructs, and enchants, 
with the noblest and puiest of all pleasures —Sir B. 
Brydges.] 
' [" These in rage, in triumph those."— MS.] 
8 [Dealing death witn every blow — Giffobd.] 



140 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Press onwards with such strength and heat, 

Tlieir numbers balk their own retreat ; 

For narrow the way that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not ; 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and fly ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furtous, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter'd still ; 

And faint the weary Christians wax 

Before the still reuew'd attacks 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron M^eight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot. 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

The volleys of the sulphurous shower ; 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 

liOst Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, stem'y and all alone, 

Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 

Madonna's face upon him shone. 

Painted ia heavenly hues above. 

With eyes of light and looks of love ; 

And placed upon that holy shrine 

To fix our thoughts on things divine. 

When pictured there, we kneeling see 

Her, and the boy-God on her knee. 

Smiling sweetly on each prayer 

To heaven, as if to waft it there. 

Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 

Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 

Minotti lifted his aged eye. 

And made the sign of a cross with a sigh. 

Then seized a torch which blazed thereby , 

And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 

Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor. 

But now illegible with gore ; 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins difl'use, 

Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd, and strown 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin d row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

B} a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves. 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-fonn'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stem resource 

Against the foe's o'erwhehning force. 



> " [Oh, but it made a glorious show 
roKD] 



Out.— GiF- 



XXXII. 

The foe came on, and few remain 
To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
For lack of further lives, to slake 
The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 
And lop the already lifeless head. 
And fell the statues from their niche. 
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 
And from each other's rude hands wrest 
The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 
To the high altar on they go ; 
Oh, but it made a glorious show !' 
■ On its table still behold 
The cup of consecrated gold ; 
Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
That morn it held the holy wine. 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
Which his worshippers drank at the break of 

day. 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast ; 
A spoil — ^the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

'Tis fired ! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain. 

The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town — the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As il an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all dnven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore -^ 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain: 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received tho sprinkJea 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay. 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away 



2 [Strike out from " Up to tiie sky," &c. lo ' Aii blacaen'd 
there and reeking lay." Despicable stuff.— Gir fob d.] 



PARISINA. 



141 



Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more ; 
That one moment left no trace 
More of hmiian form or face 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strewn 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay. 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled 
And howling left the unburied dead ;' 
The camels from their keepers broke ; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 



And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull -frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh ; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry," 
Bay'd from afar complainingly. 
With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound :^ 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast. 
The eagle left his rocky nest. 
And mounted nearer to the sun. 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 
Thus was Corinth lost and won !* 



parisina: 



SCROPE BERDMORE DA VIES, ESQ. 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP 



JaaMary 22, 1816. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of 
Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times the 



1 [Omit the next six lines.— Gifford.j 

a I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant 
the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard 
these animals ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard 
them by liundreds. They haunt ruins and follow armies. 

3 [Leave out tliis couplet.— Gifford.] 

4 [The "Siege of Corinth," though written, perhaps, vrith 
too visible an effect, and not very well harmonized in all its 
parts, cannot but be regarded as a magnificent composition. 
There is less misanthropy in it than in any of the rest ; and 
the interest is made up of alternate representations of soft 
and solemn scenes and emotions, and of the tumult, and ter- 
rors, and intjxicatio nof war. These opposite pictures are, 
perhaps, too v- >' ^:itly contrasted, and, in some parts, too 
harshly colored , but they are in general exiuisitely designed, 
andexecutedwiththeutmoscspirit and energy.— Jeffrey.] 

6 [This poem, perhaps U\i most exquisitely versified one 
that ever the author produced, was written in London in the 
autumn of 1815, and published in February, 1816. Although 
the beauties of it were universally acknowledged, and frag- 
ments of its music ere long on every lip, the nature of the 
subject i.revented it from being dwelt upon at much length 
in the critical journals of the time ; most of which were con- 
tent to record, generally, their regret that so great a poet 
should have permitted himself, by awakening sympathy for 
a pair of incestuous lovers, to become, in some sort, the 
apologist of their sin. An anonymous writer, in " Black- 
wood's Magazine," seems, however, to have suggested sorne 
particulars, in the execution of the story, which ought to be 
taken into consideration, before we rashly class Lord Byron 
with those poetical offenders, who have bent their powers 
" to divest incest of its hereditary horrors." " In Parisma," 
says this critic, "we are scarcely permitted to have a 
single glance at the guilt, before our attention is riveted 
upon Uie punishment : we have scarcely had time to con- 
'lemn, witliin our own hearts, the sinnuig, though injured 
'»j u, when — 

For a departing being's soul 



delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem 
such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The 
Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old 
English writers, were of a different opinion : as 
Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, 



The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
He is near his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear— and piteous to see— 
Ivneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards around— 
And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true- 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While the crowd m a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the I ather !' 
The fatal guilt of the Princess is in like manner swallowed 
up in the dreary contemplation of her uncertain fate. We 
forbear to think of her as an adulteress, after we have 
heard that ' horrid voice'' wliich is sent up to heaven at the 
death of her paramour— 

' Whatsoe'er its end below. 
Her Mfe began and closed in wo.' 
" Not o.i.y has Lord Byron avoided all the details of this 
unhallowed love, he has also contrived to mingle in the 
very incest which he condemns the idea of retribution ; 
and our horror for the sin of Hugo is diminished by our be- 
lief that it was brought about by some strange and super- 
human fatalism, to revenge the ruin of Bianca. That gloom 
of righteous visitation, which invests, in the old Greek 
tragedies, the fated house of Atreus, seems here to impend 
with some portion of its ancient hoiTor over the hne of 
Este. We hear, in the language of Hugo, the voice of the 
same prophetic solemnity which announced to Agamemnon, 
in the very moment of his triumph, the approaching and 
inevitable darkness of his fate : — 

' The gather'd guilt of elder times 
Shall reproduce itself in crimes ; 
There is a day of vengeance still 
Linger it may— but come it will.' 
" That awful chorus does not, unless we be greatly mis- 
taken, leave an impression of destiny upon the mind more 



142 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



upon the Continent. The following extract will ex- 
plain the facts on which the story is founded. Tiie 
name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more 
metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was 
polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testi- 
mony of an attendant, and his own observation, 
the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves 
of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a 
beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded 
ill the castle by the sentence of a father and hus- 
band, who published his shame, and survived their 
execuiion.' He was unfortunate, if they were guilty : 
if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; 
nor is there any possible situation in which I can 
sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a 
parent." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. 
p. 470 



powerful than that which rushed on the troubled spirit of 
Azo, when he heard the speech of Hugo in his hall of judg- 
ment : — 

' Thou gav'st, and mayst resume my breath, 
A gift for which I thank tliee not ; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
Her Slighted love and ruin'd name, 
Her offspring's heritage of shame.' " 

We shall have occasion to recur to this subject when we 
reach our author's " Manfred." The facts on which the 
present poem was grounded are thus given in Frizzi's His- 
tory of Ferrara : — 

" This turned out a calamitous year for the people of Fer- 
rara; for there occurred i> very tragical event in the court 
of their sovereign. Our annals, botli printed and in manu- 
script, with the exception of the unpohshed and negUgent 
work of Sardi, and one other, have given the following re- 
lation of it,— from which, however, are rejected many de- 
tails, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, who wrote a 
century afterwards, and who does not accord with the 
contemporary historians. 

" By the above-mentioned Stella dell' Assassino, the Mar- 
quis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beautiful and 
ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second wife of Nic- 
colo, like the generality of step-molhers, treated him with 
little kindness, to the infinite regret of the Marquis, who re- 
garded him with fond partiality. One day she asked leave of 
her husband to undertake a certain journey, to which he 
consented, but upon condition that Ugo should bear her 
company ; for he hoped by these means to induce her, in the 
end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had con- 
ceived against him. And indeed his intent was accomplish- 
ed but too well, since, during the journey, she not only di- 
vested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite 
extreme. After their return, the Marquis had no longer 
any occasion to renew his former reproofs. It happened 
one day that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, as 
some call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of 
Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber- 
maids, all terrified and in tears. Asking tlie reason, she 
told him that her mistress, for some shghl ofl'ence, had been 
beating her ; and, giving vent to her rage, she adc^ed, that 
she could easily be revenged, if she chose to make known 
the criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina 
and her step-son. The servant took note of the words, and 
related them to his master. He was astounded thereat, but 
scarcely believing his ears, he assured himself of the fact, 
alas ! too clearly, on the 18lh of May, by looking through a 
hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly 
he broke into a furious rage, and arrested both of them, to- 
gether with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentle- 
man, and also, as some say, two of the women of her 
chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them 
to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to pro- 
nounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the cul- 
prits. This sentence was death. Some there were that 
ceslirredthemselvesin favor of the delinquents, a,id amongst 
others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful with Nic- 
colo, and also his aged and much deserving minister Alberto 
dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down their 
cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him for morcy ; 
adducing whatever reasons they could suggest for sparing 
the ofTenders, besides those motives of honor and decency 
which might persuade him to conceal from the public so 
scandalous a deed. But his rage made lum inflexible, and, 



PARISINA. 



I. 

It is the hour when from the bougns 

The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ;" 
And gentle winds, and waters near 
Make music to the lonely ear. 
Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
And in the sky the stars are met, 
And on the wave is deeper blue, 
And on the leaf a browner hue, 
And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
So softly dark, and darkly pure. 



on the instant, he commanded that the sentence should be 
put in execution. 

" It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly in 
those frightful dungeons wliich are seen at this dav beneath 
the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the Lion's 
tower, at the top of the street Ciovecca, that on the night of 
the 21st of May were beheaded, first, Ugo, and afterwards 
Parisina. Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the latter 
under his arm to the place of punishment. She, all along, 
fancied that she was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at 
every step, whether she was yet come to the spot ? She was 
told that her punishment was the axe. She inquired what 
was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he was 
already dead ; at the which, sighing grievously, she ex- 
claimed, ' Now, then, I wish not myself to live ;' and, being 
come to the block, she stripped herself with her own hands 
of all her ornaments, and wrapping a cloth round her head, 
submitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel 
scene. The same was done with Rangoni, who, together 
with the others, according to two calendars in the library 
of St. Francesco, was buried in the cemetery of that con- 
vent. Nothing else is known respecthig the women. 

" The Marquis kept watch the wttole of that dreadful night, 
and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, inquired of 
the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead yet ? who answered 
him. Yes. He then gave himself up to the most desperate 
lamentations, exclaiming, ' Oh I that I too were dead, since 
I have been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo I' 
And then gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in his 
hand, he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, 
calling frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On the follow- 
ing day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to make 
public liis justification, seeing that the transaction could 
not be k^t secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawn 
out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy. 

" On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco 
Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his reasons, 
that stop should be put to the preparations for a tourna- 
ment, which, under the auspices of the Marquis, and at the 
expense of the city of Padua, was about to take place, in 
the square ot St. Slark, in order to celebrate his advance- 
ment to the ducal chair. 

" The Marquis, in addition to what he had alre.ady done, 
from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, commanded 
that as many of the married women as were well known to 
him to be faithless, like his Parisina, should, like her, be 
beheaded. Amongst others Barberina, or, as some call her, 
Laodamia Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this 
sentence, at the usual place of execution ; that is to say, in 
the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, 
beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be told how strange appeared 
this proceeding in a prince, who, considering his own dis- 
position, should, as it seemed, have been in such cases 
most indulgent. Some, however, there were who did not 
fail to commend him." 

The above passage ot Frizzi was translated by Lord 
Byron, and formed a closing note to the original edition of 
" Parisina."] 

1 [" Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated, but the 
castle still exists entire ; and 1 saw tlie court where 
Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the armal 
of Gibbon." — Byron Letters, 1817. 

2 [The opening verses, though soft and voluptuous, are 
tinged with the same shade of sorrow which gives ciiaroc- 
ter and harmony to the whole poem. — Jeffrey.] 



PARISINA. 



143 



'\Miich follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 



II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night; 

And if she sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 

She listens— but not for the nightingale— 

Though her ear "expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale— and her heart beats quick. 

There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 

And her blush returns, and her bosom-heaves: 

A moment more— and they shall meet— 

'Tis past— her lover's at her feet. 

III. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide 1 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away. 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet— they are already pass'd ! 
Alas '. we must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more 

IV. 

Willi many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness pass'd ; 
And though they hope, and vow, they grieve. 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling forever. 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld hei railty from afar — 
The frequeui, sigh, the long embrace, 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart. 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed. 
To covet there another's bride ; 

But she must lay her conscious head 
A husband's tra«ting heart beside. 



» The lines contained in this section were printed as set 
tr> mnsic some time since, but belonged to the poem where 



But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 

And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away : 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress. 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep 

VI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
And listen'd to each broken word : 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 

As if the Archangel's toice ho heard? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When ho shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may^iis earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo"s shame. 
And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
, Sounds fearful as the breaking billow. 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore. 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, — his— 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this I — 
'Tis Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayward youth, 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheathed it ere the point was bare — 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe. 
He co^ld not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not smiling — sleeping — there- 
Nay more : — he did not wake her then. 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Which, had she roused her from her trance 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd — ■ 
While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 

VIII. 

And with the mora he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around. 
The proof of all ho fear'd to know. 
Their present guilt, his future wo ; 
The long-conniving damsels sedc 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her : 
Concealment is no more — they speak 



they now appear ; the greater part of which was cf mposed 
prior to " Lara." 



144 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they tell : 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have ;iothing more to feel or hear 

IX. 

He wds not one who brook'd delay 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young, — and one how passing fair ! 
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand. 
Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his u:e. 

The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome. 
Although, as yet, his voice bo dumb. 



And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room. 
Where high-bom men were proud to wait — 
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen : 
Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had sheathless shone,' 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she ? and what are they ? 
Can she command, or these obey ? 
All silent and unheeding now, 
W^ith downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And folded arms, and freezing air. 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
Her knights and dames, her court — is there : 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch'd before her glance. 
Who — were his arm a moment free — 
Had died or gain'd her hberty ; 
The minion of his father's bride, — 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
Shininj Uirough the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
Now scem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 
Which glance so heavily, and fill. 
As tear on tear grows gathering still 

XI. 

And he for her had also wept. 

But for the eyes that on him gazed : 

His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 

Storn and erect his brow was raised. 



1 [A sagacious writer gravely charges Lord Byron with 
paraphrasing, in this passage, without acknowledgment, 
Mr Burke's -well-known description of the unfortunate 
Marie Antoinette. " Verily." says Mr. Coleridge, " there 
DC amongst ns a set of cirtics, who seem to hold, that every 



Whate'or the grief his soul avow"'d. 
He would not shrink before the crowd : 
But yet he dared not look on her : 
Remembrance of the hours that were — 
His guilt — his love — his present state — 
His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 
His earthly, his eternal fate — 
And hers, — oh, hers ! — he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow ! 
Else had his rising heart betray'd 
Remorse for all the wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake : — " But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away ; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone ; 
Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not one 
Who would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken — not by me ; 

Let that too pass ; — the doom's prepared ' 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 

And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 

Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 

Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head ■ 

Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 

XIIL 

\r>d here stern Azo liid his face— 
or on his brow the swelling vein 
x'hrobb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again ; 
And therefore bow'd he for a space. 
And pass'd his shaking hand along 
His eye, to veil it from tjie throng ; 
While Hugo raised his chained hands, 
And for a brief delay demands 
His father's ear : the silent sire 
Forbids not what his words require. 

" It is not that I dread the death — 
For thou hast seen me by thy side 
All redly through the battle ride. 
And that not once a useless brand 
Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 

Thou gav'st, and mayst resume my bioath, 
A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot. 
Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 
Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 



possible thought and image is traditional ; who have no 
notion that there are such things as fountains in the worlil, 
small as well as great ; and v\ lio would therefore charitably 
derive every rili they behold flowing, from a perforation 
made in some other man's tank."] 



PARISINA. 



145 



But Bhe is in the grave, where he, 

Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 

Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 

Shall witness for thee from the dead 

How trusty and how tender were 

Thy youthful love — paternal care. 

'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 

But wrong for wrong : — this deem'd thy bride, 
The other victim of thy pride. 

Thou know'st for me was destined long. 

Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms— 
And with thy very crim<» — my birth. 
Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 

A match ignoble for her arms. 

Because, forsooth, I could not claim 

The lawful heirship of thy name, 

Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short summers mine. 
My name should more than Este's shiue 

With honors all my own. 

I had a sword — and have a breast 

That should have won as haught^ a crest 

As ever waved along the line 

Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 

Not always knightly spurs are worn 

The brightest by the better born ; 

And mine have lanced my courser's flank 

Before proud chiefs of princely rank. 

When charging to the cheering cry 

Of ' Este and of Victory !' 

I will not plead the cause of crime. 

Nor sue thee to redeem from time 

A few brief hours or days that must 

At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 

Such maddening moments as my past. 

They could not, and they did not, last 

Albeit my birth and name be base. 

And thy nobility of race 

Disdain'd to deck a thing like me— 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of my father's face. 

And in my spirit — all of thee. 

From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 

From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start ?— 

From thee in all their vigor came 

My arm of strength, my soul of flame^ 

Thou didst not give me life alone, 

But all that made me more thine own. 

See what thy guilty love hath done I 

Repaid thee with too like a son ! 

I am no bastard in my soul. 

For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 

And for my breath, that hasty boon 

Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 

I valued it no more than thou. 

When rose thy casque above thy brow, 



> Haugh —haughty.—" Away, hangU man, thou art in- 
sulting me."— Shakspeare. 

9 P' I sent for ' Marmion,' because it occurred to me, there 
rtaignt be a resemblance between part of ' Parisina' and a 
.similar scene in the second canto of ' Marmion.' I fear 
there is, though I never thought of it before, and could 
hardly wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you 
would ask Mr. Gifford whether I ought to say any thing 
upon it- I had completed the story on the passage from 
Gibbon, wliich indeed leads to a like scene naturally, with- 
out a thought of the kind : but it comes upon me not very 
comfortably."— Lord B. to Mr. M. Feb. 3, 1816.— The scene 
referred to is the one in which Constance de Beverley 
appears before the conclave— 



19 



And we, all side by side, have striven 
Aud o'er the dead our coursers driven 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died ; 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father sli'l ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in shame. 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son. 
And thou must punish bn'.h in one 
My crime seems worst to numan view, 
But God must judge betp f^ew us too !" 

XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms. 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd. 
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd: 
Till Parisina's fatal charms^ 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes vunnoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turu'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close. 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
P'rom the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
And those who saw, it did surprise. 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat,* 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown. 
More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
A monument of Azo's wife, — 
Thau her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 



" Her look composed, and steady eye, 
Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 
And there she stood so calm aiid pale, 
That, but her breathing did not fail, 
And motion slight of eye and head, 
And 3f her bosom, warranted, 
Tha. 3 3ither sense nor pulse she lacks, 
You must have thought a form of wax, 
"Wrought to the very life, was there— 
So still she was, so pale, so fair."] 
3 [The arraignment and condemnation of the ginlty pair, 
with the bold, high-toned, and yet temperate defence of the 
son, are managed with considerable talent ; and yet are less 
touching than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who 
stands in speechless agony before hun.— Jeffrey.] 



146 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But yet she lived — and all too soon 

Recover'd from that death-hke swoon — 

But scarce to reason — every sense 

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 

And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 

Tlio erring arrow launch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide — 

The past a blank, the future black, 

With glimpses of a dreary track. 

Like hghtning on the desert path, 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She fear'd — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 

That some one was to die — but who ? 

She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme. 

She strove with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seem'd on her to break : 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake I 



XV. 

The Convent bolls are ringing. 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging. 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
For a departing being's soul 

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll ; 
He is ne&r his mortal goal ; 
Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground. 
With the block before and the guards around — 
And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
That the blow may be both swift and steadyj 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
Wiile the crowd in a speechless circle gathei 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father 



XVI 

It is a lovely hour as yet 
Before the summer sun shall set. 
Which rose upon that heavy day. 
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray : 
And his evening beams are shed 
Full on Hugo's fated head. 
As his last confession pouring 
To the monk, his doom deploring 



1 [The grand part of this poem is that which describes the 
execution of the rival son ; and in which, though there is no 
pomp, either of language or of sentimej it, and though every 



In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen — 

And the rings of chesnut hair 

Curl'd half down his neck eo bare ; 

But brighter still the beam was thrown 

Upon the axe which near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe : 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 



XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son — and daring lover ! 

His beads and sins are all recounted. 

His hours to their last minute mounted — 

His mantling cloak before was stripp'd. 

His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd ; 

'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 

The vest which till this moment worn — 

The scarf which Parisina gave — 

Must not adorn him to tne grave. 

Even that must now be thrown aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no — that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued, 

In deep disdain were half renew'd. 

When headman's hands prepared to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind: 

As if they dared not look on death. 

" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath — 

These hands are chain'd — but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike :" — and as the word he said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke • 

" Strike :" — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain'd and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rahi ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix forever. 

He died, as erring man should die. 

Without display, without parade ; 

Meekly had ho bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling. 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feehng ; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save the few which from him broke. 
When, bared to meet tlie headman's stroke, 
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
Hia sole adieu to those around.' 



thing is conceived and expressed with the utmost simphnity 
and directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which 
it would not be easy to find many parallels.— Jeffrey.] 



PARISINA. 



147 



XVIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran, 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him whose life and love thus ended 

And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 

Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill — so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go. 

Like a soul's in endless wo. 

Tlirough Azo's palace-lattice driven, 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is tuni'd thereon ; 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair ; 

And those who heard it, as it pass'd, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 



XIX. 

Hugo is fallen ; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisiua heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

liike words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son ; 

No tomb — no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road. 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 

For that dark love she dared to feel ; 

Or if, upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headman's shock. 

In quickeu'd brofiLcnness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know : 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Iler life began and closed in wo I 



1 Cin Parisina there is no tumult or stir. It is all sadness, 
and pity, and terror. There is loo much of horror, perhaps, 
in the circumstances ; but the writmg is beautiful through- 



XX. 

And Azo found another bride. 

And goodly sons grew by his side ; 

But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who wither'd in the grave ; 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smothcr'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended, 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

Ard o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 

The intersected lines of thought ; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the la-cerating mind 

Which the Soul's war doth leave Jbehind. 

He was past all mirth or wo : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget, 

Which, when it least appear'd to melt, 

Intently thought — intensely felt : 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted • 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 

Howe'er our stifled fears we banish ; 

When, struggling as they rise to start. 

We check those waters of the heart. 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head. 

And resting in their spring more pure, 

Forever in its depth endure. 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeai'd, 

And cherish'd most where least reveal'd 

With inward starts of feeling left. 

To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 

Without the power to fill again 

The desert gap which made his pain ; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share, 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree ; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill ; 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree. 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free: 
But if the lightning, in its wrath. 
The waving boughs with fury scathe. 
The massy trunk the ruin feels. 
And never more a leaf reveals.' 



out, and the whole wrapped in a rich and redundant tcl of 
poetry, where every thing breathes the pure essenca of 
genius and sensibility — Jeffkey.j 



148 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON: 



A FABLE.* 



SONNET ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind I'' 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the lieart — • 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 
Worn, as tf thy cold pavement were a sod, 



I When this poem was composed, I was not sufBciently 
aware of the history of Bonnivard, or I should have en- 
deavorea to dignify the subject by an attempt to celebrate 
his courage and his virtues. With some account of his life 
I have been furnished, by the kindness of a citizen of that 
republic, which is still proud of the memory of a man wor- 
thy of the best age of ancient freedom : — 

" Francois de Bonnivard, tils de Louis de Bonnivard, ori- 
gmaire de Seysel et Seigneur de Lunes, naquit en 1496. II 
fit ses etudes a Turin: en 1510 Jean Aim6 de Bonnivard, 
eon oncle, lui rfesigna le Prieur6 de St. Victor, qui aboutis- 
sait aux murs de Geneve, et qui formait im b6n6fice con- 
siderable. 

" Ce grand homme — ^(Bonnivard m^rite ce titre par la 
force de son ftme, la droiture de son ccenv, la noblesse de ses 
intentions, ia sagesse de ses conseils, le courage de ses d-- 
marches, l'6tendue de ses connaissances et la vivacity de 
son esprit,) — ce grand homme, qui excitera I'admiration de 
tous ceux qu'une vertu hfiroique peut encore 6mouvoir, in- 
spirera encore la plus vive reconnaissance dans les Cffiurs 
des G6n6vois qui aiment Geneve. Bonnivard en fut tou- 
jours un des plus fermes appuis : pour assurer la liberty de 
notre R6puulique, il ne craignit pas de perdre souvent la 
sienne ; il oublia son repos ; il meprisa ses richesses ; 11 ne 
n^gligea rien pour aifermir le bonheur d'une patrie qu'il 
honora de son choix : des ce moment il la cherit comme le 
plus z616 de ses citoyens ; il la servit avec rintr6pidit6 d'un 
h6ros, et il 6crivit son Histoire avec la naivet6 d'un philo- 
sophe et la chaleur d'un patriote. 

" H dit dans le commencement de son Histoire de Geneve, 
que des qu'il cut commence de lire Vhistoire des nations, il se 
sentit entraine par son gout pour les Republigues, dont il epousa 
tovjours les interits : c'est ce gout pour la iibertfe qui lui fit 
sans doute adopter Geneve pour sa patrie. 

" Bonnivard, encore jeune, s'annon^a hautement comme 
le dfefensetJT de Geneve centre le Due de Savoye et I'Eveque. 

" En 1519, Bonnivard devlent le martyr de'sa patrie. Le 
Due de Savoye 6tant entr6 dans Geneve avec cinq cent 
h joimes, Bonnivard craint le ressentimeut du Due ; il voulut 
se retirer a Fribourg pour en 6viter les suites ; mais il fut 
trahi par deux hommes qui I'accompagnaient, : . .londuit par 
ordre du Prince a Grol6e, ou il resta prisomiic;r pendant 
deux ans. Bonnivard etait malheureux dans ses voyages : 
comme ses malheurs n'avaient point ralenti son zele pour 
Geneve, il 6tait toujours un ennemi redoutable pour ceux 
qui la mena9aient, et par consequent il devait &tre expose 
4 leurs coups. II fut rencontre en 1530 sur le Jura par des 
voleurs, qui le depouillerent, et qui le mirent encore entre 
les mains du Due de Savoye : ce Prince le fit enfermer dans 
le Chateau de Chillon, oii il resta sans etre interroge jusques 
•;ii 1536 ; il fut alors deUvre par les Bernois, qui s'erapare- 
1 cut du Pays de Vaud. 

'• Bonnivard, en sortant de sa captivite, eut le plaisir de 
trouver Geneve libre et reformee : la Republique s'empres- 
sa de lui temoigner sa reconnaissance, et de dedommager 
des maux qu'il avait soufferts ; elle.le refut Bourgeois de la 
ville au mois de Juin, ^hS6 ; elle lui donna la maison habitee 
autrefois par le Vicaire-General, et elle lui assigna une 
pension de deux cent ecus d'or tant qu'il sejournerait a Ge- 
neve. II fut admis dans le Conseil de Deux- Cent en 1537. 

" Bonnivard n'a pas fini d'etre utile : aprcs avoir travaille 
a rendre Geneve libre, it reussit a larendre tolerante. Bon- 
nivard ongagea ie Con.seil a. accorder aux ecciesiastiques et 



By Bonnivard I — May none those marks ofliice ! 
For they appeal ''lom tyramiy to God. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



My hair is gray, but not with years. 

Nor grew it white 

In a single night,* 
As men's have grown from sudden fears : 



aux paysans un tems suffisant pour examiner les proposi- 
tions qu'on leur faisait ; il reussit par sa douceur : onpreche 
toujours le Christianisme avec succis quand on le preclie 
avec charite. 

" Bonnivard fut savant : ses manuscrits, qui sont dans la 
Bibliotheque publique, prouvent qu'il avait bien lu les au 
teurs classiques Latins, et qu'il avait approfondi la theolo 
gie et I'histoire. Ce grand homme aimait les sciences, et il 
croyait qu'elles pouvaient faire la gloire de Geneve ; aussi 
il ne negligea rien pour les fixer dans cette ville naissante ; 
en 1551 li donna sa bibliotheque au public ; elle fut le com- 
mencement de notre bibliotheque publique ; et ccs livres 
sont en partie les rares et belles editions du quinzieme 
siecle qu'on voit dans notre collection. Enfin, pendant la 
meme ann6e, ce bon patriote institua la Republique son 
heritiere, a condition qu'elle employerait ses biens a entre- 
tenir le college dont on projettait la fondation. 

"II parait que Bonnivard niourut en 1570; mais on ne 
peut I'assurer, parcequ'il y a une lacune dans le Necrology 
depuis le mois de Juillet, 1570, jusques en 1571." 

[Lord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a small inn, in 
the little village of Ouchy, near Lausanne, where he hap- 
pened in June, 1816, to be detained two days by stress of 
weather ; " thereby adding," says Moore, " one more death- 
less association to the alieady immortalized locali es of 
the Lake."] 

2 [In the first draught, the sonnet opens thus — 

" Beloved Goddess of the chainless mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art. 

Thy palace is within the Freeman's heart. 
Whose soul the love of thee alone can bind ; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd^ 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Thy joy is with them still, and unconfined. 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom."] 

3 [" I will tell you something about ' Chillon.' A Mr. De 
Luc, ninety years old, a Swiss, had it read to him, and is 
pleased with it — so my sister writes. He said that he was 
with Rousseau at Chillon, and that the description is perfect- 
ly correct. But this is not all ; I recollected something of 
the name, and find the following passage in ' The Confes- 
sions,' vol. iii. p. 247, liv. viii. ' De tous ces amusemens 
celui qui me plut davantage fut une promenade autour du 
Lac, que je fis en bateau avec De Luc peie, sa bru, ses deux 
fils, et ma Therese. Nous mimes sept jours a cette toumee 
par le plus beau temps du monde. J'en gardai le vif sou- 
venir des sites, qui m'avaient frappe a I'autre extremite du 
Lac, et dont je fis la description quelques annees apres, 
dans ' La Nouvelle Heloise.' ' This nonagenan, De Luc, 
must be one of the ' deux fils.' He is in England, infirm, 
but still in faculty. It is odd that he should have lived so 
long, and not wanting in oddness, that he should have made 
this voyage with Jean Jacques, and afterwards, at such an 
interval, read a poem by an Englishman (who made pre 
cisely the same circumnavigation) upon the same scenery" 
— Byron Letters, April 9, 1817. Jean Andre de Luc, P. R. S., 
died at Windsor, in the July following. He was boru in 
1726, at Geneva, was the author of many geological works, 
and corresponded with most ol the learned societies oi 
Europe.] 

* Ludovico Sforza, and others. — The same is asserted cf 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



149 



My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose,' 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are baun'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I sufFer'd chains and courted death ; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage f 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 

II. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd rt.y, 
A simbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen ai'd left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And In each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away. 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun to rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score, 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay liv'ng by his side. 

III. 

They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
Wi3 could not move a single pace. 
We could not see each other's face. 
But wit!', that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 



Marie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the Sixteenth, though 
not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the 
same effect : to such, and not tofear, this change in lurs was 
to bo attributed. 4^ 

1 [Original BIS.— 

" But with the inward waste of grief."] 

2 [" Braving rancor— chains— and rage." — MS.] 

8 [This picture of the first feelings of the three gallant 
Drothers, when bound apart in this living tomb, and of the 
gradual decay of their cheery fortitude, is full of pity and 
sgony -Jeffrey ] 

* The Chateau de Chillon is situaf.ed between Clarens and 



With some new hope or legend old. 

Or song heroically bold ; 

But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 

An echo of the dungeon stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might be fancy — but to me 

They never sounded like our own.' 

IV. 

I was the eldest oi" the three. 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes us blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles being free) — 
A polar dsy, Wfcich will not see 
A sunsnt till its summer's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad ofTspring of the sun : 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay. 
With tears for naught but others' ills, 
And then they flow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the wo 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

V. 
The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had follow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf. 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement,* 

Wliich round about the wave mthrals : 



Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity of the Lake of 
Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, and op- 
posite are the heights of the Meillerie and the range of Alps 
above Boveret and St. Gingo. Near it, on a lull behind, is a 
torrent : below it, washing its walls, the lake has been fath- 
omed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure : within it 
are a range of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and 
subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across one 
of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were in- 
formed that the condemned were formerly executed. In the 
cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, one being lialf 
merged in the wall ; in some of these are rings for the fet- 
ters and the fettered : in the pavement the steps of Bonni 
vard have left their traces. He was confined here severa. 



150 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A double dungeon wall and wave 

Have made — and like a living grave. 

Below the surface of the lake 

The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 

We heard it ripple night and day ; 
Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 

And I have felt the winter's spray 

Wash through the bars when winds were high 

And wantou in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 

Because I could have smiled to see 

The death that would have set mo free 

VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For wo were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten'd many a thoustind years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had gro^vn cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The raugo of the steep mountain's side ; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died.' 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnasli^ my bonds in twain 
He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them as a boon, to lay 
His coiso in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foo'ish thought. 
But then within my brain t Vv-rought, 
That even in death his freebom breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh'd — and laid him therj' 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being wo t : much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such m-rder's fitting monument I 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour 



years. It is by this castle tliat Rousseau has fixed the catas- 
trophe of his Heloise, m the rescue of one of her childr-in by 
Julie from the water; the shock of which, and the illn»;ss 
pi educed by the immersion, is the cause of her death. 
The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great 
distance. The walls are white.— [" The early history of 
this castle," says Mr. Tennant, who went over it in 1821, 
"is, I believe. Involved in doubt. By some historians it is 
said to be built in the year 1120, and according to others, in 
the year 1236 ; but by whom it was built seems not to be 
kaovra. It is said, however, in history, that Charles the Fifth, 
Duke of Savoy, stormed and took it in 1536 ; that he there 
found great hidden treasures, and many wretched beings 
pining away their lives in these frightful dungeons, amongst 



His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race. 

His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 

My latest care, for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free ; 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was wither'd on the stalk away. 

Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : — 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was wo 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so svv'eetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light. 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

A.nd not a word of murmur — not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talli of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise. 

For I was sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could not hear — 

I call'd, for I was wild with ^ear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

/ only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 

The last — the sole — the J^arest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race. 

Was broken in this fatal place.^ 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 



whom was the good Bonnivard. On the pillar to which this 
unfortunate man is said to have been chained, I observed, 
cut out of the stone, the name of one whose beautiful poem 
has done much to heightenJ|ie interest of this dreary spot, 
and will, perhaps, do more towards rescuing from obuvion 
the names of ' Chillon' and ' Bonnivard,' than all the cruel 
sufferings which that injured man endured within its damp 
and gloomy walls."] 

1 [" But why withhold the blow ?~he died."— MS.] 

2 [" To break or bite."— MS.] 

3 [The gentle decay and gradual extinction of the young- 
est life is the most tender and beautiful passage in tlie 
poem. — Jeffkey.] 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



151 



I had not strength to stir, or strive, 
But felt that I was still alive — 
A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 



IX. 

What next befell mo then and there 

I know not well — I never knew-— 
First came the loss of light, and air, 

And then of darkness too : 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone, 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray. 
It was not night — it was not day, 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness — without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
No check — no change — no good — no crime- 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness, 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless ! 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard, 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise. 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery ; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
I siw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness mora : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine 1 
Of if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 

I L" I saw them with their lake below, 

And their three thousand years of snow."— MS.] 

9 Between tlio entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not 

far from Chillon, is a very small island ; the only one I could 



For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 

Which made me both to weep and smile ; 

I sometimes deem'd that it might be 

My brother's soul come down to me ; 

But then at last away it flew. 

And then 'twas mortal — well I knew. 

For he would never thus have flown. 

And left me twice so doubly lone, — 

Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 

Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere. 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay 

XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate ; 
I know not what had made them so, 
They were iniured to sights of wo. 
But so it was : — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain. 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side. 
And up and down, and then athwart, 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one. 
Returning where my walk begun. 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 
My breath came gaspingly and thick. 
And my crush'd heart fell blind and sick 

xn. 

I made a footing in the wall. 
It was not therefrom to escape. 

For I had buried one and all. 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 

And the whole earth would henceforth be 

A wider prison unto me ; 

No child — no sire — no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery ; 

I thought of this, and I was glad. 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barr'd windows, and to bend 

Once more, upon the mountains high. 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

xin. 

I saw them — and they were the same. 
They were not changed like me in fraiiie 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below,* 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isie,'^ 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor. 



perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its 
circumference. It contains a few trees, (I think not apove 
three,) and from i'.s singleness and diminutive size has a 
peculiar effect upon the view. 



152 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again. 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 



XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 
I kept no count — I took no note. 



I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set rne free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
I learn'd to love despair 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home : 
With spiders I had friendship made. 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all iiunates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — ' 
My very chains and I grew friends. 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh." 



BEPPO: 

A VENETIAN STORY. 



Rosalind. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller : Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits : disable all the benefits of 
your own country ; be out of love vnlh your Nativity, ind almost chide God for making you that countenance 
you arc ; or I will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. As You Like It, Act IV, So. 1. 

Annotation of the Commentators. 
That is, been at Venice, which was much visited by the young English gentlemen of those times, and was then 
what Paris is noui— the seat of all dissoluteness. S. A.3 



[Beppo was written a , Venice, in October, 1817, and 
acquired great popularity immediately on its publica- 
tion in the May of the following year. Lord Byron's 
letters show that he attached very little importance 
to it at the time. He was not aware that he had 



J [Here follow In MS.— 

' Nor slew I of my subjects one — 
iVhat sovereign \ Jf,' ^, ^m^uch 1 ^^'^ <J°- ^"^ 
2 [It lias not been the purpose of Lord Byron to paint the 
peculiar character of Bonnivard. The object of the poem, 
like that of Sterne's celebrated sketch of the prisoner, is to 
consider captivity in the abstract, and to mark its effects in 
gradually chilling the mental powers as it benumbs and 
freezes the animal frame, until the unfortunate victim be- 
comes, as it were, a part of liis dungeon, and identified with 
his chains. This transmutation we believe to be founded on 
fact : at least, in the Low Countries, where solitude for life 
is substituted for capital punishments, something like it may 
be witnessed. On particular days in the course of the year, 
thes3 victims of a jurisprudence which calls itself humane, 
. ate presented to the public eye, upon a stage erected in the 
op3n marketplace, apparently to prevent their guilt and 
their punishment from being forgotten. It is scarcely pos- 
sible to witness a sight more degrading to humanity than 
tliis exhibition : with matted hair, wild looks, and haggard 
features, with eyes dazzled by the unwonted light of the sun, 



opened a new vein, in which his genius was destined 
to work out some of its brightest triumphs. " I have 
written," he says to Mr. Murray, " a poem humor- 
ous, in or after the excellent manner of Mr. Whistle- 
craft, and founded on a Venetian anecdote which 



and ears deafened »nd astounded by the sudden exchange 
of the silence of a dungeon for the busy hum of men, the 
wretches sit moie like rude images fashioned to a fantastic 
imitation of humanity, than like living and ;• fleeting beings. 
In the course of time we are assured they generally become 
either madmen or idiots, as mind or matter happens to pre- 
dominate, when the mysterious balance between them is 
destroyed. It will readily be allowed that this singular 
poem is more powerful than pleasing. The dungeon of Bon- 
nivard is, like that of Ugolino, a subject too dismal lor even 
the power of the painter or poet to counteract its horrors. 
It is the more disagreeable as aflfording human hope no an- 
chor to rest upon, and describing the sufferer, though a man 
of talents and virtues, as altogether inert and poweiless 
under his accumulated sufferings : yet, as a picture, how- 
ever gloomy the coloring, it may rival any which Lord By- 
ron has drawn ; nor is it possible to read it without a sink- 
ing of the heart, corresponding with that which he describes 
the victim to have suffered. — Sir Walter Scott.] 

3 ["Although I was only nine days at Venice, I saw, -ji 
that little time, more liberty to sin, than ever I heard tell of 
in the city of London in nine years."— ilo^tr Asc/uim ] 



BEPPO. 



153 



amused me. It is called Beppo — the short name for 
Giuseppe, — that is, the Joe of the Italian Joseph. It 
has politics and ferocity." Again — " Whistlecraft is 
my immediate model, but Berni is the father of that 
kind of writing ; which, I think, suits our language, 
too, very well. We shall see by this experiment. It 
will, at any rate, show that I can write cheerfully, 
and repel the charge of monotony and mannerism." 
He wished Mr. Murray to accept of Beppo as a free 
gift, or, as he chose to express it, " as part of the con- 
tract for Canto Fourth of Childe Harold ;" adding, 
however, — " if it pleases, you shall have more in the 
s&me mood ; for I know the Italian way of life, and, 
as for the verse and the passions, I have them still in 
tolerable vigor." 

The Right Honorable John Hookham Frere has, 
then, by Lord Byron's confession, the merit of having 
first introduced the Bernesque style into our language ; 
but his performance, entitled " Prospectus and Speci- 
men of an intended National Work, by William and 
Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, 
Harness and Collar Makers, intended to comprise 
the most interesting Particulars relating to King Ar- 
thur and his Round Table," though it delighted all 
elegant and learned readers, obtained at the time little 
notice from the public at large, and is already almost 
forgotten. For the causes of this failure, about which 
Mr. Rose and others have written at some length, it 
appears needless to look further than the last sentence 
we have been quoting from the letters of the author 
of the more successful Beppo. Whistlecraft had the 
verse : it had also the humor, the wit, and even the 
poetry of the Italian model ; but it wanted the hfo of 
actual manners, and the strength of stirring passions. 
Mr. Frere had forgot, or was, with all his genius, un- 
fit to profit by remembering, that the poets, whose 
style he was adopting, always made their style ap- 
pear a secondary matter. Thev never failed to em- 
broider their merriment on the texture of a really in- 
teresting story. Lord Byron perceived this ; and 
avoiding his immediate master's one fatal error, and 
at least equalling him in the excellencies which he did 
display, engaged at once the sympathy of readers of 
every class, and became substantially the founder of a 
new species of English poetry. 

In justice to Mr. Frere, however, whose "Speci- 
men" has long been out of print, we must take this 
opportunity of showing how completely, as to style and 
versification, he had anticipated Beppo and Don Juan. 
In the introductions to his cantos, and in various de- 
tached passages of mere description, he had produced 
precisely the sort of effect at which Lord Byron aim- 
ed in what we may call the secondary, or merely 
ornamental, parts of his Comic Epic. For example, 
this is the beginning of Whistlecraft's first cant: — 

" I've often wish'd that I conid write a book. 
Such as all English peep ^ might peruse ; 

I never sliould regret the pains it took, 
That's just the sort of fame that I should choose : 

To sail about the world like Captain Cook, 
I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse, 

And we'd take verses out to Demarara, 

To New South Wales, and up to Niagara. 

' Poets consume exciseable commodities, 

They raise the nation's spirit when victorious, 

They drive an export trade in whims and oddities 
Making our commerce and revenue glorious ; 

As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis 
That Poets should be reckon'd meritorious : 

And therefore I submissively propose 

To elect one Board for Verse and one for Prose 

" Princes protecting Sciences and Art 

Pve often seen, in copper plate and print ; 



20 



I never saw them elsewhere, for my part, 
And therefore I conclude there's nothing in 't : 

But everybody knows the Regent's heart ; 
I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint 

Each Board to have twelve members, with a seat 

To bring them in per ann. five hundred necr : — 

" From Princes I descend to the Nobility : 
In former times all persons of higli stations, 

Lords, Baronets, and Persons of gentility, 
Paid twenty guineas for the dedications : 

This practice was attended with utility ; 
The patrons lived to future generations, 

The poets lived by their industrious earning, — 

So men alive and dead cou. ^ live by Learning. 

" Then, twenty guineas was a jttle fortune ; 

Now, we must starve unless the times should mend t 
Our poets now-a-days are deem'd importune 

If their addresses are diffusely penn'd ; 
Most fashionable authors make a short one 

To their own wife, or child, or private friend. 
To show their independence, I suppose ; 
And that may do for Gentlemen like those. 

" Lastly, the common people I beseech — 

Dear People ! if you think my verses clever, 

Preserve with care your noble parts of speech. 
And take it as a maxim to endeavor 

To talk as your good mothers used to teach, 
And then these lines of mine may last forever ; 

And don't confound tlw language of the nation 

With long-tail'd words in ositi/ and ation. 

" I think that Poets (whether Whig or Tory) 
(Whether they go to meeting or to church) 

Should study to promote their country's gloiy 
With patriotic, diligent research ; 

That children yet unborn may learn the story, 
With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch 

It stands to reason— This was Homer's plan. 

And we must do— like him— the best we can. 

" Madoc and Marmion, and many more, 

Are out in print, and most of them have sold ■ 

Perhaps together they may make a score ; 
Richard the First has ha'd his story told — 

But there were Lords and Princes long before. 
That had behaved themselves like warriors bold . 

Amongst the rest there was the great King Arthur, 

What hero's fame was ever carried farther V 

The following description of King Arthur's Christ- 
mas at Carlisle is equally meritorious : — 

" The Great Kino Arthur made a sumptuous Feast, 
And held his Royal Christmas at Carlisle, 

And thither came the Vassals, most and least. 
From every corner of this British Isle ; 

And all were entertain'd, both man and beast. 
According to their rank, in proper style ; 

The steeds were fed and litter'd m the stable. 

The ladies and the knights sat down to table. 

" The bill of fare (as you may well suppose) 
Was suited to those plentiful old times. 

Before our modern luxuries arose. 
With truffles and ragouts, and various crimes ; 

And therefore, from the original in prose 
I shall arrange the catalogue in rhymes : 

They served up salmon, venison, and wild boars 

By hundreds, and by dozens, and by scores. 

" Hogsheads of honey, kilderkins of mustard. 
Muttons, and fatted beeves, and bacon swine ; 

Herons and bitterns, peacock, swan, and bustard, 
Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and in fine. 

Plum-puddings, pancakes, apple-pies, and custard; 
And therewithal they drank good Gascon wine, 

With mead, and ale, and cider, of our own ; 

For porter, punch, and negus were not known. 

" The noise and uproar of the scullery tribe. 
All pilfering and scrambling in their calling. 

Was past all powers of language to describe — 
The din of manful oaths and female squalling : 

The sturdy porter, huddling up his bribe. 
And then at random breaking heads and bawling. 

Outcries, and cries of order, and contusions. 

Made a confusion beyond all confusions ; 



154 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Beggars and vagabonds, Wind, lame, and sturdy, 
Minstrels and singers with their various airs, 

The pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy. 
Jugglers and mountebanks with apes and bears, 

Continued from the first day to the third day, 
An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs ; 

There were wild beasts and foreign birds and creatures, 

And Jews and Foreigners with foreign features. 

AH sorts of people there were seen together, 
All sorts of characters, all sorts of dresses ; 

The fool with fox's tail and peacock's feather. 
Pilgrims, and penitents, and grave I)urgesses , 

The country people with their coats of leather. 
Vintners and victuallers with cans and messes ; 

Grooms, archers, varlets, falconers and yeomen. 

Damsels and waiting-maids, and waiting-women. 

" But the profane, indelicate amours, 

The vulgar, unenlighten'd conversation 

Of minstrels, menials, courtesans, and boors, 
(Although appropriate to their meaner station,) 

Would certainly revolt a taste like yours ; 
Therefore I shall omit the calculation 

Of all the curses, oaths, and cuts, and stabs. 

Occasion'd by their dice, and drink, and drabs 

" We must take care in our poetic cruise. 

And never hold a single tack too long ; 
Therefore my versatile, ingenious Muse, 

Takes leave of this illiterate, low-bred throng. 
Intending to present superior views, 

Which to genteeler company belong. 
And show the liigher orders of society 
Behaving with politeness and propriety. 

" And certainly they say, for fine behaving 

King Arthur's Court has never had its match ; 

True point of honor, without pride or braving, 
Strict etiquette forever on the watch : 

Their maimers were refined and perfect— saving 
Some modern graces, which they could not catch, 

As spitting through the teeth, and driving stages, 

Accomplishments reserved for distant ages. 

" They look'd a manlv, generous generation ; [thick. 
Beards, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and 

Their accents firm and loud in conversation. 
Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick. 

Showed them prepared, on proper provocation. 
To give the lie, pull noses, stab, and kick ; 

And for that very reason, it is said. 

They were so very courteous and well-bred. 

" The ladies look'd of an heroic race — 

At first a general likeness struck your eye. 

Tall figures, open features, oval face. 
Large eyes, with ample eyebrows arch'd and high ; 

Their manners had an odd, peculiar grace, 
Neither repulsive, affable, nor shy, 

Majestical, reserved, and somewhat sullen ; 

Their dresses partly silk and partly woollen." 

The little snatches of critical quizzing introduced 
in Whistlecraft are peifecf in their way. Take, for 
example, this good-humored parody on one of the most 
magnificent passages in Wordsworth : — 

" In castles and in courts Ambition dwells 

But not in castles or in courts alone ; 
She breathed a wish, throughout those sacred cells, 

For bells of larger size, and louder tone ; 
Giants abominate the sound of bells. 

And soon the fierce antipathy was shovsm, 
The tinkling and the jingling, and the clangor. 
Roused their irrational, gigantic anger. 

" Unhappy mortals ] ever blind to fate ! 

Unhappy I\Ionks I you see no danger nigh ; 
Exulting m their sound, and size, and weight. 

From m.orn till noon the merry peal you ply : 
The belfry rocks, your bosoms are elate. 

Your spirits with the ropes and pulleys fly ; 
Tired, but transported, panting, pulling, hauling. 
Ramping and stamping, overjoy'd and bawling. 

' Meanwhile the solemn mountains that surrounded 
The silent valley where the. convent lay, 

With tintinnabular uproar were astounded, 
When the first peal burst forth at break of day: 

Feeling their granite ears severely wounded, 



They scarce knew what to think, or what to say , 
And (though large mountains commonly conceal 
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel, 

" Yet) Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne 

To huge Loblommon gave an intimation 
Of tins strange rumor, with on awful tone, 

Thundering his deep surprise and indignation ; 
The lesser hilts, in language of their own, 

Discuss'd the topic by reverberation ; 
Discoursing with their echoes all day long, 
Their only conversation was, ' ding-dong.' " 

Mr. Rose has a very elegant essay on Whistlecraft, 
in his " Thoughts and Recollections by One of the last 
Century," which thus conclude.s : — 

' Beppo, which had a story, and which pointed but one 
way, met with signal and u;uversal success ; while ' The 
Monks and the Giants' have btt:^ little appreciated, by the 
majority of readers. Yet those wi.o will only laugh upon a 
sufficient warrant, may, on analyzing this bravura-poem, find 
legitimate matter for their mirth. The want of meaning 
certainly cannot be objected to it, with reason ; for it contains 
a deep substratum of sense, and does not exhibit a character 
which has not, or might not have, its parallel in nature. I 
remember at the time this poem was put . shed, (which was, 
when the French monarchy seemed endangered by the vacil- 
lating conduct of Louis XVIII. , who, under the guidance of 
successive ministers, was trimming between the loyalists 
and the liberals, apparently thinking that civility and concilia- 
tion was a remedy for all evils,) a friend dared me to prove 
my assertion ; and, by way of a text, referred me to the 
character of the crippled abbot, under whose direction, 

' The convent was all going to the devil. 

While he, poor creature, thought himself beloved 
For saying handsome things, and being civil. 
Wheeling about as he was pull'd and shoved.' 

" The obvious application of this was made by me to 
Louis XVIII. ; and if it was not the intention of the author 
to designate him in particular, the applicability of the 
passage to the then state of France, and her ruler, shows, 
at least, the intrinsic truth of the description. Take, in the 
same way, the character of Sir Tristram, and we shall find 
its elements, if not in one, in different living peisons. 

' Songs, music, languages, and many a lay 

Asturian, or Armoric, Irish, Basque, 
His ready memory seized and bore away ; 

And ever when the ladies chose to ask, 
Sir Tristram was prepared to sing and play, 

Not like a minstrel, earnest at his task, 
But with a sportive, careless, easy style. 
As if he seem'd to mock liimself the while. 

' His ready wit, and rambling education, 
With the congenial influence of his stars. 

Had taught him all the arts of conversation, 
All games of skill, and stratagems of wars : 

His birth, it seems, by Merlin's calculation, 
Was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars ; 

His mind with all their attributes was mix'd. 

And, like those planets, wand'ring and unfijc'*^ ' 

" Who can read this description, -svithout recognising in 
it the portraits (flattering portraits, perhaps) of two military 
characters well known in society .'" 

The reader will find a copious criticism on Whistle- 
craft, from the pen of Ugo Foscolo, in the Quarterly 
Review, vol. xxi.l 



BEPPO. 



I. 

'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion. 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about; 
The people take their fill of recreation. 



BEPPO. 



155 



And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 

However high their rank, or low their station, 
With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, masquing. 
And other things which may be had for asking 

II. 

Tho moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies, (and the more duskily the better,) 

The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
Begins, and prudery flings aside her fetter ; 

And gayety on restless tiptoe hovers, 

Giggling with all the gallants who besot he: 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming. 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, 
Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos ; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical. 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. 

But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy,— 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You'd better walk about begirt with briers. 
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

Tliey'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



But saving this, you may put on whate'er 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Such as in Monmouth-street, or in Rag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are. 

With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 

For, bating Govent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that's call'd " Piazza" in Great Britain.' 

VI. 

This feast is named tho Carnival,^ which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh :" 

So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresh. 



But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 

Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting. 
In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting 

VII. 

And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes. 
And solid meats, and highly spiced ragouts. 

To live for forty days on ill-dress'd fishes. 
Because they have no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causes many " poohs" and " pishes,*' 
And several oaths, (which would not suit tho Muso,) 

From travellers accustom'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIIL 

And therefore humbly I would recommend 
" The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 

The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 
Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross. 

(Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
By any means least liable to loss,) 

Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 

Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well-nigli starve ye ; 

IX. 

That is to say, if yovxr religion's Roman, 
And you at Rome would do as Romaifs do. 

According to t'lie proverb, — although no man, 
If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 

If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman. 
Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 

Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 

But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 

X. 

Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore, 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix my story, 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 

XI. 

They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still ; 

Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's, 

(The best's at Florence^— see it, if ye will,) 



1 [" For, bating Covent Garden, I can't hit on 

A place," &c. MS.] 

2 [" The Carnival," says Mr. Rose, " though it is gayer or 
duller, according to the genius of the nations which cele- 
brate it, is, in its general character, nearly the same all over 
the peninsula. The begiiuiing is like any other season ; 
towards the middle you begin to meet masques and mum- 
mers in sunshine : in the last fifteen days the plot thickens ; 
and during the three last all is hurly-burly. But to paint 
these, which may be almost considered as a separate festival, 
I must avail myself of the words of Messrs. Wilham and 
Thomas Whistlecraft, in whose ' Prospectus and Specimen 
of an intended National Work' I find the description ready 
made to my hand, observing that, besides the ordinary 
liumatis personse,— 

' Beggars and vagoHonds, blind, lame, and sturdy. 
Minstrels and singers, with their various airs. 
The pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy, 

Jugglers and mountebanks, with apes and bears, 
C jntuiue, from the first day to the third day, 
An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs'— 



the shops are shut, all business is at a stand, and the drunken 
cries heard at night afford a clear proof of the pleasures to 
Wliich these days of leisure are dedicated. These holydays 
may surely be reckoned amongst the secondary causes 
wliich contribute to the indolence of the Italian, since they 
reconcile this to his conscience, as oeuig of religious in- 
stitution. Now there is, perhaps, no offence which is so 
unproportionably punished by conscience as that of indo- 
lence. With the wicked man, it is an intermittent disease , 
with the idle man, it is a chronic one."— Letters from the 
North of Italy, vol. li. p. 171.] 

3 [" At Florence I remained but a day, having a hurry for 
Rome. However, I went to the two galleries, from which 
one returns drunk with beauty ; but there are sculpture and 
painting, which, for the first tune, gave me an idea oi what 
people meant by their cant about those two most artificia. 
of the arts. What struck me most were,— the mistress of 
Raphael, a portrait ; the mistress of Titian, a portrait ; a 
Venus of Titian, in the Medici gallery ; the Venus ; Cano- 
va's Venus, also in the other gallery," k.c.— Byron Letters 
1817.] 



156 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



They look when leaning over the balcony, 
Or stepp'd from out a picture by Giorgione,' 

XII. 

Whose tints are trutli and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go,^ 
That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so ; 
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self ; but such a woman ! love in life !^ 

XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 

No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name. 
But something better still, so very real, 

Tliat the sweet model must have been the same ; 
A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 

Wer't not impossible, besides a shame : 
The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 
You ;.nco have seen, but ne'er will see again ; 

XIV. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when we 
Are young, and fix our eves on every face ; 

And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
In momei^ary gliding, the soft grace. 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree. 
In many a nameless being we retrace. 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall know, 

Like the lost Pleiad' seen no more below. 

XV. 

I Baid tliat like a picture by Giorgione 
Venetian women were, and so they are, 

Particularly seen from a balcony, 

(For beauty's sometimes best set off afar,) 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 

They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And, truth to say, they're mostly very pretty. 

And rather like to show it, more's the pity I 

XVI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs. 

Sighs wia'ieS; wishes words, and words a letter. 



1 [" I know nothing of pi "V'res myself, and care almost as 
little ; but to me there are lione like the Venetian— above 
all, Giorgione. I remciiber well his Judgment of Solomon, 
in the Mariscalchi galler/ in Bologna. The real mother is 
beautiful, exquisitely beautiful."— i'yrore Letters. 1820.] 

2 [The following is Lord Byron's account of his visit to 
this palace, in Apiil, 1817. — " To-day, I have been over the 
Manfrini palacs, famous for its pictures. Amongst them, 
there is a portra. of Anosn by Titian, surpassing all my 
anti ^ipation of the power of pa_-\ting or human expression : 
it is i..e poetry of portrait, and the portrait of poetry. There 
was also one of some learned lady centuries old, whose 
name I forget, but whose features must always be remem- 
bered. I never saw greater beauty, or sweetness, or wis- 
dom ; — it is the kind of face to go mad for, because it cannot 
walk out of its frame. There is also a famous dead Christ 
and live Apostles, for which Bonaparte offered in vain five 
thousand louis ; and of which, though it is a capo d' opera 
of Titian, as I am no connoisseur, I say little, and thought 
less, except of one figure in it. There are ten thousand 
others, and some very fine Giorgiones amongst them. There 
IS an original Laura and Petrarch, very hideous both. Pe- 
trarch has not only the dress, but the features and air of an 
old woman ; and Laura loots ^y no means like a young 
one, or a pretty one. What struck most in the general 
t'oUection, was the extreme resemblance of the style of the 
female faces in the mass of pictures, so many centuries oi 
t'oneralions old, to those you see and meet every day among 
the existing Italians. The Queen of Cyprus and Giorgione's 
wife, particularly the latter, are Venetians as it were of 
yesterday ; the same eyes and expression, and, to my mind, 



Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
Who do suc\i things because they know no better 

And then, God knows, what mischief may arise, 
When love links two young people in one fetter, 

Vile assignations, and adulterous beds. 

Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XVII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
As very fair, but yet suspect in fame,^ 

And to this day from Venice to Verona 
Such matters may be probably the same. 

Except that since those times was never known a 
Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 

To suffocate a wife no more than twenty. 

Because she had a " cavalier servente," 

XVIIl. 

Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooly devil of Othello's 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather. 
But worthier of these much more jolly fellows. 

When weary of the matrimonial tether 
His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's.^ 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 

You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 

'Tis a long cover'd boat that's common here, 

Carved at the prow, built lightly, tut compactly, 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly. 

Just like a coflin clapp'd in a canoe, 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go, 

And under the Rialto'' shoot along, 
By night and day, all paces, swift or slow. 

And round the theatres, a sable throng. 
They wait in their dusk livery of wo, — 

But not to them do wofiU things belong. 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
Like mourning coaches when the fmieral's done. 



there is none finer. You must recollect; however, that 1 
know nothing of painting, and that I detest it, unless it re- 
minds me of something I have seen, or think it possible to 
see."] 

3 [This appears to be an incorrect description of the pic- 
ture ; as, according to Vasari and others, Giorgione never 
was married, and died young.] 

* " Quae septem dici sex tamen esse solent." — Ovid. 

5 [" Look to 't : 
In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks 

They dare not show their husbands ; their best conscience 
Is— not to leave undone, but keep unknown." — Othello.} 

6 [" Jealousy is not the order of the day in Venice, and 
daggers are out of fashion, while duels on love matters are 
unknown — at least, with the husbands."— Byron Letters.'] 

' [An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of 
the bridge, but of the island from which it is called ; and the 
Venetians say, il ponte di Rialto, as we say Weslininstei 
Bridge. In that island is the Exchange ; and I have often 
walked there as on classic ground. In the days of Antonio 
and Bassanio it was second to none. " I sotto portichi," says 
Sansovino, writing in 1580, " sono ogni giorni frequentati dai 
mercatanti Fiorentini, Genovesi, Milaiiesi, Spagnuoli, Tur- 
chi, e d' altre nationi diverse del mondo, i qualivi concorrono 
in tanta copia, che questa piazza e annoverata fra le prune 
dell' universe." It was there that the Christian hell Us- 
course with the Jew ; and Shylock refers to it, when he says, 
" Signer Antonio, many a time and oft. 
In the Rialto, you have rated me.'' 
"Aiyiiarao h. Rialto"— " 1' ora di Rialto"— were en erory 
tongue ; and continue so to the present dey.— Rooirs ] 



BEPPO. 



157 



XXI. 

Bu; to my story.— 'IVas some years ago, 

It may be tliirty, forty, more or less, 
Tlie carnival was at its height, and so 

Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
A certain lad/ went to see the show, 

Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old, nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a " certain age" 

Wliich yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

Tlie period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return'd the compliment. 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 

And Laura's brow a froAvn had rarely bent; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 

XXIV. 

She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 

To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
Whereas, if single ladies play the fool, 

(Unless within the period intervenient 

A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool,) 

I don't know how they ever can get over it. 

Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXV. 

Her husoand sail'd upon the Adriatic, 

And made some voyages, too, in other seas. 

And when he lay in quarantine for pratique, 
(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease,) 

Hb^ wife would momit, at times, her highest attic, 
For thence she could discern the ship with eas6 : 

He Avas a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a ma^ as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though color'd, as it were, within a tanyard, 
He was a person both of sense and vigor — 

A better seaman never yet did man yard : 

And she, although her manners show'd no rigor, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to bo thought almost invincible.* 



XXVII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt. 

And did not like the thoughts of steering home ; 
And there were several offer'd any bet. 

Or that he would, or that he would not come. 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
Will back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIIL 

'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 

As partings cften are, or ought to be, 
And their presentiment was quite prophetic 

That they should never more each other see, 
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic. 

Which I have known occur in two or three,) 
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little, 

And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 

She almost lost all appetite for victual. 

And could not sleep with ease alone at night ', 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to 'protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A Count of v/ealth, they said, as well as quality. 

And in his pleasures of great Uberality.'^ 

XXXL 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 

Music, and dancing, fiddling, French and Tuscan 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too. 

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskm ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura!'^ 

XXXIL 

His " bravo" was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd " Academie" sigli'd in silent awe ; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around. 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 

The " prima donna's" tuneful heart would bound. 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah !" 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 



1 [" The general state of morals here is much the same as 
in the Doges' time ; a woman is virtuous (according to the 
code) who limits herself to her husband and one lover ; those 
who have two, three, or more, arc a little wild ; but it is only 
those who are indiscriminately diffuse, and form a low con- 
nection, who are considered as overstepping the' modesty 
of marriage. There is no convincmg a woman here, that 
she is in the smallest degree deviating from the rule of right 



or the fitness of things, in having an amoroso. The great sm 
seems to lie in concealing it, or having more than one ; that 
is, unless such an extension of the prerogative is understood 
and approved of by the prior claimant."— iJyron Littets, 
1817.] 

s [" A Count of wealth inferior to his quality, 

Which somewhat limited his liberality."— MS.] 



158 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXXTII. • 

He patronised the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas, 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory [has 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France 
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very Vdlet seem'd a hero. 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful, too, as well as ainorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain. 
Although they're now and then a little clamorous. 

He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
His heart was onfe of those which most enamor us, 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain. 
He was a lover of the good old school, 
Who still become more constant as they cool. 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady — 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern. 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 

XXXVI. 

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman, 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,) 

'Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes" are quite common. 
And no one notices, nor cares a piri ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A second marriage which corrupts the _^rsi. 

XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 

^nilhat is now grown vulgar and indecent; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,"^ 

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ; 

In short it reaches from the Po to Teio, 

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent. 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all duo deference 
To the fair single part of the Creation, 

That married ladies should preser^'e the preference 
In tete-d-tete or general conversation — 

And this I say without peculiar reference 
To England, France, or any other nation — 

Because they know the world, and are at ease. 

And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 
'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming. 

But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming. 

All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 



1 Coitejo IS pronounced Corte/io, wi*.h an aspirate, accord- 
ing to the Arabesque guUural. It means what there is as 
yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is 
as commcn as in any tramontane country whatever. 



And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 

What you, she, it, or they, may be about. 
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 

XL. 

But " Cavalier Servente" is the phiase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obe^s. 

His is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call. 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say. 

That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 
Who love to see the Sun shine every dayj 

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree ,o tree 
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play, 

Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 
When the first act is ended by a dance 
In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out. 

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about. 
Because the skies are not the most secure ; 

. know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure. 

Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way,/— 

In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas, 

To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
•A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
But with all Heaven t'himself; that day will break as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forcbc t: borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 

XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth. 

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in. 
That not a single accent seems uncouth. 

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 

Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. 

XLV. 

I like the women too, (forgive ray folly,) 

From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze,* 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 

To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance. 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes. 

Soft as her clime,^ and sunny as her skies.* 



2 [" From the tall peasant with her ruddy bronze." — MS.3 
s [" Like her own chme. all sun, and bloom, and skies." — 

MS.] 
< [" In these lines the author rises above the usual aad 



BEPPO. 



159 



XLVI. 

Eve of the laud which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Raphael,^ who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, 
In what he hath bequeath'd us?— in what ^ise, 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow, 
While yet Canova can create below ?^ 

XLVII. 

« England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 

I like to speak and lucubrate my. fill ; 

I like the government, (but that is not it ;) 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 

I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we've got it ;) 

I like a parliamentary debate. 

Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 

XLVIII. 

I like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any ; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy. 

That is, I like iwo months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King ! 
Which means that I like all and every thing. 

XLIX. 

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 

Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 

Our little riots just to show we're free men. 
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 

Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
All these I can forgive, and those forget, 

And greatly venerate our recent glories, 

And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 

L. 

But to my tale of Laura, — for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 

And caring little for the author's ease. 
Insist on knowing what ho meaias, a hard 
And hapless situatir i for a bard. 

LI. 

Oh that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 

Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
Those pretty poems never known to fail, 



How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 

A Grecian, Syrian »r Assyrian tale ; 
And sell you, mix'd w th western sentimentalism, 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. 

LI I. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
(A broken Dandy' lately on my travels,) 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels. 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 

I've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 

But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement. 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant: 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 

LIV. 

But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 

The gentleman was fond, the lady fair. 

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to 
break them : 

The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
The pious only wish'd " the devil take them !" 

He took them not ; he very often waits. 

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LV. 

But they were young : Oli ! what without our youth 
Would love be ! What would youth be without lov3. 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth. 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above ; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of few things experience don't improve, 

Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 

Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made. 

Which you do when your mind's made up to go 

To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 

The only difference known between the cases 

Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnish'd faces." 



appropriate pitch of his composition, and is betrayed into 
something too like enthusiasm and deep feeling for the light 
and fantastic strain of his poetry. Neither does the fit go 
off, for he rises quite into rapture in the succeeding stanza. 
This is, however, the onlv slip of the kind in the whole 
work— the only passage in which the author betrays the 
secret (which might, however, have been susjjected) of his 
own genius, and his affinity to a higher order of poets than 
those to whom he has here been pleased to hold out a 
model."— Jeffrey.] 

» For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's 
death, tee his lives 

t Xf^i, _(in talking thus, the writer, more especially 
Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially. 
And always, reader, in a modest way ; 



Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay. 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unfinish'd, like their uiitrimm'd bonnets.) 
(Signed) Printer's Devil. 

3 [" The expressions ' blue-stocking^ and ' dandi/' may fur- 
nish matter for the learning of a commentator at some 
future period. At this moment, every English reader will 
understand them. Our present ephemeral dandy is akin to 
the maccaroni of my earlier days. The first of those ex- 
pressions has become classical, by Mrs. Hannah More'a 
poem of ' Bas-Bleu,' and the other by the use of it in one 
of Lord Byron's poems. Though now become familiar aad 
trite, their day may not be long. 

' Cadentque 

Quae nunc sunt in nonore vocabula.' " 
— Lord Glenbeuvie, Ricciardetto, 1822.] 



160 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LVII. 

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Color'd, and silver pap^r leaved betweeji 
Tliat and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Ridotto ; — 'tis a hall 

Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perliaps, were a masqued ball, 
But that's of no importance to my strain ; 

'Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is " mix'd," (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saying, they're below your notice ;) 

LIX. 

For a " mix'd company" implies that, save 

Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 

Whom you may bow to without looking grave. 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
The fashionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd " the World ;" but I, 

Although I know them, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 

During the dynasty of Dandies,' now 
Perchance succeeded by some other class 

Of imitated imitators : — how 
Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 

The demagogues of fashion :* all below 
Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Wl\o knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements,^ like a whaler, or 

A blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 

Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war. 
And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 

Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 

The more I should believe in her divinity.' 

LXII. 

She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and marriage ; 

I cannot say that she's done much for me yet ; 
Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 

We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
How much she'll make amends for past miscarriage ; 

Medntime the goddess I'll no more importune, 

Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune. 



' [" I liked the Dandies : they were always very civil to 
me ; though, in general, they disUked literary people, and 
POTsecuted and mystified Madame de Stael, Lewis, Horace 
Twiss, and the hke. The truth is, that though I gave up the 
business early, I had a tinge of Dandyism in my minority, 
and probably retained enough of it to conciliate the great 
ones at four and twenty."— %ron Diary, 1621.] 

2 [" When Brummell was obliged to retire to France, he 
knew no French, and having obtained a grammar for the 
purpose of study, our friend Scrope Davies was asked 
what progress Brum.mell had made in French : he re- 
sponded, ' that Brummell had been stopped, like Bonaparte 
in Russia, by the elements.' I have put this pun into Beppo, 



LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 

This story slips forever through my fingers. 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it, 

But must keep time and tune like public singers 
But if I once get through my present measure, 
I'll take another when I'm nej:t at leisure. 

i LXIV. 

They went to the Ridotto, ('tis a place 

To which I mean to go myself to-morrow,* 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space. 

Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 

May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind.) 

LXV. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd. 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she courtsies, and to some she dips. 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'il, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 

LXVI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane. 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — " I'll see no more !" 

For fear, lilie Bauquo's king, they reach a score. 

LXVII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising, 
And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still, — but men are so debased. 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXVIII. 

For my part, now, I ne'er could imderstand 
Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 

A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
I only don't see why it should be thus ; 

And if I were but in a gown and band, 
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 

I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Romilly 

Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 



which is ' a fair exchange and no robbery ;' for Scrope 
made his fortune at several dinners, (as he owned himself,) 
by repeating occasionally, as his own, some of the buffoone- 
ries with which I had encountered him in the morning." — 
Bxjron Diary. 1821.] 

3 [" Like Sylla, 1 have always believed that all things de- 
pend upon Fortune, and nothing upon ourselves. I am not 
aware of any one thought or action, worthy of being called 
good to myself or others, which is not to be attributed to 
the good goddess— Fortune V'— Byron Diary, 1821.] 

< [In the margin of the original MS. Lord Byron has writ- 
ten— " January I'Jth, 1818. To-morrow will Le a Sunday, 
and full Ridotto."] 



BEPPO. 



101 



LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen -and seeing, smiling, 
Talking, slie knew not why and cared not what, 

So that her femaie friends, with envy hroiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 

And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to staro 

With pertinacity that's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny. 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
'Tip said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad: 
They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'em. 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitmn." 

LXXI. 

They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily. 
They scarcely can behold their male relations, 

So that their moments do not pass so gayly 
As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 

Confinem( nt, too, must make them look quite palely ; 
And as the Turks abhor long conversations; 

Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing. 

Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

LXXIL 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism, 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
" That charming passage ia the last new poem." 

Lxxin. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame, 

And getting but a nibble at a time. 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 

LXXIV 

A stalking oracle of awful phrase. 

The approving " Good .'" (Ijy no means good iu \-xvr) 
Humming likes flies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you o'er saw, 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw. 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter. 
And sweating plays so middling, bad were better 

LXXV. 

One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 

One don't know what to say to them, or think, 

Unless to pufF them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombiy's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 

These unquench'd tnufHngs of the midnight taper. 



21 



LXXVI. 

Of these same wo see several, and of others. 

Men of the world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and nil the better brothers, 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the " mighty motlier's," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady.* 

LXXVII. 

The poor deiir Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one would seem to them a new invention. 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian u&cge of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 

No circulating library amasses 

Religlc us novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exliibitiou glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars froir out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics^ 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 

And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in proso ; 

I fear I have a little turn for satire. 

And yet raethinks the older that one grows 

Inclines ns more to laugh than scold, though laughter 

Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter. 

Abominable Man no more allays 
His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise. 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
Meantime I drink t(f your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honor. 
And while I please to stare, you'll please to stay I" 

Could staring win a woman, this liad won her. 
But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise. 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ballroom ero the sun begins to rise. 

Because when once the lamps and candles failj 

His blushes make them look a little pale. 



1 [Nothing can be cleverer tTian this caustic little dia 
tribe, introduced a propos of the life of Turkish ladies in 
their harems.— Jeffeey.] 



16; 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 

I've seen some balls and revels in my tiino, 
And stay'd thein over for some silly reason, 

And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
To see what lady best stood out the season ; 

Aiil thouiT-h I've seen some thousands iu their prime, 
Lovely and pleasinjj, and who still may please on, 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 

AVliosj bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIV. 

The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, 
Although I might, for she was naught to me 

More than that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 

But writing names would nuTit reprehension, 
Yet if you like to ilnd out this fair she, 

At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may niarlc her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXV. 

Laura, wlio know it would not do at all 

To meet the daylight aftor seven hours' sitting 

Among three thouaaud people at a ball, 

To make iier courtsy thouglit it right and fitting: 

The Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 

And they the room were on the point of quitting, 

When lo ! those cursjed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never inteimitting bawling. 

At home, our Bow-street gemmcn keep the laws. 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

Bj': for ail that, there is a deal of swearing. 

And nauseous wordii past mentioning or bearing. 

LXXXVII. 

The Count and Lai-.ra found their boat at last. 
And hom.eward floated o'er the silent tide. 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rciwers glide) 

Sato Laura by the sid? of her Adorer,' 

When lo I the Massulman was there before her. 

Lx: XVIII. 

" Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself to crave 

Its import? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 

I hope it is so ; and, at once to wave 

All compliment "" hope so for your sake : 

You understand my meanmg, or you shall." 

" Sir," (quoth the Turk,) «« 'tis no mistake at all. 

LXXXIX. 

" That lady is jny ztife .'" Much wonder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might; 

But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright ; 

They only call a little on their saints. 

And thea come to themselves, almost or quite ; 

\Vliii:h saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinklin<r 

And cutting stays, as usual ia such cases. [faces', 

> ['• Sate Laura with a kind of comic horror." — MS.] 



XC. 

She said, — what could she say? Why, not a word: 

But the Count courteously invited in 
The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 

" Such things, perhaps, we'd best discuss within," 
Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 

In public, by a scene, nor raise a din. 
For then the chief and only satisfaction 
Will bo much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCI 

They onler'd, and for coffee call'd — it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both. 

Although the way they make it's not the same. 
Now Laura, mucr.. rccover'd, or less loth 

To speak, cries " Beppo 1 what's your pagan name ? 
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth I 

And how came you to keep away so long ? 

Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 

XCII. 

" And are you really, truly, now a Turk? 

With any other women did you wive ? 
Is't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm £.'.fV6 •• 
You'll give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless mo ! did I ever ! No, I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver? 

XCIIL 

" Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you're a day older: 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder? 
How do I look ! You shan't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is I Lord! how gray it's grown !" 

XCIV. 

Wiat answer Beppo made to these demands 
Is more than I know. He was cast away 

xVbout where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
Became a slave of course, and ffir his pay 

Had bread and bastinadoes, till sc::)3 bands 
Of pirates landing in a neighboriug bay. 

He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 

A renegado of indifferent fame. 

xcv. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

Ho thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main ; 

Lqncly ho felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 

IMann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

XCVI. 

Himself, and much (heaven knows how goiien !) caeh. 
He then embark'd with risk of life and limb. 

And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
He said that Providence protected him — 

For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 

S"! sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 

Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 



MAZEPPA. 



163 



XCVII. 

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
And self and livo-stock, to another bottom. 

And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I forgot 'em. 

However, he got off by this evading, 

Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 

And thus at Venice' landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCVIII. 

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
(He made the church a present, by the way ;) 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a day : 



His friends thd more for his long absence prized him, 

Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay. 
With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of 

them. 
For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 

With wealth and talking make him some amends ; 

Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 

I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page. 

Which being finish'd, here the story ends ; 

'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 

But stories somehow lengthen when begun.' 



MAZEPPA.' 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

♦' Celui qni remplissait alors cette place 6tait un 
gentilhomme Polonais, nomm^ Mazeppa, n6 dans le 



1 [" You aslt me," says Lord Byron, in a letter written in 
1820, " for a volume of Manners, &c., on Italy. Perhaps I am 
in the case to Unow more of them than most Englishmen, 
because 1 have lived among the natives, and in parts of the 
country where Englishmen never resided before, (I speak of 
Komagna and this place particularly ;) but there are many 
reasons why I do not choose to treat in print on such a sub- 
ject. Their moral is not your moral ; their life is not j :. a. .ife ; 
you would not understand it : it is not English, nor French, 
nor German, which you would all understand. The conven- 
tual education, the cavalier servitude, the habits of thought 
and living, are so entirely diflerent, and the difference be- 
comes so much more striking the more you live intimately 
with them, that I know not how to make you comprehend a 
people w'ho are at once temperate and profligate, serious in 
their characters and buffoons in their amusements, capable 
of impressions and passions, which a.re at once sudden IKid 
durable, (what you find in no other nation,) and who actually 
have no society, (what we would call so,) as you may see by 
their comedies ; they have no real comedy, not even in Gol- 
doni, and that is because they have no society to draw it 
from. Their conversazioni are not society at all. They go to 
the theatre to talk, and into company to hold their tongues. 
The women sit in a circle, and the men gather into groups, 
or they play at dreary faro, or ' lotto reale,' for small sums 
Their academic are concerts like our own, with better music 
and more form. Their best things are the carnival balls and 
masquerades, when everybody runs mad forsix weeks. After 
their dinners and suppers they make extempore verses and 
buffoon one another; but it is in a humor which you would 
not enter into, ye of the north.— In their houses it is better. 
As for the women, from the fisherman's wife up to the nobil 
dama, their system has its rules, and its fitnesses, and its 
decorums, so as to be reduced to a kind of discipline or 
game at hearts, which admits few deviations, unless you 
wish to lose it. They are extremely tenacious, and jealous 
as furies, not permitting their lovers even to marry if they 
can help it, and keeping them always close to them in pub- 
lic as in private, whenever they can. In short, they trans- 
fer marriage to adultery, and strike the not out of that com- 
mandment. The reason is, that they marry for their parents, 
and love for themselves. They exact fidelity from a lover as 
a debt of honor, while they pay the husband as a tradesman, 
that is, not at all. You hear a person's character, male or fe- 
male canvassed, not as depending on their conduct to their 
husbands or wives, but to the'tr mistress or lover. If 1 wrote 
a quarto, I don't know that I could do more than amplify 
what I have here noted."! 

2 [Tliis extremely clever and amusing performance affords 



palatinat de Podolie : 11 avait €i& ^lev6 page de Jean 
Casimir, et avait pris Ji sa cour quelque teinture des 
belles-lettres. Une intrigue qu'il cut dans sa jeuness© 
avec la femme d'un gentilhomme Polonai* ayaut 6ii, 



a very curious and complete specimen of a kind of diction 
and composition of which our English literature has hither- 
to presented very few examples. It is, in itself, absolutely a 
thing of nothing— without story, characters, sentiments, or 
intelligible object ;— a mere piece of lively and loquacious 
prattling, in short, upon all kinds of frivolous subjects,— a 
sort of gay and desultory babbling about Italy and England, 
Turks, balls, literature, and fish sauces. But still there is 
something very eng.aging in the uniform gayety, politeness, 
and good-humor of the author, and something still more 
striking and admirable in the matchless facility with which 
he has cast into regular, and even difficult, \-ersification the 
unmingled, unconstrahied, and unselected language of the 
most light, familiar, and ordinary conversation. With great 
skill and felicity, he has furnished us with an example of 
about one hundred stanzas of good verse, entirely composed 
of common words, in their common places ; never present- 
ing us with one sprig of what is called poetical diction, or 
even making use of a single inversion, either to raise the 
style or assist the rhyme, but running on in an inexhausti- 
ble series of good easy colloquial phrases, and finding them 
fall into verse bv some unaccountable and happy fatality. In 
this great and 'characteristic quality it is almost invariably 
excellent. In some other respects, it is more unequal. About 
one half is as good as possible, in the style to which it be- 
longs ; the other half bears, perhaps, too many marks of 
that haste with which such a work must necessarily be writ- 
ten. Some passages are rather too snappish, and some run 
too much on the cheap and rather plebeian humor of out-of- 
the-way rhymes, and strange-sounding words and epithets. 
But the greater part is extremely pleasant, amiable, and 
gentlemanlike.— Jeffhey.] 

3 [The following " lively, spirited, and pleasant tale," as 
Mr. Gifford calls it, on the margin of the MS., was written in 
the autumn of 1818, at Ravenna. We extract the following 
from a reviewal of the time :— " Mazeppa is a very fine and 
spirited sketch of a very noble story, and is everyway wor- 
thy of its author. The story is a well-known one ; namely, 
that of the young Pole, who, being bound naked on the back 
of a wild horse, on account of an intrigue with the lady of 
a certain great noble of his country, was carried by his steed 
into the heart of the Ukraine, and being there picked up by 
some Cossacks, in a state apparently of utter hopelessness 
and exhaustion, recovered, and lived to bf long after the 
prince and leader of the nation among whom he had arnved 
in this extraordinary manner Lord Byron has represented 
the strange and wild incidents of this adventure, as being 
related in a half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa him- 
self, to no less a person than Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, 



164 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



d^couverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu fiur un clieval 
farouche, et le laissa aller en cet 6tat. Le cheval, 
qui etait da pays de I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta 
Mazeppa, domi-mort de fatigue et de faim. Quel- 
ques paysans le secourureut : il resta long-tems parmi 
eux, et so signala dans plusieurs coiu-ses centre les 
Tartares. La Bup6riorite de ses lumi^res lui donna 
une grande consideration parmi les Cosaques : sa re- 
putation s'augmeutant de jour en jour, obligea le Czar 
a. le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Voltaire, Hist, de 
Charles XII., p. 196. 

" Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue 
sous lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son 
sang, lui donna le sein. Ainsi on remit deux fois h 
cheval, dans la fuite, ce conqu6rant qui n'avait pu y 
moDter peudant la bataille." — p. 216. 

" Le roi alia par uu autre chemin avec quelques 
cavaliers. Le carros!.-.o oii il etait rompit dans la 
marche ; on le remit i cheval. Pour comble de dis- 
grace, il s'^gara peudant la nuit dans un bois ; Ik, son 
courage ne pouvant plus supplecr k ses forces dpuisees, 
les doulem's de sa blessuro devenues plus insupporta- 
bles par la fatigue, son cheval 6tant tombe de lassi- 
tude, il se concha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, 
en danger d'etre surpris k tout moment par les vain- 
queurs, qui le cherchaient de tous c6tes." — p. 218.* 



MAZEPPA. 



'TwA3 after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede 
Around a slaughter'd army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
Tlie power and glory of the war. 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Ilui pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear. 
And a more memorable year, 
Should give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a thunderbolt to all 

IL 

Such was the hazard of the die ; 

The wounded Charles was taught to fly 

By day and night through field and flood> 

Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 

For thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humliled hour. 

When truth had naught to dread from power. 



m some of whose last campaigiis the Cossack Hetman took 
a distinguished part. He tells it during the desolate bi- 
vouac of Charles and the few friends who fled with him to- 
wards Turkey, after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. 
There is not a little of beauty and gracefulness in this way 
of setting the picture ;— the age of Mazeppa— the calm, prac- 
tised indifference with which he now submits to the worst 
of fortune's deeds — the heroic, unthinking coldness of the 
royal madman to whom he speaks— the dreary and perilous 



His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
His own — and died the Russians' slave 
This too sinks after many a league 
Of well-sustain'd, but vain fatigue ; 
And in the depth of forests, darkling 
The watch-fires in the distance sparkling— 

The beacons of surrounding foes — 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength? 
They laid him by a savage tree. 
In outworn nature's agony ; 
His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they, 
As once the nations round tim lay. 

in. 

A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how ,'ew, 

Since but the fleeting of a day 
Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute. 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
The Ukraine's hetman, calm and bold : 
But first, outspent with this long course. 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed, 

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane. 

And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein, 
And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser miglit refuse 
To browse beneath the midnight dews : 
^ut he was hardy as his lord. 
And little cared for bed and board ; 
But spirited and docile too, 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb. 
All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call. 
And knew him in the midst of all : 
Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

IV. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak. 
And laid his lance beneath his oak. 



accompaniments of the scene around the speaker ar.d the 
audience, — all contribute to throw a very striking charm 
both of preparation and of contrast over the wild story of 
the Hetman. Nothing can be more beautiful, in like man- 
ner, than the account of the love— the guilty love— the fruiti 
of which had been so miraculous."] 

I [For some authentic and interesting particulars con- 
cerning the Hetman JMazeppa, see Barrow's " Memoir of 
the Lite of Peter the Great."] 



MAZEPPA. 



165 



Felt if his anns in order good 

The long day's march had well withstood — 

If still the powder fiU'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
Kis sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man, 
From out his haversack and can. 

Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion ofFer'd then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show. 
And seem above both wounds and wo ; — 
And then he said — " Of all our band. 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answer'd — " 111 betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride !" 
Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore bo, 
Since thou hast learn'd the art so well ?" 
Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell ; 
And we have many a league to go, 
With every now and then a blow. 
And ten to one at least the foe. 
Before our steeds may graze at ease, 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes : 
And, sire, your limbs have need of rest, 
And I will be the sentinel 
Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
Said Sweden's monarch, " thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
Perchance, from this the boon of sice 3 ; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

" Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 't * as in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king — 
John Casimir, — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
A learned monarch, faith ! was hoj 
And most unlike your majesty : 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
New realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reign'd in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex. 
He loved the muses and the sex ; 
And sometimes these so froward are, 
They made him wish himself at war ; 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book ; 
And then he gave prodigious ffites — 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 



Who, being unpension'd, made a satire^, 
And boasted that he could not flatter 
It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses. 
And sign'd my odes ' Despairing Thyrsis.' 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ;' 
And he was proud, ye may divine. 

As if from heaveH ho had been sent : 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath the throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store. 
And o'er his pedigree would pore, 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits were hiS own 
His wife was not of his opinion — 

His junior she by thirty years — 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances. 
Those happy accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender, 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most 



V. 

" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say, 
That there were fe-?, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawnmg time of day. 
Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see. 
But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Compare my day and yesterday ; 
This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his page : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength, my courage, or my mind. 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree. 
With starless skies my canopy. 
But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well . 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood, 

Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 



1 This comparison of a " salt mine" may, perhaps, be per- 
mitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists 
greatly in the salt mines 



166 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But through it stole a tender hght, 
Like the first mooiirise of raidniglit ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Whicli seem'd to melt to its own beam : 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high. 
As ihough it were a joy to die.' 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 

Transparent with the sun therein, 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face within 
A cheek and lip — but why proceed? 

I loved her then — I love her still ; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and il. 
But still we love even in our ragO; 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vahi shadow of the past. 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 



VL 

" We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 

She did not speak, and yet replied ; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of tliought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought 

And form a strange intelligence. 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds. 

Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 

Conveying, as the electric wire. 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept. 

Until I was made known to her. 

And wo might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my lips they died again. 

The accents tremulous and weak. 
Until one hour. — Tliere is a game, 

A frivolous and foolisli play. 

Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — 
And we to this, it seems were set. 
By some strange chance, which I forget , 
I reck'd not if I won or lost. 

It was e ■'ough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot.^ 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of lightning there, 
That there was something* in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 



» I" Until it proves a joy to die."— MS.] 



And on the thought my words broke forth. 
All incoherent as they were — 

Their eloquence was little worth, 

But yet she listou'd — 'tis enough — 
Who listens once will listen twice ; 
Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 

And one refusal no rebuff. 



VII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 

They tell me, sire, you never knew 

Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
To you 'twould seem absurd as vain , 
But all men are not born to reign, 
Or o'er their passions, or as you 
Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
I am — or rather wa,s — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 

Them on where each would foremost blocd J 
But could not o'er myself evince 
The like control — But to resume : 

I loved, and was beloved again ; 
In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where happiest ends in pain.— 
We met in secret, and the hour 
Which led me to that lady's bower 
Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
My days and nights were nothing — all 
Except that hour which doth recall 
In the long lapse from youth to age 

No other like itself — I'd give 

The Ukraine back again to live 
It o'er once more — and bo a page, 
The happy page, who was the lord 
Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
And had no other gem nor wealth 
Save nature's gift of youth and health.— 
We met in secret — doubly sweet. 
Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
I know not that — I would have given 

My life but to have call'd her mine 
In the full view of earth and heaven ; 

For I did oft and long repine 
That we could only meet by stealth 



VIIL 

" For lovers there are many eyes. 

And such there were on us ; — thi^ devil 
On such occasions should be civil — 

The devil I — I'm loth to do him wrong. 
It might be some untoward saint. 

Who would not bo at rest too long, 
But to his pious bile gave vent — 

But one fair night, some lurking spies 

Surprised and seized us both. 

The Count was something more tliau wroth — 

I was unarm'd ; but if in steel. 

All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 

What 'gainst their numbers coulS I do ? — 

'Twas near his castle, far away 
From city or from succor near, 

And almost on the break of day ; 



" out not 

For that which we had both forgot " — JIS j 



MAZEPPA. 



167 



I did not think to see another, 

My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two. 
As I resign'd me to my fate. 
They led me to the castle gate : 
Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Our lot was henceforth separate. — 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be. 

But he was most enraged lest such 
An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got. 
While he was highest of his line ; 
Because unto himself he seem'd 
The hTbt of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeath ! with a page — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt — but cannot paint his rage. 



IX. 

" ' Bring forth the horse I' — the horse was brought ; 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed. 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in hia limbs ; but he was wild. 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
With spur and bridle undefiled — 

'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane. 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain. 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert -born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back with many a thong ; 
Thej' loosed him with a sudden lash — • 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 



X. 

" Away ! — away . — My breath was gone — 
I saw not where he hurried on : 
'Twas scarcely^et the break of day. 
And on he foain'd — away ! — away ! — 
The last of human sounds which rose, 
As I was darted from my foes. 
Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
Which on the wind cajne roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout : 
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head. 
And snapp'd tiie cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
And writhing half my form about, 
Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the tread, 
The thunder of my courser's speed. 
Perchance they did not hoar nor heed: 
It vexes me — for I would fain 
Have paid their in? ult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate. 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
Btone, bar, moat- bridge, or barrier left ; 



Nor of its fields a blade of grass. 

Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was: 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot load pour down like rain 
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof. 

They little thought that day of pain, 
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash. 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
They play'd mo then a bitter prank. 
When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank : 
At length I play'd them one as frank — 
For time at last sets all things even — 
And if we do but watch the hour, 
There never yet was human power 
Wliich could evade, if unforgiven. 
The patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 



XI. 

" Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky. 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is checker'd with the northern light : 
Town — village — none were on our track, 

But a wild plain of far extent. 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold, 
Against the Tartars built of old. 
No trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er ; 
And whore the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : — 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray, 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away — 
And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
Ho flew upon his far career ; 
At times I almost thought, indeed. 
He must have slacken'd in his speed ; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increased his fury and affiight : 
I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
But yet he swerved as from a blow ; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 



168 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XII. 

" We iiear'd the wild wood — 'twas bo wide, 

I saw 110 bounds on either side ; 

'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls down from Siberia's waste. 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few, and far between 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green. 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves. 

Ere strowii by those autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolor'd with a lifeless red. 

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore 

Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless head, 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 

May peck nnpierced each frozen cheek: 

'Twas a wild waste of underwood. 

And here and there a chestnut stood. 

The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 

But far apart — and well it were, 
Or else a different lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
•My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track. 
Their troop came hard upon our back, 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire • 
Where'er we flew they foUow'd on. 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At daybreak winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
At least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe. 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast. 
Than through the forest -paths he pass'd- 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ] 
All furious as a favor'd child 
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. 



XIIL 

" The wood was oaa^'d ; 'twas more than noon. 
But chill the air, although in June ; 
Or it might be my Toins ran cold — 
Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 



iTf.e reviewer already quoted says,—" As the Hetman 
proceeds, it strikes \is there is a much closer resemblance to 
the fiery flow of Walter Scott's chivalrous narrative, than in 



And I was then not what I seem, 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er : 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures which beset my path. 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood. 

And trodden hard upon', is like 

The rattlesnake's, in act to strike. 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound 

My heart tuni'd sick, my brain grew f^re, 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther: he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go. 

And strove to wake ; but could not moke 
My senses climb up from below: 
I felt as on a plank at sea. 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
At the same time upheave and whelm. 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter ; I have bared my brow 
Full in Death's face — before — and now.' 



XIV. , 
" My thoughts came back ; where was I ? Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hol^ 
And throb by throb: till grownpipang 

Which for a moment would cjiivulse. 

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
My ear with uncouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill ; 
My sight retum'd, though dim ; alas ! 
And thicken'd, as it were, witji glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky. 
Studded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream I 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide. 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 



any of Lord Byron's previous pieces. Nothing can bo 
grander than the sweep and torrent of the horse's speed, 
and the slow, unwearied, inflexible pursuit of tLe wolvee "J 



MAZEPPA. 



169 



Tlie waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes off the ascending waves, 
And onward we advance ! 
We reach the slippery shore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 



XV. 

" With glossy skin, and dripping mane. 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank. 
The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams, 
To stretch bej'ond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white. 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the moon upon my right. 

But naught distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star ; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry with my woes : 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then ! 
Although detected, welcome still. 
Reminding me, through every ill. 

Of the abodes of men. 



XVI. 

" Onward we went — but slack and slow ; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour ; 

But useless all to me. 
His new-born tameness naught avail'd — 
My limbs were bound ; my force had fail'd, 

Perchance, bad they been free. 
With feeble efFort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied — 

But still it was in vain ; 
My limbs were only wrung the more. 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

Which but prolong'd their pain : 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done. 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun- 
How slow, alas ! he came ! 
Methought that mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it roU'd away — 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crjnson, and deposed the stars, 
And call'd the radiance from their cars,* 



And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 



XVII. 

" Up rose the sun ; the mists were cuil'd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around — behind — before ; 
What booted it to traverse o'er 

Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute, 

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
No sign of travel — none of toil ; 

The very tir was mute ; 
And not an insect's shrill small horn. 
Nor matin bircs new voice was borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst. 
The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
And still we were — or seem'd — alone : 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
No, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadi'on they advance ! 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain. 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein. 
And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 

Came thickly thundering on. 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh. 

He answer'd, and then fell ; 
With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 

And reeking limbs immoveable. 
His first and last career is done ! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
They stop — they start — they snufFthe air. 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round. 
Then plunging back with sudden bound. 
Headed by one black mighty steed. 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed. 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside, 
And backward to tli^ forest fly, 
By instinct, from a human eye. — 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
From whence I could not extricate 



1 [" Rose crimson, and forbad the stars 
To sparkle in their radiant cars."— MS.] 




Nor him nor mc — and there we lay 

The dying on the dead ! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 



" And there from mom till twilight bound, 

I felt the heavy hours toil round, 

With just enough of life to see 

My last of suns go down on me, 

In hopeless certainty of mind, 

That makes us feel at length resign'd 

To that which our foreboding years 

Presents the worst and last of fears 

Inevitable — even a boon. 

Nor more unkind for coming soon ; 

Yet sliunn'd and dreaded with such care, 

As if it only were a snare 

That prudence might escape : 
At times both wish'd for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword, 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure. 
They who have reveli'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
Whose heritage was miseiy : 
For he who hath in turn run tlirough 
All that was beautiful and new, 

Hath naught to hope, and naught to leave ; 
And, save the future, (which is view'd 
Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as their nerves may be endued,) 

With naught perhaps to grieve : — 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes. 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his nev/ Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all. 
Repaid his pangs, repair d his fall ;' 
To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no more deplored or cursed, 
But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears. 
Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
To-morrow would have given hirn power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — ■ 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 



XVIII. 

" The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed, 
I thought to mingle there our clay ; 

And my dim eyes of death hath need. 

No hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky. 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Who scarce would wait till both should die, 

Ere his repast begun ; 
He flow, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before ; 
I saw his wing through twiUght flit, 
And once so near me ho alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength ; 



But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand. 
The exerted throat's faint struggling uoise, 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 

Together scared him off at length. — 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is something of a lovely star 

Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
And went and came with wandering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense. 

And then subsiding back to death. 

And then again a little breath, 
A httle thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross'd rry brain — 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 



XIX. 

" I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose? 
Is this a chamber where I he ] 
And is it mortal yon bright eye. 
That watches me with gentle glance i 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that the former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-hair'd, and tall. 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The sparkle of her eye I caught. 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
For ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so wild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid belield 
My heavy eyes at length unseai'd. 
She smiled — and I essay'd to speak,' 

But fail'd — and she approacli'd, and made 

With lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to icavo my accents free ; 
And then hei hand on mine she laid, 
And smooth'd the pillow for my head, 
And stole along on tiptoe tread, 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music follow'd her light feet ; — 

But those she call'd were not awake. 
And she went forth ; but, ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast. 

Another sign she made, to say. 
That I had naught to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call, 

And she would not delay 
Her due return : — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 



XX. 

" She came with mother and with sire— 
What need of more ? — I will not tire 



Canto i. 



THE ISLAND. 



171 



With long recital of the rest, 

Since I became the Cossack's guest: 

Tliey found me senseless on the plain — 

They bore me to the nearest hut — 
They brought nie into life again — 
Me — one day o'er their realm to reign I 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain. 

Sent mo forth to the wilderness, 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
To pass the desert to a throne, — 

What mortal his own doom may guess? — 

Let none despond, let none despair ! 
To-morrow the Borystheues 



May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there.* 
Comrades, good night I" -The Hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where : 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder'd not, — 

The king had been an hour asleep.* 



THE ISLANDS 



CHRISTIAN AND HIS COMRADES. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in Lieutenant Bligh's " Narrative of the Mutiny 
and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, in 
1789 ;" and partly in " Mariner's Account of the 
Tonga Islands."^ 

Genoa, 1823. 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Thk morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way ; 



' [" Charles, having perceived that the day was lost, and 
that his only chance of safety was to retire with the utmost 
precipitation, suffered himself to be mounted on horseback, 
and with the remains of his army fled to a place called Pere- 
wolochna, situated in the angle formed by the junction of 
the Vorskla and the Borj'stlienes. Here, accompanied by 
Mazeppa, and a few hundreds of his followers, Charles 
swam over the latter great river, and proceeding over a 
desolate country, in danger of perishing with hunger, at 
length reached tlie Bog, where he was kindly received by 
the Turkish pacha. The Russian envoy at the Sublime 
Porte demanded that Mazeppa should be delivered up to 
Peter; but the old Hetman of the Cossacks escaped this 
fate by taking a disease which hastened his death." — Bak- 
Row's Peter the Great, pp. 196-203.] 

" [It is impossible not to suspect that the Poet had some 
circumstances of his own personal history in his mind, when 
hi portrayed the fair Polish Theresa, her youthful lover, and 
the jealous rage of the old Count Palatine.] 

' [" The Island" was written at Genoa, early in the year 
1623, and published in the June following.] 

* [We are taught by The Book of sacred history, that the 
disobedience of our fiiS| parents entailed on our globe of 



Tire cloven billow flash'd 'rem off lior prcw 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before ; 
Behind, the Sotith Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white, 
And the wind flutter'd with a freshening flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun. 
But ere he break — a deed is to be done. 



IL 

The gallant chief v/ithin his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 



earth a sinful and a suffering race. In our time there has 
sprung up from the most abandoned of this sinful family — 
from pirates, mutineers, and murderers— a little society, 
which, under the precepts of that sacred volume, is 
characterized by religion, morality, and innocence. The 
discovery of this happy people, as unexpected as it was 
accidental, and all that regards their condition and history, 
partake so much of the romantic, as to render the stoiy 
not ill adapted for an epic poem. Lord Byron, indeed, has 
partially treated the subject ; but, by blending two incon- 
gruous stories, and leaving both of them imperfect, and by 
mixing up fact with fiction, has been less felicitous than 
usual ; for, beautiful as many passages in his " Island" are, 
in a region where every tree, and flower, and fountain, 
breathe poetry, yet, as a whole, the poem is deficient-in 
dramatic effect. — Babeow.] 

5 [The hitherto scattered materials of the " Eventful His- 
tory of the Mutiny and Piratical Seizure of the Bounty," 
with many important and most interesting additions, from 
the records of the Admiralty, and the family papers of 
Captain Heywood, R. N., have lately been collected .and ar- 
ranged by Sir John Barrow, in a little volume, to which tho 
reader of this poem is referred, and from which every yotmg 
officer of the navy may derive valuable instruction.] 



172 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure,' 
And whj' should not his slumber be secure? 
Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet, 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
Young hearts, which languish'd for some sunny isle. 
Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gnve untill'd ; 
The wood without a path but where they will'd 
The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 
Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 
The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 
In man — to have no master save his mood ;^ 
The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold, 
The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 
The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 
The general garden, where all steps may roam. 
Where Nature owns a nation as her child. 
Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 
Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know, 
j Their unexplormg navy, the canoe ; 
Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 
Their strangest sight, a European face : — 
Such was tiie country which these strangers yeam'd 
To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 

in. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late I 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 

Stands, and proclaims the rfign of rage and fear. 

Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast ; 

The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 

Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more at thy command 

The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 

That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 

Its desperate escape from duty's path. 

Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 

Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice ; 



1 [" A few hours before, my situation had been peculiarly 
flattering : I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored with 
every necessary, both for health and service ; the object of 
the voyage was attained, and two thirds of it now completed. 
The remai-^'ng part had every prospectof success." — Bligh.] 

2 [" The women of Otaheite are handsome, mild, and 
cheerful in manners and conversation, possessed of great 
sensibility, and have sufficient delicacy to make them be 
admired and beloved. Tlie chiefs were so much attached 
to our people, that they rather encouraged their stay among 
them than otherwise, and even made them promises of 
large possessions. Under these and many other concomi- 
tant cnxumstances, it ought hardly to be the subject of sur- 
prise that a set of sailors, most of them void of connections, 
should be led away, where they had the power of fixing 
themselves, in the midst of plenty, in one of the finest 
islands in the world, where there was no necessity to labor, 
apd where the allurements of dissipation are beyond any 
conception that can be formed of it."— B.] 

3 ["Just before sunrise, while I was yet asleep, Mr Chris- 
tian, with the master at arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas 
Burkitt, seaman, came into my cabin, and, seizing me, tied 
my hands with a cord behind my back, threatening me with 
instant death, if I spoke or made the least noise. ^ never- 
tlieless called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance ; 
tut the officers not of their party were already secured by 
tentinels at tfei'r doors. At my own cabin door were three 
men, besides the four within, all except Christian had 



For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage. 
Unless he drain the wine of passion — rage. 

IV. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death, 

Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath : — 

They come not ; they are few, and, overawed, 

Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 

In vaiii thou dost demand the cause : a curse 

Is all the an.swer, with the threat of worse. 

Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade. 

Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid 

The levell'd muskets circle round thy breast 

In hands as steel'd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming — " File!" 

But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 

Some lurking remnant of their former awe 

Restrain'd them longer than their broken law ; 

They would not dip their souls at once in blood. 

But left thee to the mercies of the flood.^ 



" Hoist out the boat !" was now the lecc'er's cry ; 

And who dare answer " No !" to Mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour. 

The Saturnalia of iinhoped-for power? 

The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 

With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 

Her only cargo such a scant supply 

As promises the death their hands deny ; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 

Some cordage, canvass, sails, and lines, and twine, 

But treasures all to hennits of the brine. 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air ; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 

The feeling compass — Navigation's soul.* 

VI, 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 
To stun the first sensation of his crime. 
And raise it in his followers — " Ho ! the bowl !'" 
Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 
" Brandy for heroes !"° Burke could once exclaim- 
No doubt a liquid path to ej^ic fame ; 



muskets and bayonets ; he had only a cutlass. I was dragged 
out of bed, and forced on deck in my shirt. On demanding 
the reaion of such violence, the only answer was abuse for 
not holding my tongue. The boatswain was then ordered 
to hoist out the launch, accompanied by a threat, if he did 
not do it instantly, to take care of himself. The boat being 
hoisted out, Mr. Heyward and Mr. Hallet, two of the mid- 
shipmen, and Mr. Samuel, the clerk, were orlered into it 
I demanded the intention of giving this oi ier, and en- 
deavored to persuade the people near me no* to persist in 
such acts of violence ; but it was to no effect ; for the con- 
stant answer was, ' Hold your tongue, or you a^e dead this 
moment !' " — Bligh.] 

4 t" The boatswain and those seamen who weie to be put 
into the boat were allowed to collect twine, can<-ass, lines, 
sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty-gallon cask of water ; 
and Mr. Samuel got one hundred and fifty pounds of bread, 
with a small quantity of rum and wine ; also a quadrant 
and compass."— B."] 

6 ["The mutineei s having; thus forced those of the seamec 
whom they wnshed to get rid of into 'he fc/oat, Christian 'U 
reeled a dram to be served to each of his crew."— B.] 

6 [It appears to have been Dr. Johnson who thus gove 
honor to Cognac. — " He was persuaded," says Bosvvell, "lo 
take one glass of claret. He shook his bead, and said, 
' Poor stuff !— No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys , port 
for men ; but he who aspires to be a hero (smiling) must 
drink brandy.' " — See Boswell, vol *viii. p M, ed. 1835 ] 



Canto i. 



THE ISLAND. 



173 



And Buch the new-bom heroes found it here, 
And drain'd the draught with an applauding cheer 
" Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was the cry. 
How strange such shouts fiom sons of Mutiny I 
The gentle island, and tne genial soil, 
The friendly hearts, the feasts without a toil, 
The courteous manners but from nature caught, 
The wealth unhoarded, and the loTe wnbought ; 
Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, driven 
Before the mast by every wind of heaven ? 
And now, even now prepared with others' woes 
To earn mild virtue's vain desire, repose? 
I Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 
At the same end by pathways not the same ; 
Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 
Oiu* fortune, temper, even our outward frame, 
Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 
Than aught we know beyond our little day. 
Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din : 
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
Man's ct-uscionce is the oracle of God. 

vn. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 
But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 
Of that proud vessel — now a moral wreck — 
And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes ; 
While others scoff'd his augur'd miseries, 
Sneer'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail, 
And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 
The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 
The sea-bom sailor of his shell canoe. 
The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 
Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 
He, when the lightning-wing'd tornadoes sweep 
Tlie surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 
And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 
Which s'lake the world, yet crumble in the wind 

vni. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear. 
Which hail'd her master in the mutineer — 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye. 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth, 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth : 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
No further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn.' 
Then forward stepp'd the bo i and froward boy 
His chief had cherish'd only r destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death !" 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a word recall 



1 t" Isaac Martin, I saw, had an inclination to assist me ; 
and as he fed me with shaddock, my lips being quite parch- 
ed, we explained each other's sentiments by looks. But this 
was observed, and he was removed. He then got into the 
boat, but was compelled to return." — Bligu.] 

2 f" Christian then said, ' Come, Captain Bligh, your offi- 
cers and men are now in the boat, and you must go with 
them : if you attempt to make the least resistance, you will 
instantly be put to death ;' and, without further ceremony, I 
was forced over the side by a tribe of armed ruffians, where 
they untied my hands. Being in the boat, we were veered 
astern by a rope. A few pieces of pork were thrown to us, 



Remorse for the black deed as yet half done, 
And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
When Bligh in stem reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Where all his hopes to see his name aspire, 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
" 'Tis that ! 'tis that ! I am in hell ! in hen I'" 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
His chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 

The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 

As on the .(Eolian harp, his hiful wings 

Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 

With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 

Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 

Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 

That boat and ship shall never meet again! 

But 'tis not mine to tell their tale of grief, 

Their constant peril, and their scant relief; 

Their days of danger, and their nights of pain , 

Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain ; 

The sapping famine, rendering scarce a sou 

Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 

The ills that lessen'd still their little store, 

And starved even Hunger till he wrang no more ; 

The varying frowns and favors of the deep. 

That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 

With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 

The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 

The incessant fever of that arid thirst 

Which welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 

Above their naked bones, and feels delight 

In the cold drenching of the stormy night. 

And from the outspread canvass gladly wrings 

A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 

The savage foe escaped, to seek again 

More hospitable shelter from the main ; 

The ghastly spectres which were doom'd at la.st 

To tell as true a tale of dangers pass'd. 

As ever the dark annals of the deep 

Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep 

X. 

We leave them to their fate, but not anknow 
Nor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own: 
Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer. 
Whom distant vengeance had not taught to fear 
Wide o'er the wave — away I away ! ;iway ! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay; 
Once more the happy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately saw ; 



also the four cutlasses. After having been kept some time 
to make sport for these unfeehng wretches, and having un- 
dergone much ridicule, we were at length cast adrift in the 
open ocean. Eighteen persons were with me in the b- at. 
When we were sent away, ' Huzza for Otaheite !' was Ire- 
quently heard among the mutineers. Christian, the chief 
of Vhera, was of a respectable family in the north of England. 
While they were forcing me out of the ship, I asked him 
whether this was a proper return for the maify instances he 
had experienced of my friendship ? He appeared disturbed 
at the question, and answered, with much emotion, ' That— 
Captain Bligh— that is the thing— I am in bell— 1 am in 
hell!'"— Bligh.] 



174 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



Nature, and Nature's goddess — woman — woes 

To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 

Where all partake the earth without dispute, 

And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ;' 

Where none contest the fields, the woods, the streams : — 

The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams, 

Inhabits or inhabited the shore, 

Till Europe taught them iDetter than before : 

Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 

But left her vices also to their heirs. 

Away with this ! behold them as they were. 

Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 

" Huzza ! for Otaheite !" was tj^e cry, 

As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 

The breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 

Extends its arch before the growing gale ; 

In swifter ripples stream aside the seas. 

Which her bold bow flings off" with dashing ease. 

Thus Argo" plough'd the Euxine's virgin foam , 

But those she wafted still look'd back to home — 

These spuni their country with their rebel bark, 

And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 

And yet they seek to nestle with the dove. 

And tamo their fiery spirits down to love. 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



I. 

How pleasant were the songs of Tool.onai,' 

Wlien summer's sun went down the coral bay I 

Come, let us to the islet's softest shade. 

And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said : 

The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 

Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 

We'll cull the flowers that grow ab "ve the dead. 

For these most bloom where rests 1 le warrior's lead ; 

And wo will sit in twilight's face, a id see 

The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 

The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 

Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 

Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 

Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 

Which spurn in colunnis back the baffled spray. 

How beautiful are these ! how happy they. 

Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives. 

Steal to look dcwn where nauglit but ocean strives ! 

Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon. 

And smooths his ruflled mane beneath the moon 



II. 

Yes — from the sepulchre we'll gather flowers, 
Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers, 
Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf, 
I'hen lay our limbs along the tender turf, 



1 The now ce.eorated bread-fruit, to transplant which 
Captain Bligh's expedition was undertaken. 

2 I The vessel in wliich Jason embarlied ia quest of the 
golden fleece.] 

8 The first three sections are taken from an actual song of 



And, wet and shining from the sportive toil, 

Anoint our bodies with the fragrant oil, 

And plait our garlands gather'd from the grave. 

And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the bravo 

But lo ! night «omes, the Mooa woos us back, 

The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 

Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 

In flashing mazes o'er the Marly's green ; 

And we too will be there ; v/e too recall 

The memory bright with many a festival, 

Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 

For the first time were wafted in canoes. 

Alas I for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 

Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds ; 

Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 

Of wandering with the moon and love alone 

But be it so : — they taught us how to -;ield 

The club, and" rain our arrows o'er the field ; 

Now let them reap the harvest of their art ! 

But feast to-night ! to-morrow we depart. 

Strike up the dance ! the cava bowl fill high ! 

Drain every drop ! — to-morrow we may die. 

In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 

Around our waists the tappa's white display'd ; 

Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's. 

And round our necks shall glance the liooni strings ; 

So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 

Of the dusk bosoms that beat hisrh below. 



III. 

But now the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile ; 

Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 

To-morrow for the Mooa we depart, 

But not to-night — to-night is for the heart. 

Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo. 

Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 

How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 

Bows to your beauties, soften'd, but intense. 

Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep. 

Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep !- 

We too will see Licoo ; but — oh ! my heart I — 

What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song — the harmony of times 
Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 
True, they had vices — such are Nature's growth — 
But only the barbarian's — we have both : 
The sordor of civilization, mix'd 
With all the savage which man's fall ha*h fix'd. 
Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign. 
The prayers of Abel link'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such woidd see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded #ian the New, — 
Now neiv no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Where Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 



Such was this ditty of Tradition's days. 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 



the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is givci in 
'' Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." Tooboiuii is riot 
however one of them ; but was one of those where Chris- 
tian and the mutineers tooit refuge. I have altered and 
added, but have retained as much as possible of the on 
ginal. 



Cantc II. 



THE ISLAND. 



175 " 



In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 

Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine ; 

Which leaves no record to the skeptic eye, 

But yields young history all to harmony ; 

A boy Achilles with the centaur's lyre 

In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 

For one long-cherish'd ballad's simple stave. 

Rung from tiie rock, or mingled with the wave. 

Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 

Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide. 

Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 

Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear; 

Invites, when hieroglyphics are a theme 

Forsao-es' labora or the student's dream ; 

Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil, — 

The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 

Such was this rude rhyme — rhyme is of the rude — 

But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 

Who came and conquer'd ; such, wherever rise 

Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 

Exist : and what can our accomplish'd art 

Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies. 

The sweet siesta of a summer day. 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

When every flower was bloom, and air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm. 

The first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty cave. 

Where sat the songstress with the stranger boy. 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 

Like martyrs revel in tiieir funeral {)yre. 

With such devotion to their ecstasy, 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has naught 

Match'd with that burst of nature, even in thought, 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

VIL 

There sat the gentle savage of the wild. 
In growth a woman, though in years a child, 
As ;hildhood dates within our colder clime, 
Where nauglit is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature — lovely, warm, and premature ; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell. 
With all her loves around her on the deep. 
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 
Yet fall of life — for through her tropic cheek 
The blush would make its way, and all but speak ; 



1 [George Stewart. "He was," saj's Bligh, "a young 
man of creditable parents in the Orkneys ; at which place, 
on the return of the Resolution from the South Seas, in 
1780, we received so many civilities, that, on that account 
only, I should gladly have taken him with me ; but, inde- 
pendent of this recommendation, he was a seaman, and had 
aJways borne a good character."] 

' Th-; " ship of the desert" is the Oriental figure for the 
camei or dromedary ; and they deserve the metaphor well, — 
the iurraer for his endurance, the latter for his swiftness. 



The sun-bom blood suffused her neck, and threw 

O'er her clear nut-brown skin a lucid hue, 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave, 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the southern seas, 

Herself a billow in her energies. 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Nor feel a sorrow till their joy grew loss : 

Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knew 

No joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, whose 

Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 

She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not. 

Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 

Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 

O'er lakes to riifHe, not destroy, their glass. 

Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountahis from the hill, 

Restore their surface, in itself so still. 

Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 

Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 

And crush the living waters to a mass. 

The amphibious desert of the dank morass I 

And must their fate be hers ? Tiie eternal change 

But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 

And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 

To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 



VIII. 

And who is he ? the blue-eyed noithem child' 

Of isles more known to man, but scarce less wild ; 

The fair-hair'd ofl^spring of the Hebrides, 

Where roars the Pentland with its whirling seas ; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind, 

The tempest-born in body and in mind. 

His young eyes opening on the ocean-foam. 

Had from that moment deem'd the deep his home, 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods. 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes, 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 

A careless thing, who placed his choice in chance, 

Nursed by the legends of his laud's romance ; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear, ■* 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

As bold a rover as the sands have seen. 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ;- 

Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique ; 

On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 

Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 

For the same soul that rends its path to sway. 

If rear'd to such, can fiud no further prey 

Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,^ 

Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 

Spirit which made a Nero, Rome's worst shame. 

An humbler state and discipline of heart, 

Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart ;* 



3 " Lucullus, when frugality could charm, 

Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm."— Pope. 

4 The consul Nero, who made the unequalled march 
which deceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrub.il; thereby 
accomplishing an achievement almost unrivalled in nulitary 
annals. The first intelligence of his return, to Hannibal, 
was the sight of Asdrubal's head thrown into his camp. 
When Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed witn a sign, that 
" Rome would now be the mistrc^ss of the world." And yet 
to this victory c Nero's it might be owing thai iiis imperial 



»]76 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto n. 



But grant his vices, grant them all his own, 
How small their theatre without a throne ! 

IX. 

Thou smilest ; — these comparisons seem high 

To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 

Link'd with the unknown name of one whose doom 

Has naught to do with glory or with Rome, 

With Chili, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 

Thou smilest ? — Smile ; 'tis better thus than sigh ; 

Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 

A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 

A patriot hero or despotic chief, 

To form a nation's glory or its grief. 

Born under auspices wliich make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he hero ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer: 

The fair-hair'd Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 

X. 

By Neuha's side he sate, and Watch'd the waters, — 
Neuha, the sun-flower of the island daughters, 
Highborn, (a birth at which the herald smiles. 
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles,) 
Of a long race, the valiant and the free. 
The naked knights of savage chivalry, 
Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 
And thine — I've seen — Achilles ! do no more. 
She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came, 
In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier than the palm, 
Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm: 
But when the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 
Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings. 
And sway'd the waves, like cities of the sea, 
Making the very billows look less free ; — 
She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow. 
Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the snow. 
Swift-gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 
Light as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 
And gazed and wonder'd at the giant hulk, 
, Which heaved from wave to wave its trampling bulk : 
The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep, 
Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 
While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain, 
Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XI. 

The white man landed ! — need the rest be told ? 
The New World stretch'd its dusk hand to the Old ; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler fires. 
Their union grew : the children of the storm 
. Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow. 
Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 
The soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 



namesake reigned at all. But the infamy of the one has 
eclipsed the glory of the other. When the name of " Nero" 
is heard, who thinks of the consul ?— But such are human 
tlungs! 

1 When very your.g, about eight years of age, after ai 
attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed by 
medical advice into the Highlands. Here I passed occa- 
sionall)- some Eummers, and from this period I date my 



The sea-spread net, the lightly-launch'd canoej 

Which stemm'd the studded archipelago, 

O'er whose blue bosom rose th,e starry isles ; 

The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils ; 

The palm, the loftiest dryad of tlie woods. 

Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 

While eagles scarce build higher than th^crest 

Which shadows o'er the vineyard in her breast ; 

The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root. 

Which bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 

The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, yioldg 

The unreap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields. 

And bakes its unadulterated loaves 

Without a furnace in impurchased groves. 

And flings olF famine from its fertile breast, 

A priceless market for the gathering guest ; — 

These, with the luxuries of seas and woods. 

The airy joys of social solitudes. 

Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympathies 

Of those who were more happy, if less wise, 

Did more than Europe's discipline had done. 

And civilized Civilization's son ! 

XIL 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neuha and Torquil were not the least fair : 
Both children of the isles, though distant far ; 
Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
Both nourish'd amidst nature's native scenes, 
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
Which still reverts to what first caught the eyo. 
He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
AVill love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lands which are not mine; 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,' 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive me. Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray'd ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIIL 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair. 
The youth which makes one rainbow of the air, 
The dangers pass'd, vhat make even man enjoy 
The pause in wh'oh he ceases to destroy, 
The mutual beauty, vhich the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts like lightning to the steel. 
United the half savage and the whole. 
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
No more the thundering memory of the fight 
Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight ; 



love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the 
effect, a few years afterwards, in England, of the only thing 
I had long seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, in the 
Malvern Hills. After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to 
watch them every afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation 
which I cannot describe. This was boyish enough , but I 
was then only thirteer. years of age, and it was in tXte hob- 
days. 



Canto ii. 



THE ISLAND. 



177 



No more the irksome restlessness of rest 

Disturb'd liim like the eagle in her nest, 

Whose whetted beak and far-pervading eye 

Darts for a victim over all the sky : 

His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state, 

At once Elysian and effeminate, 

Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's uni ; — 

These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 

Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 

Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade? 

Had Ccesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 

Rome had been free, the world had not been his. 

And what have Ceesar's deeds and CiEsar's fame 

Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 

The gory sanction of his glory stains 

The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 

Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 

Roused millions do what single Brutus did — 

Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 

From the tall bough where they have perch'd so long,- 

Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 

And take for falcons those ignoble fowls. 

When but a word of freedom would dispel 

These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIV. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfuhiess of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife. 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame : no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy : 
With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm. 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Howe'er its arch may swell, its colors move, 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XV. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore, 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er ; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
Which deals the daily pittance of our span. 
And poults and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide, 
Like her sm 'oth billow, saw their moments glide ; 
Their clock the sun, in his unbounded tower ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 



1 The now well-known story of the loves of the nightin- 
gale and rose need not be more tlian alluded to, being suffi- 
ciently familiar to the Western as to the Eastern reader. 

2 If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his 
chimney-piece, he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the 
text should appear obscure, he will find in " Gebir" the same 
idea belter exjaressed in two lines. The poem I never read, 
but have heard the lines quoted by a more recondite reader — 
who seems to be of a different opinion from the editor of the 
Quarterly Review, who qualified it, in his answer to the 
Critical Reviewer of his Juvenal, as trash of the worst and 
most insane description. It is to Mr. Landor, the author of 
" Gebir," so qualified, and of some Latin poems, which vie 
with Martial or Catullus in obscenity, that the immaculate 
Mr. Soutliey addresses his declamation against impurity ' 

[Mr. Landor's lines above alluded to are — 

" For I have often seen her with both hands 
Shake a dry crocodile of equal height, 
And listen to the shells within the scales, 



23 



The nightingale, their only vesper-bell. 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ;* 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world forever, earth of light bereft. 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies. 
And then for light into each other's eyes. 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a un, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 

XVI. 

And let not this seem strange : the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 

His soul is gone before his dust to heaven. 

Is love less potent? No — his path is trod. 

Alike uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 

The other better self, whose joy or wo 

Is more than ours ; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by anc^ther, grows the same, 

Wrapp'd in one blaze ; .he pure, yet funeral pile. 

Where gentle hearts, Yi&e Bramins, sit and smile 

How often we forget all time, wiien lone. 

Admiring Nature's universal throne. 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 

Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 

Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 

Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 

No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 

Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 

Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore 

Strip off this fond and false identity I — 

Who thinks of self, when gazing on the sky? 

And who, though gazing lower, ever thought, 

In the young moments ere the heart is taught 

Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own? 

All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XVII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's houi 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower. 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echo'd their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely is Love — the spirit ! — when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder with his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the shell,^ 

And fancy there was life, and yet apply 
The jagged jaws wide open to the ear." 
In the " Excursion" of Wordsworth occurs the foUowng 
exquisite passage : — 

" I have seen 

A curious child, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell, 
To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
Listen'd intensely, and his countenance soon 
Brighten'd with joy ; for murmuring from within 
Were heard sonorous cadences I whereby, 
To his belief, the monitor express'd 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell tlie universe itself 
Is to the ear of failli ; and doth impart 
Authentic tidings of invisible things : 
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power , 
And central peace subs.'sting at the heart 
Of endless agitation."! 



178 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



As, far divided from his parent deep, 
The sea-bom infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Rairsing his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The woods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird wheel'd rockward to his nest, 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XVIII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice .' 
Not such as would have been a lover's choice, 
In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 
No dying night-breeze, hai-ping o'er the hill, 
Striking the strings of nature, rock, and tree, 
Those best and earliest lyres of harmony. 
With Echo for their chorus ; nor the alarm 
Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm ; 
Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl. 
Exhaling all his solitary soul, 
The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, 
Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ; — 
But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 
As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 
And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 
Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho !" 
" Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye 
The sound. " Here's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self-same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south, 

Not like a " bed of violets" on the gale. 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odors over either zone. 

And, puff'd where'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd. 

And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows unabash'd, 

To iEolus a constant sacrifice, 

Through every change of all the varying skies. 

And what was he who bore it? — I may err. 

But deem him sailor or philosopher.^ 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest ; 

Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 

Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand. 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, 

When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 

Like other charmers, wooing the caress 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress ; 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties — Give me a cigar !^ 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke the solitude. 



1 Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, was 
an inveterate smoker, — even to pipes beyond computation. 

2 [" We talked of change of manners, (1773.) Dr. Johnson 
observed, that our drinking less than our ancestors was 
owing to the change from ale to wine. ' I remember,' said 
he, ' when all the decent people in Lichfield got drunk every 
night and were not the worse thought of. Smoking has 
g-jne out. To be sure, it is a shocking thing, blowing smoke 
ait of our mouths into other people's mouths, eyes, and 
noses, and having the same thing done to us. Yet 1 can- 
not ticcount, why a thing which requires so little exertion. 



Fantastically, it may be, array'd. 

A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 

Such as appears to rise out from the deep 

When o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 

And the rough saturnalia of the tar 

Flock o'er the deck, in Neptune's borrow'd car f 

And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 

Revive once more, though but in mimic game 

Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 

Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 

Still the old god delights, from out the main, 

To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 

Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim. 

His constant pipe, which never yet burn'd dim, 

His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait. 

Like his dear vessel, spoke his ''ormer si^ite ; 

But then a sort of kerchief round his head. 

Not over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 

And, 'stead of trousers, (ah ! too early torn I 

For even the mildest woods will have their thorn,', 

'K curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 

Now served for inexpressibles and hat ; 

His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face, 

Perchance might suit alike with either race. 

His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth. 

Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 

The musket swung behind his shoulders broad. 

And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode. 

But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath. 

His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 

Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 

Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 

(Let not this metaphor appear a scoiF, 

Though one miss'd fire, the other would go oflT;) 

These, with a bayonet, not so free from rust 

As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust. 

Completed his accoutrements, as Night 

Survey'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXL 

"What cheer, Ben Bunting?" cried (when in fill 

view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil. " Aught of new ?" 
" Ey, ey !" quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow ; 
A strange sail in the offing." — " Sat'. ' and how ? 
What ! could you make her out ? It cannot be ; 
I've seen no rag of canvass on the sea." 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 
But from the bluff-head, where I watch'd to-day, 
I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
Was light and baffling." — " When the sun declined 
Where lay she? had she anchor'd?" — " No, but still 
She bore down on us, till the wind grew still." 
" Her flag?" — " I had no glass : but fore and aft. 
Egad ! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
" Arm'd ?" — " I expect so ; — sent on the look-out : 
'Tis time, belike, to put our helm about." 
" About? — Whate'er may have us now in chase. 
We'll make no running fight, for that were base ; 



and yet preserves tlie raind from total vacuity, should have 
gone otit.' "— BoswE LL. As an item in the history of manners. 
It may be observed, that drinking to excess has diminished 
f jatly in the memory even of those who can remember forty 
I 'ifty years. The taste for smoking, however, has revived. 
probably from the military habits of Europe during the 
French wcirs ; but, instead of the sober sedentary pipe, the 
ambulator)' cigar is now chiefly used. — Ckokeu, 1830.] 

^'''^his rough but jovial ceremony, used in crossing the 
liril , has been so often and so well described, that it need 
n(^ be more than alluded to. 



Canto hi. 



THE ISLAND. 



179 



We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
" Ey, ey ? for that 'tis all the same to Ben." 
" Does Christian know this?" — " Ay ; he has piped all 

hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted." — " That's but 

fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Neuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Not me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Neuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes !" 
" Right," quoth Ben, " that will do for the marines."' 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



I. 

The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 
Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb. 
Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors upward driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven : 
The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
!Xo more they shriek'd their horror, boom for boom • 
The strife was done, the vanquish'd had their doom ; 
The mutineers were crvxsh'd, disperSed, or ta'en. 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
Few, few escaped, and these were hunted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
No further home was theirs, it seem'd, on earth. 
Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 
Track'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 

wild, 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den. 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 



n. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 
Far over ocean in his fiercest moods, 
When scaling his enormous crag the wave 
Is hurl'd down headlong, like the foremost brave, 
And falls back on the foaming crowd behind, 
Which fight beneath the banners of the wind, 
But now at rest, a little remnant drew 
Together, bleeding, thirsty, faint, and few ; 
But still their weapons in their hands, and still 
With something of the pride of former will, 
As men not all unused to meditate. 
And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 



> " That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't 
brieve it," is an old saying ; and one of the few fragmi "ts 
o. foim^r jealousies which still survive (in jest only) be- 
tween tnase gallant services. y 

^ Archllamus, king of Sparta, and son of Agesilaus, 



Their present lot was what they had foreseen, 
And dared as what was likely to have been ; 
Yet still the lingering hope, which deem'd their ot 
Not pardon'd, but unsought for or forgot. 
Or trusted that, if sought, their distant caves 
Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves, 
Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what they saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 
Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise. 
No more could shield their virtue or their vice : 
Their better feelings, if such v £"e were thrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins reinain'd alone. 
Proscribed even in their second country, they 
Were lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 
All outlets seem'd secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be emplov'd? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence , the grave 
No less of human bravery than the brave !^ 
Their own scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do : 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast i ut one Thermopylae, 
Till now, when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 



HI. 

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 

Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 

Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 

But still the hunter's blood was on their hom ; 

A little stream came tumbling from the height, 

And straggling into ocean as it might, 

Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray. 

And gush'd from cliff" to crag with saltless spray ; 

Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pure 

And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 

Its silver torrent glitter'd o'er the deep. 

As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 

While far below the vast and sullen swell 

Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 

To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst, — 

Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 

Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 

Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 

stains 
From wounds whrtse only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their drought was quench'd, look'd sadly 

round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless: — but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied, 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 



IV 

Stem, and aloof a little from the rest, 

Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest 



when he saw a machine invented for the casting of stones 
and darts, exclaimed, that it was the " grave of va.or." 
The same story has been told of some knights on tlie first 
application of gunpowder ; but the original anecdote is in 
Plutarch. 



180 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto , iii. 



The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 

Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 

His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow. 

Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 

Still as a statue, with his lips compress'd 

To stifle even the breath within his breast, 

Fast by the rock, all menacing, but mute. 

He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot. 

Which deepen'd now and then the sandy dint 

Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 

Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 

Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, — 

Not mortally ; — his worst wound was within : 

His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, ■ 

And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 

Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 

But nature'D ebb. Beside him was another. 

Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 

Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 

And bind his woand — then ciilmly lit his pipe, 

A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 

A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 

The fourth and last of this 'deserted group 

Walk'd up and down — at tunes would stand, then 

stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop — 
Then hurry as in haste — then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements would redouble. 
With something hevw een carelessness and trouble • 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before the eyes ; 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's hves into immortalities. 



V. 

At length Jack Skyscrape, a mercurial man, 

Who flutter'd over all things like a fan. 

More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 

And die at once than wrestle with despair, 

Exclaim'd, " G — d damn !" — those syllables intense,- 

Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 

As the Turk's " Allah !" or the Roman's more 

Pagan " Proh Jupiter I" was wont of yore 

To give their first impressions such a vent. 

By way of echo to embarrassment. 

Jack was embarrass'd, — never-hero more. 

And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 

Nor swore in vain ; the long congenial sound 

Revived Ber, Bunting from his pipe profound ; 

He drew ij fror., his mouth, and look'd full wise. 

But merely added to the oath his eyes; 

Thus rendering the imperfect phrase complete, 

A peroration I need not repeat. 



VI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; 
Silent, and sad, and savage, — with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 
Till lifting up again his sombre eye. 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by 
" And is it thus?" he cried, " unhappy boy ! 
And thee, too, thee — my madnass must destroy !" 
He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood, 
Yet dabbled with his lately flowing blood ; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 



Inquired into his state ; and when lie heard 

The wound was slighter than he deem'd or feard, 

A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 

As much as sucli a moment would allow. 

" Yes," he exclaim'd, " wo are taken in the toil, 

But not a coward or a common spoil ; 

Dearly they have bought us — dearly still may bny,- 

And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly ? 

'Twould be some comfort still, could you survive ; 

Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 

Oh ! for a sole canoe ! though but a shell. 

To bear you hence to where a hope may dwell I 

For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 

In life or ocath, the fearless and the free." 

vir. 

Even as he spoke, around the prcmcntory. 

Which nodded o'er the billows high and hoary, 

A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew • 

Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew 

Onward it came — and, lo ! a second follow d — 

Now seen — now hid — where ocean's vale was hallow'd ; 

And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 

Presented well-known aspects to the view. 

Till on the surf their skimming paddles play, 

Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray ; — 

Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 

Dash'd downward in the thundering foam below. 

Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on sheet, 

And slings its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet : 

But floating still through surf and swell, drew nigh 

The barks, like small birds through a lowering sky. 

Their art seem'd nature — such the skill to sweep - 

The wave of these born playmates of the deep 

VIII. 

And who the firs^ that, springing on the strand, 
Iieap'd like a nereid from her shell to land. 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy? 
Neuha — the fond, the faithful, the adored — 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd : 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp 
As if to be assured 'twas hhn she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but net doepaif 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight . 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
That rock'd her heart till almost hesrd to throb ; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy 

IX. 

The sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved : who are, when hearts are greet- 
ing? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
In hopeless visions of our better days, 
When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray 
" And but for me !" he said, and turn'd away ; 
Then gazed upon the pair, as in hio den 
A Uon looks upon his cubs again ; 
j\nd then relapsed into his sullen guise. 
As heedless of his further destinies. 



Canto iv. 



THE ISLAND. 



181 



But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
The billows round the promontory brought 
The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! who made 
That sound a dread? All around them seem'd array'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
She, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, which hun-ied to complete 
The remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests and launch 'd their light canoes ; 
In one placed Christian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own. — Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay, 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's sun-hollow'd lair. 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased, 
They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make way and menace o'er the main ; 
And now the two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow difFereut courses o'er the tide, 
To baffle the pursuit. — Away ! away ! 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day, 
And more than life or lives to Neuha : Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove — ■ 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh — 
Yet, yet a moment ! — Fly, thou light ark, fly 1 



THE ISLAND. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
"\Mien half the horizon's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky, 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts ; but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amiast the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more, 
The heart still follows fro " the loneliest shore. 

IT. 

Not distant from the isle of Toobonai, 
A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 
The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind, 
TrVliere the rough seal reposes from the wind 
And sleeps miwieldy in his cavern dun. 
Or gambols with huge frolic in the sun : 
There shrilly to the passing oar is heard 
The startled echo of the ocean bird. 
Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood, 
The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 
A narrow segment of the yellow sand 
On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 
Here the j'oung turtle, crawling from his shell. 
Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 
Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day, 
But hatch'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 



The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 
Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 
A spot to make the saved regret the deck 
Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck 
Such was the stern asylum Neuha chose 
To shield her lover from his following foes ; 
But all its secret was not told ; she knew 
In this a treasure hidden from the view. 



III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot, 

The men that mann'd what held her Torquil's lot 

By her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff" which wafted Christian from the shore 

This he woiJd have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle, 

And bade him " speed and prosper." She would take 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake 

They parted with this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star. 

And gain'd on tiio pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near c 

They puU'd ; her arm, though delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled witn the sea. 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier strength. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face, 

With naught but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe. 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half upbraiding eye, 

Which said — " Has Neuha brought me here to die ? 

Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the wave ?" 



IV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 

Neulia, and pointing to the approaching foes. 

Cried, " Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow !" 

Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 

There was no time to pause — the foes were near — 

Chains in his eye, and menace in his ear ; 

With vigor they puU'd on, and as they came, 

Hail'd him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 

Headlong he leapt — to him the swimmer's skill 

Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 

But how, or where ? He dived, and rose no more 

The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore 

There was no landing on that precipice, 

Steep, harsh, and slippery as a i/eig of ice. 

Thev watch'd awhile to see him float again, 

But.not a trace rebubbled from th© main. 

The wave roU'd on, no ripple on its face. 

Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace ; 

The little whirl which eddied, and slight foam, 

That whiten'd o'er what seem'd their latest home, 

White as a sepulchre above the pair 

Who 2 ft no marble (mournful as an heir) 

The quiet proa wavering o'er the tide 

Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 

And but for this alone the whole might seem 

The vanish'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 

They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd aw ay ; 

Even superstition now forbade their stay. 

Some said he had not plunged into the wave. 

But vanish'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 

Othei-s, that something supernatural 

Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall ; 



182 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto t". 



While all a^eed that in his cheek and eye 

There was a dead hue of eternity. 

Still as their oars receded from the crag, 

Round every weed a moment would they lag, 

Expectant of some token of their prey ; 

But no — he had melted from them like the spray 

V. 

And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep. 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased tc wee.; 
Forever? or, received in coral caves. 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell, 
And sound with mermen the fantastic shell ? 
Did Neuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream'd in air? 
Or had they perish'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 

VI. 

Young Neuha plunged into the deep, and he 
Follow'd : her track beneath her native sea 
Was as a native's of the element. 
So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went. 
Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, 
Which struck and flasli'd like an amphibious steel. 
Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 
The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 
Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas, 
Pursued her liquid steps with heart and ease. 
Deep — deeper for an instant Neuha led 
The way — then upward soar'd — and as she spread 
Her amis, and flung the foam from off her locks, 
Laugh'd, and the sound was answer'd by the rocks. 
They had gain'd a central realm of earth again, 
But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 



1 Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be 
found in the ninth chapter of " Mariner's Account of the 
Tonga Islands." I liave taken the poetical liberty to trans- 
plant it to Toobonai, the last island where any distinct ac- 
count is left of Christian and his comrades. — [The following 
Is the account given by Mariner: — 

" On this island there is a peculiar cavern situated on the 
western coast, the entrance to which is at least a fathom 
beneath the surface of the sea at low water ; and was first 
discovered by a young cliief, whilst diving after a turtle. 
The nature of this cavern will be better understood if we 
imagine a hollow rock rising sixty feet or more above tlje 
surface of the wate-, into the cavity of which there is no 
.known entrance but one, and that is in the side of the rock, 
as low dovs'n as six feet under the water, into which it 
flows ; and, consequently, the base of the cavern may be 
said to be the sea itself. Finow, and his friends, being on 
this part of the island, proposed one afternoon, on a sudden 
thought, to go into this cavern and drink ^iiva. Mr. Mariner 
was not with them at the time this proposa. was made ; but 
happening to come down a little while after to the shore, 
ar ' seeing some of the young chiefs diving into .le water 
one after another, and not rising again, he wa, a little 
surprised, and inquired of the last, w lo was just preparing 
to take the same step, what they were about ! ' Follow 
me,' said he, ' and I will fake you wh%re you have never 
been before ; and where Fmow, and hi^ chiefs and mata- 
booles, are now assembled." Mr. Mariner, without any 
further hesitation, prepared himself to follow his com- 
panion, who dived into the water, and he after him, and, 
guided jy the light reflected from his heels, entered the 
opening in the rock, and rose into the cavern. He was no 
sooner above the surface of the water than, sure enough ! 
be heard the voices of the king and his friends ; being di- 
rected by lus guide, he climbed upon a jutting portion of 
rock and sat down. The light was sufficient, after remain- 
ing about five minutes, to show objects with some little dis- 
tinctnesj ; and he could discover Finow and the rest of the 
company seated, like himself, round the cavern. Neverthe- 
less, as it was desirable to have a stronger illumination, Mr 
Mariner dived out again, and procuring his pistol, primed it 
well, tied plenty of gnatoo tight round it, and wrapped the 
wholo up ta a plantain-leaf ; he directed an attendant to 



Aroimd she pointed to a spacious cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave,' 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday, 

When all the finny people are at play,) 

Wiped unth her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 

Led him to where the rock appear'd to jut, 

And form a something like a Triton's hut ; 

For all was darkness for a space, till day, 

Through clefts above let in a sober'd ray ; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

The dusty monuments from light recoil, 

Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 

The vault drew half her shadow from the scene 

VII. 

Forth fitim her bosom the y: ung savage drew 
A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 
A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 
Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 
Tins mantle kept it dry ; tlieu from a nook 
Of the same plantain leaf a flint she took, 
A few shrunk wither'd twigs, and from the blade 
Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus array'd 
Tlie grot ,with torchlight. Wide it was and high. 
And show'd a self-born Gothic canopy ; 
.Tlie arch uprear'd by nature's architect, 
The architrave some earthquake might erect ; 
The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurl'd, 
When the Poles crash'd, and water was the world ; 
Or harden'd from some earth-absorbing fire, 
While yet the globe reek'd from its funeral pyre ; 
The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave,^ » 
Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 



bring a torch in the same way. Thus prepared, he re-enter 
ed the cavern, unwrapped the gnatoo, a great portion ol 
which was perfectly dry, fired it by the flash of the powder, 
and lighted the torch. The place was now illuminatefl 
tolerably well, for the first time, perhaps, since its existence. 
It appeared (by guess) to be about forty feet wide in the 
main part, but which branched off, on one side, in two 
narrower portions. The medium height seemed also about 
forty feet. The roof was hung with stalactites in a very 
curious way, resembling, upon a cursory view, the Gothic 
arches and ornaments of an old church. After having 
examined the place, they drank cava, and passed away the 
time in conversation upon different subjects." The account 
proceeds to state that the mode in which the cavern was 
discovered, and the interesting use made of the retreat by 
the young chief who found it out, were related by one of the 
matabooles present. According to his statement, the entire 
family of a certain chief had been in former times condenm- 
ed to death in consequence of his conspiring against a 
tyrannical governor of the island. One of the devoted 
family was a beautiful daughter, to whom the young chief 
who had accidentally discovered the cave had long becH 
ardently attached. On learning her danger, he bethought 
himself of this retreat, to which he easily persuaded her to 
accompany him, and she remained concealed within it, oc- 
casionally enjoying the society of her lover, until he was 
enabled to carry her off to the Fiji islands, where they re- 
mained until the death of the governor enabled them to re- 
turn. The only part of this romantic tale which seemed 
very improbable was the length of time which the girl was 
said to have remained in the cavern, two or three months. 
To ascertain whether this was possible, Mr. Mariner 
examined every part of it, but without discovering any 
opening. If the story be true, in all likelihood the duration 
of her stay in the cavern was not much more than one 
fourth of the time mentioned ; as the space would not con- 
tain a quantity of air suflicieu. for the respiration of an in 
dividual for a longer period.] 

a This may seem too minute for the general o itlines (u) 
Mariner's Account) from which it is taken. But few men 
have travelled without seeing something of the kind — on 
land, that is. Without adverting to Ellora, in Mungo Park's 



Canto iv. 



THE ISLAND. 



183 



There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 
Fantastic faces moped and mow'd on high, 
And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 
The eye upon its seeming crucifix. 
Thus Nature play'd with the stalactites, 
And huilt herself a chapel of the seas. 

VIII. 

And Neuha took her.Torquil by the hacd, 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and show'd 
The secret ])laces of their new abode. 
Nor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo, 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew 
For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread 
Borne of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it covcr'd o'er ; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night. 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
Siie had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe. 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 
Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; 
And n(^ she spread her little store with smiles, 
ITie happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX 

She, as he gazed with grateful wonder, press';: 
Her sheltefd love to her impassion'd breast ; 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love, — for love is old. 
Old as eternity, but not outworn. 
With each new being born or to be born :' 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago. 
Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
Had nscn, in tracking fast his ocean prey, 
Into th: :ive which round and o'er them lay ; 
How in some desperate feud of after-time 
He shelter'd there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe beloved, and offspring of a foe. 
Saved by his tribe but for a captive's wo ; 
How, when the stonn of war was still'd, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deep-green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
Then dived — it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wondering mates, amazed within their bark. 
Or deem'd him mad, or prey to the blue shark ;^ 
Row'd round in sorrow the sea-girded rock. 
Then paused upon their paddles from the shock ; 
When, fresh and springing from the deep, they saw 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe ; 



And their companion, glorious by her side, 

Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 

And how, when undeceived, the pair they bore 

With sounding conchs and joyous shouts to shore ; 

How they had gladly lived and calmly died, — 

And why not also Torquil and his bride ? 

Not mine to tell the rapturous caress 

Which follow'd wildly in that wild recess 

This tale ; enough that all within that cave 

Was love, though buried strong as in the grave 

Where Abelard, through twenty years of death. 

When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 

Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch'd, and press'd 

The kindling ashes to his kindled breast." 

The waves wiihout sang round their couch, their roar 

As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 

Within, their hearts made all the harmony. 

Love's broken murmur and more broken sigh 

X. 

And they, the cause and shai -rs of the shock 

Which left them exiles of the hollow rock. 

Where were they ? O'er the sea for life they pUed, 

To seek from Heaven the shelter men denied. 

Anotlier course had been their choice— but where ? 

The wave which bore them still their foes would bear, 

Who, disappointed of their former chase. 

In search of Christian now renew'd their race. 

Eager with anger, their strong arms made way. 

Like vultures baffled of their previous prey. 

They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 

In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 

No further chance or choice remain'd ; and right 

For the first further rock which met their sight 

They steer'd, to take their latest view of land, 

And yield as victims, or die sword in hand ; 

Dismiss'd the natives and their shallop, who 

Would still have battled for that scanty crew ; 

But Christian bade them seek their shore again, 

Nor add a sacrifice which were in vain ; 

For what were simple bow and savage spear 

Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 



XI. 

They landed on a wild but narrow scene. 

Where few but Nature's footsteps yet had been ; 
I Prepared their arms, and with that gloomy eye, 
' Stern and sustain'd, of man's extremity, 

When hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 

To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 

They stood, the three, as the three hundred stood 

Wlio dyed Thermopylse with holy blood. 

But, ah ! how different ! 'tis the cause makes all, 

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 

O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 

Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon'd hence ; 

No grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

Begun the praises of a thousand years ; 

No nation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 

No heroes envy them their monument ; 

However boldly their warm blood was spilt. 

Their life was shame, theu: epitaph was guilt. 



last journal, he mentions having met with a rock or moun- 
tain so exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only 
ininuti) inspection could convince him that it was a work 
ot nature. ,,./-, i 

» The reader will recollect the epigram of the Greek an- 
tnJlog)', or its translation into most of the modern lan- 
guages :— 



" Wlioe'er thou art, thy master see- 
He was, or is, or is to be " 

2 The tradition is attached to the story of EioisH, th;it 
when her body was lowered into the grave of Abelard, (who 
had been buried twenty years,) he opened liis arms to re- 
ceive her. 



184 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



And this they knew and felt, at least the one, 

The leader of the band he had undone ; 

Who, bom perchance lor better things, had set 

His life upon a cast which ling^er'd yet : 

But now the die was to be tlirown, and all 

The chances were in favor of his fall : 

And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock. 

Obdurate as a portion of the rock 

Wliercon he stood, and fix'd his levell'd gun, 

Dark as a sullen cloud before the sun. 



XII. 

The boat drew nigh, well arm'd, and firm the crew 

To act whatever duty bade them do ; 

Careless of danger, as the onward wind 

Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

Against a nation's than a native foo, 

And felt that this poor victim of self-will, 

Briton no more, had once been Britain's still. 

They hail'd him to surrender — no reply ; 

Their arms were poised, and glitter'd in the sky. 

They h^.il'd again — no answer ; yet once more 

They offer'd quarter louder than before. 

The echoes only, from the rock's rebound, 

Took their last farewell of the dying sound. 

Then flash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying flame. 

And the smoke rose between them and their aim, 

While the rock rattled with the bullets' knell. 

Which peal'd in vain, and flatten'd as they fell ; 

Then flew the only answer to be given 

By those who had lost all hope in earth or heaven. 

After the first fierce peal, as they puU'd nigher. 

They heard the voice of Christian shout, " Now, fire I" 

And ere the word upon the echo died. 

Two fell ; the rest assail'd the rock's rough side, 

And, furious at the madness of their foes, 

Disdain'd all further efforts, save to close. 

But steep the crag, and all without a path. 

Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath. 

While, placed midst clefts the least accessible. 

Which Christian's eye was train'd to mark full well. 

The three maintain'd a strife which must not yield. 

In spots where eagles might have chosen to build. 

Their every shot. told ; while the assailant fell, 

Dash'd on the shingles like the limpet shell ; 

But still enough survived, and mounted still. 

Scattering their numbers here and there, imtil 

Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 

Enough for seizure, near enough to die, 

The desperate trio held aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sharks who have gorged the bait ; 

Yet to the very last they battled well. 

And not a groan inform'd their foes ivho fell. 

Christian died last — twice wounded ; and once mo r5 

Mercy was ofFer'd when they saw his gore ; 

Too late for Ufe, but not too late to die. 

With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 

A limb was broken, and he droop'd along 

The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 

The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 

Some passion which a wealcLy gesture spake . 



J lu Thibaull's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, 
there is a singular relation, of a young Frenchman, who, 
ivi :h his mistress, appeared to be of some ranii. He enlisted 
ar.d deserted at Schweidnitz ; and after a desperate resist- 
ance was retaken, having killed an officer, who attempted 
to seize him after he was wounded, by the discharge of his 
musket loaded with a button of his uniform. Some circum- 



He beckon'd to the foremost, who drew nigh, 

But, as they near'd, he rear'd his weapon high — 

His last ball had been aim'd, but from his breast, 

He tore the topmost button from his vest,* 

Down the tube dash'd it, levell'd, fired, and smiled 

As his foe fell ; then,sliko a serpent, coil'd 

His wounded, weary form, to where the steep 

Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 

Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 

shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
Then plunged: the rock below received like glass 
His body crush'd into one gorj^ mass. 
With scarce a shred to tell of human form. 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear'd with blood and weeds, 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds ; 
Some splinters Oi 1 >* weapons (to the last. 
As long as hand could nold, he held them fast) 
Yet glitter'd, but at distance-rhurl'd away 
To rust beneath the dew,jind dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life misspent. 
And soul — but who shall answer where it went? 
'Tis ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way, 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their worse brains 

XIII. 

The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 

The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 

Chain'd on the deck, where once, a gallant crew, 

They stood with honor, were the wretched few 

Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 

But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 

Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 

While o'er them flapp'd the sea-birds' dewy wing. 

Now wheeling nearer from the neighboring surge, 

And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 

But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 

Eternal Avith unsympathetic flow ; 

Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 

And sprung the flying fish against the sun. 

Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 

To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIV 

'Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day 

Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 

And watch if aught approach'd the amphibious lair 

Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 

It flapp'd, it fiU'd, and to tlie growing gale 

Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail 

With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, 

Wliile yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie 

But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 

The shadow lessen'd as it clear'd the bay. 

She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 

To w^tch as for a rainbow in the skies. 

On the horizon verged the distant deck, 

Diminish'd, dwindled to a very speck — 

Then vanish'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 

Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her boy ; 



stances on his court-martial raised a great interest amongst 
his judges, wdio wished to discover his real situation in life, 
which he offered to disclose, but to the king only, to whom 
he requested permission to write. This was refused, and 
Frederic was filled with the greatest indignation, from 
baffled curiosity or some other motive, when he understood 
that his request had been denied. 



Act I. Scene i. 



MANFRED. 



185 



Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung fortli again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding nereid over the broad sea ; 
Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Neuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar. 
That eve the strangers chased them from tne shore ; 
But when these vanish'd, she pursued her prow, 
Regain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
Nor ever did more love and joy embark, 
Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 

XV. 

Again their, own shore rises on the view. 
No more polluted with a hostile hue ; 
No sullen ship lay bristling o'er \he foam, 



A floating dungeon : — all was hope and home . 
A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 
With sounding shells, and heralded their way ; 
The chiefs came down, around the people pour'd, 
And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 
The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 
By Neuha, asking where they had been chased, 
And how escaped ! The tale was told ; and then 
One acclamation rent the sky again ; 
And from that hour a new tradition gave 
Their sanctuary the name of " Neuha's Cave " 
A hundred fires, far flickering from tlie height, 
Blazed o'er the general revel of the night, 
The feast in honor of the guest, return'd 
To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd ; 
A night succeeded by such happy days 
As only the yet infant world displays.' 



MANFRED; 



A DRAMATIC POEM.'' 



" There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Maurice 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch of the Alps 

Arimanes. 

Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &c. 



The scene ofth : Drama is amongst the Higher Alps — 
partly in the Ca'itle of Manfred, and partly m the 
Mountains 



1 [Byron ! the sorcerer I He can do with me accordii^g 
to his will. If it is to throw me headlong upon a desert 
Island ; if it is to place me on the summit of a dizzy cliflF— 
his power is tlie same. I wish he had a friend or a servant, 
appointed to the office of the slave, who was to knock every 
morning at the chamber-door of Philip of Macedon, and re- 
mind him he was mortal. — Dr. Park.] 

2-[The following extracts from Lord Byron's letters to 
Mr. Murray, are all we have to offer respecting the history 
of the composition of IManfred : — 

Venice, Feb. 15, 1817. — " I forgot to mention to you, that 
a kind of Poem in dialogue (in blank verse) or Drama, from 
which ' the Incamation' is an extract, begun last summer 
in Switzerland, is finished ; it is in three Acts, but of a very 
wild, metaphysical, and inexplicable kind. Almost all the 
persons— but two or three— are Spirits of the earth and air, 
•or the waters ; the scene is in the Alps ; the hero a kind of 
magician, who is tormented by a species of remorse, the 
cause of which is left half unexplained. He wanders about 
invoking these Spirits, which appear to him, and are of no 
use ; he at last goes to the very abode of thp Evil Principle, 
in prcprid persond, to evocate a ghost, which appears, and 



24 



ANFRED. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 



Manfred alone.- 



-Scene, a Gothic Galiery.- 
Midnight. 



■Time 



Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep. 
But a continuance of enduring thought. 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form of breathing men 



gives him an ambiguous and disagreeable answer ; and, in 
the Third Act, he is found by his attendants dying in a tower 
where he had studied his art. You may perceive, by this 
outline, that I have no great opinion of this piece of fantasy ; 
but I have at least rendered it quite impossible for the stage, 
for which my intercourse with Drury Lane has given me 
the greatest contempt. 1 have not even copied it oflf, and 
feel too lazy at present to attempt the whole ; but when I 
have, I will send it you, and you may either throw it into 
the fire or not." 

March 3.—" I sent you the other day, in two covers, the 
First Act of ' Manfred,' a drama as mad as Nat Lee's Bed- 
lam tragedy, which was in twenty-five Acts and some odd 
Scenes ; mine is but in three Acts." 

March 9. — " In remitting the Third Act of the sort of 
dramatic poem of whicn you will by this time have received 
the two first, I have little to observe, except ihat you must 
not publish it (if it ever is published) without giving me pre- 
vious notice. I have really and truly no notion whether it 
is good or bad ; and as this was not tf.e case with the prin- 
cipal of mv former publications, I am, therefore, inclined to 
ranK ii very nuiuoiy. You wiU submit it to Mr. Gifford 



186 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act r. 



But grief sliould be the instructor of the wise ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
Must mouru the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not: I have done men good, 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 



and to wliomsoever you please besides. The thing, you 
will see at a glimpse, could never be attempted or thought 
of for the ^tage ; I much doubt if for publication even. It 
IS too much in my old style ; but I composed it actually 
with a horror of the stage, and with a view to render the 
thouglit of it impracticable, knowing the zeal of my friends 
that I should try that for wliich I have an invincible repug- 
nance, viz. a representation. I certainly am a devil of a 
mannerist, and must leave off; but what could I do ? With- 
out exertion of some kind, I should have sunk under my 
imagination and reality." 

March 25.—" With regard to the ' Witch Drama,' I re- 
peat, that I have not an idea if it is good or bad. If bad, it 
must, on no account, be risked in publication ; if good, it is 
at your service. I value it at three hundred guineas, or 
less, if you like it. Perhaps, if published, the best way will 
be to add it to your winter volume, and not publish sepa- 
rately. The price will show you I don't pique myself upon 
it ; so speak out. You may put it into the fire, if you like, 
and Gifford don't like." 

April 9. — " As for ' Manfred,' the first two Acts are the 
best ; the third so so ; but I was blown with the first and 
second heats. You may call it ' a Poem,' for it is no Drama, 
and I do not choose to have it called by so d— d a name— i 
' Poem in dialogue,' or — Pantomime, if you will ; any tiling 
but a green-room synonyme ; and this is your motto — 

' There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' " 

The Third Act was rewritten before publication ; as to 
the particulars of which, the reader is referred to a subse- 
quent note. To avoid overloading the margin, we may give 
Lere the most important paragraphs of the two ablest 
cri • es that immediately followed the appearance of 
Manfred . — 

" In Manfred, we recognise at once the gloom and po- 
tency of that soul which burned and blasted and fed upon 
itself, in Harold, and Conrad, and Lara — and which comes 
again in this piece, more in sorrow than in anger — more 
proud, perhaps, and more awful than ever— but with the 
fiercer traits of its misanthropy subdued, as it were, and 
quenched in the gloom of a deeper despondency. Manfred 
does not, like Conrad and Lara, wreak the anguish of his 
burning heart in the dangers and daring of desperate and 
predatory war — nor seek to drown bitter thoughts in the 
tumult of perpetual contention ; nor yet, like Harold, does 
he sweep over the peopled scenes of the earth with high 
disdain and aversion, and make his survey of the business, 
and pleasures, and studies of man an occasion for taunts 
and sarcasms, and the food of an unmeasurable spleen. He 
is fixed by the genius of the poet m the majestic solitudes 
of the central Alps— where, from his you»h up, lie has lived 
in proud but calm seclusion from the wi-s of men, con- 
versing only with the magnificent forms ana aspects of na- 
ture by which he is surrounded, and with the Spirits of the 
Elements over whom he has acquired dominion, by the se- 
cret and unhallowed studies of sorcery and magic. He is 
averse, indeed, from mankind, and scorns the low and friv- 
olous nature to which he belongs ; but he cherishes no ani- 
mosity or hostility to that feeble race. Thc'.r concerns ex- 
cite no interest — their pursuits no sympathy —their joys no 
envy. It is irksome and vexatious for him to be crossed ty 
them in his melancholy musings,— but he treats them with 
gentleness and pily ; and, except when stung to impatience 
by too importunate an intrusion, is kind .and considerate to 
the comforts of all around him.— This piece is properly en- 
tiUed a dramatic poem— for it is merely poetical, and is not 
at all a drama or play in the modern acceptation of the term. 
it has no action, no plot, and no characters ; Manfred mere- 
ly muses and suffers from the beginning to the end. His 
distresses are the same at the opening of the scene and at 
its c 9sing, ami the temper in which they are borne is the 



Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 

And feel the curse to have no natural fear. 

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wifhes, 

Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 

Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency ! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe !' 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,'^ 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar thhigs — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 

same. A hunter and a priest, and .some domestics, are in- 
deed introduced, but they have no connection with the pas- 
sions or sufferings on which the merest depends ; and 
Manfred is substantially alone througi .-^ut the whole piece. 
He holds no communion but with the memory of the Being 
he had loved ; and the immortal Spirits wliom he evokes to 
reproach with his misery, and their inability to relieve it. 
These unearthly beings approacn nearer to the character 
of persons of the drama— but still they are but choral ac- 
companiments to the performance ; and Manfred is, in 
reality, the only actor and sufferer on the scene. To de- 
lineate his character indeed — to render conceivable his feel- 
ings—is plainly the whole scope and design of the poem ; 
and the conceplion and execution are, in this respect, 
equally admirable. It is a grand and terrific vision of a 
being invested with superhuman attributes, in order that he 
may be capable of more than human sufferings, and be sus- 
tained under them by more than human force and pride. 
To object to the improbability of the fiction, is to mistake 
the end and aim of the author. Probabilities, we apprehend, 
did not enter at all into his consideration ; his object was, 
to produce effect — to exalt and dilate the character through 
whom he was to interest or appal us — and to raise our con- 
ception of it, by all the helps that could be derived from the 
majesty of nature, or the dread of superstition. It is enough, 
therefore, if the situation in which he has placed him is 
ctnccivable, and if the supposition of its reality enhances our 
emotions and kindles our imagination ; — for it is Manfred 
only that we are required to fear, to pity, or admire. If we 
can once conceive of liim as a real existence, and enter 
into the depth and the height of his pride and his sorrows, 
we may deal as we please with the means that have been 
used to furnish us with this impression, or to enable us to 
attain to this conception. We may regard them but as 
t>-pes, or metaphors, or allegories ; but he is the thing to be 
expressed, and the feeling and the intellect of which all 
these are but shadows." — .Jeffrey. 

" In this very extraordinary poem. Lord Byron has pur- 
sued the same course as in the third canto of Childe Harold, 
and put out his strength upon the same objects. The action 
is laid among the mountains of the Alps — the characters 
are all, more or less, formed and swayed by the operations 
of the magnificent scenery around them, arid every page of 
the poem teems with imagery and passion, though, at the 
same time, the mind of the poet is often overborne, as it 
were, by the strength and novelty of its own conceptions ; 
and thus the composition, as a whole, is liable to many and 
fatal objections. But there is a still more novel exhibition 
of Lord Byron's powers in this remarkable drama. He has 
here burst into the world of spirits ; and, in the wild delight 
with which the elements of nature seem to have inspired 
him, he has endeavored to embody and call up before him 
their ministering agents, and to employ these wild personi- 
fications, as he formerly employed the feelings and passions 
of man. We are not prepared to say, that, in this daring 
attempt, he has completely succeeded. We are inclined to 
think, that the plan he has conceived, and the principal 
character which he has wished to delineate, would require 
a fuller development than is here given to them ; and, ac- 
cordingly, a sense of imperfection, incompleteness, and 
confusion accompanies the mind throughout the perusal of 
the poem, owing either to some failure on the part of the 
poet, or to the inherent mystery of the subject. But though, 
on that account, it is difficult to comprehend distinctly the 
drift of the composition, it unquestionably exhibits many 
noble delineations of mountain scenery,— many impressive 
and terrible pictures of passion, — and many wild and awftu 
visions of imaginary horror." — Professor Wilson 1 • 

1 [" Eternal Agency ! 

Ye spirits of the immortal Universe !"— MS.J 

2 [" Of inaccessible mountains are the haunls "—MS.] 
J 



Scene i. 



MANFRED. 



187 



Whlah. gives me power upon you Rise ! appear ! 

[A pause. 
They come not yet.— Now by the voice of him 

Who is the first among you— by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 

Who is undying,— Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 

A pause 
If it bo so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd. 
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 

\A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery : it 
is stationary ; and a voice is heard singing. 

First Spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion. 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion ;' 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced. 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay.'' 
I am the spirit of the place. 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou ? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife. 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like tire storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roU'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold ! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boiliugly higher ; 



I" Which is fit for my pavilion."— MS.] 



Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace. 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell h<.th subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling is the shadow of the night. 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light ? 

Seventh Spirit. 
The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
Its course was free and regular, 
Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse. 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force. 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high. 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence bora — 
Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn- 
Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend. 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — 
What Yt'ouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with me? 

The Seven Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 

Are at thy beck and bidding. Child of Clay ! 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say? 

Man. Forgetfuluess 

First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why? 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which wo possess : 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden reahns 
Yo offer so profusely what I ask? 



[" Or rcakes its ice delay."— MS.] 



188 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Aci' I. 



Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou niayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. Wo are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought 
ye here 
Hath made you mine Slaves, scofT not at my 

will! 
The mind, the spirit, the PrOinethean spark. 
The iigPitning of my being, is ab bright. 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own. 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay I 
Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

Spirit We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
la even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thhie essence be as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath naught to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd yo from your realms in 
vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

What we possess wo offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do witli days ? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone ! 

Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes? 

Man. No, none : yet stay — one moment, ere we 
part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy souud3. 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we ar> die mind and principle: 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 

Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on 
earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come 

Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a 
beautiful female figure.) Behold ! 

Man. Oh God ! if it bo thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will bo [ The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless. 



1 [These verses were written in Switzerland, in 1815, and 
transmi .ted to England for publication, with the third canto 
of Cliilde Harold. "As they were written," saj-s Mr. 
Moore, " immediately after the last fruitless attempt at re- 
conciliation, it is needless to say who was in the poet's 
thoughts while he penned some of the opening stanzas."] 

5 [" And the wisp on the morass."— Hearing, in February, 
1818, of a menaced version of Manfred by some Italian, 
Lord Byron wiote to his friend Mr. Hoppner— " If you 
have any means of communicating with the man, would 
you permit me to convoy to him the oflfer of any price lie 



(A Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 

When the moon is on the wave, 
And the glow-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass ;'' 

When the falling stars are shooting, 

And the answer'd owls are hooting 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow of the hill, 

Shall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish. 

There are thoughts thou canst not bauiah ; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 

And forever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, ^ 

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 

As a thing that, though unseen. 

Must be near thee, and hath been ; 

And when in that secret dread 

Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 

Thou shalt marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the spot. 

And the power which thou dost feel 

Shall be what thou must conceal. 

.And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sky ; 

And the day shall have a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill ; 

From thy own heart I then did WTing 

The black blood in its blackest spring ; 

From thy own smile I snatch'd the snake. 

For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 

From ihy own lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm ; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile. 
By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 



may obtain, or think to obtain, for his project, provided 
he will throw his translation into the fire, and promise not 
to undertake any other of that, or any other of my things ? 
I will send him his money immediately, on this condi- 
tion." A negotiation was accordingly set on foot, and the 
translator, on receiving two hundred francs, delivered up 
his manuscript, and engaged never to translate any other 
of the poet's works. Of his qualifications for the task 
some notion may be formed from the fact, that he had 
turned the word " wisp," in this line, into " a bundle of 
straw."] 



Scene ii. 



MANFRED. 



189 



By the perfection of thine art 

Which pc.ss'd for human thine own heart ; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotlierhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee ! and compel' 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear ; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 

And the tlankless chain hath bound thee ; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been pass'd — now wither I 



The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Morning. — 
Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf 'd in darkness, 
It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast, upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To ic'st forever — wherefore do I pause? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm • 
There is a power upon me which withhdis, 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear withui myself 
This banenness of spirit, and to K 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds imto myself — 



* ^ ' I do adjure thee to tliis spell." — MS.] 

2 [The germs of this, and of several other passages in Man- 
fied, may be found in the Journal of his Swiss tour, which 
Lord Byron transmitted to his sister: e. g. "Sept. 19. — 
Arrived at a lake in the very bosom of the mountains ; left 
our quadrupeds, and ascended further ; came to some snow 
in patches, upon which my forehead's perspiration fell like 
rain, making the same dents as in a sieve ; the chill of the 
wind and the snow turned me giddy, but I scrambled on and 
upwards. Hobhouse went to the highest pinnacle. The 
whole of the mountains superb. A shepherd on a sleep and 
very high cliff playing upon his pipe ; very different from 
Arcadia. The music of the cows' bells (for their wealth, like 
the patriarchs', is cattle) in the pastures, which reach to a 
heiglit far above any mountains in Britain, and the shepherds 
shouting to us from crag to crag, and playing on their reeds 
whei e the steeps appeared almost inaccessible, with the sur- 
rounding scenery, realiaed all that I have ever heard or ima- 
finfcd of a pastoral existence— mucli more so than Greece or 
Asia Minor ; for there we are a little too much of the sabre 
end musket order, and if there is a crook in one hand, you 



The last infirmity of evil Ay, 

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
Well mayst thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
Witli a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all tt's visible world! 
How glorious in its actiin and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and ot {ride, 
Cciitending with low wants and lofty will. 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard 
The natural music of the mountain reeri — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral faljle — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd f 
My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the bless'd tone which made me ! 

Enter from below a Chamois Hunter. 

Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here? 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man. {not perceiving the other.) To be thus — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish,' lilie these blasted pines, 
Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,'* 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Wliich but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 



are sure to see a gun in the othe- : but this was pure and un- ; 
mixed— solitary, savage, and patriarchal. As we went, they j 
played the ' Ranz des Vaches' and other airs, by way of fare- ' 
well. I have lately repeopled my mind with nature."] I 

3 [See the opening lines to the " Prisoner of Chillon," anie, j 
p. 148. Speaking of Marie Antoinette, "1 was struck," says 
Madame Campan, " with the astonishing change misfortune 
had wrought upon her features : her whole head of hair had 
turned almost white, during her transit from Varennes to 
Paris." The same thing occurred to the unfortunate Queen 
Mary. " With calm but undaunted fortitude," says her his- 
torian, " she laid her neck upon the block ; and while one 
executioner held her hands, the other, at the second stroke, 
cut off her head, which, falling out of its attire, discovered 
her hair, already grown quite gray with cares and sorrows.' 
The hair of Mary's grandson, Charles I., turned quite gray, 
in like manner, during liis stay at Carisbrooke.] 

4 [" Passed whole woods of withered pines, all withered, 
— trunks stripped and barkless, branches Jfeless, done by a 
single winter : their appearance reminded ms jf me and my 
family." — Swiss Journal.^ 



190 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Which I outlive ! — ^Ye toppling crags of ice ! 

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down 

In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 

I hear ye momently above, beneath, 

Crasli with a frequent conflict ;^ but ye pass, 

And only fall oa things that still would live ; 

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 

And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley ; 
I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers ; clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Ilell,^ 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
ileap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy." 

0. Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen. 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dasli. 
Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it ? 

C. Hun. Friend I have a care, 

Your next step may bo fatal ! — for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 

Man. {not hearing him.) Such would have bcin 
for me a fitting tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their deptli ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall 

be— 
In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from the 
cliff, the Chamois Huntek seizes and re- 
tains him with a sudden grasp. 

C Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy 
life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
Away with mo 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art 

thou? 

C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away with 

me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on 

me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staflT, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand. 
And hold fast by rny girdle — softly — well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 



And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done— 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, 
the scene closes. 



1 ! " Ascended the Wengen mountain ; left the horses, took 
off Ay coat, and went to the summit. On one side, our view 
comprised the Jungfrau, with all her glaciers ; then tlie 
Dent d'Argent, shuiing like truth ; then the .Little Giant, 
and the Great Giant ; and last, not least, the Wetterhom. 
The height of the Jungfrau is thirteen thousand feet above 
the sea, and eleven thousand above the valley. Heard 
the avalanches lallmg every five minutes nearly." — Swiss 
JouTunl] 

» [" Like foam from the roused ocean of old Hell."— MS.] 



ACT IL 



SCENE I. 



A Cottagx. amongst the Bernese Alps. 
Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yot 
go forth : 
Thy mind and body are t Ike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
When thou art better, I will be thy guide — 
But whither ? 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no further guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls. 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question, 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'Tis of an ancient vintage : many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon the brim ! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth ? 

C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wan- 
der from thee. 

Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm 
stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed but still it rises up, 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- 
maddening sin. 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 

Man. Patience and patience ! Hence — Ui?i.t wo?i 
was made 
For brutes of burden, not for birds of prey ; 



3 ["The clouds rose from the opposite valley, cur.Lng xp 
perpendicular precipices, like the foam of the ocean of hf,\ 
during a spring tide — it was white and sulphury, and im 
measurably deep in appearance. The side we ascended was 
not of so precipitous a nature ; but, on arriving at the sum- 
mit, v looked down upon the other side upon a boiling sea 
of cloud, dashing against the crags on which we stood — 
these crags on one side quite perpendicular. In passing 
the masses of snow, I made a snowball and pelted Hobhouse 
with it." — Swiss Journal.} 



Scene i. 



MANFRED. 



191 



Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
I ani not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven ! 

I wonid not bo of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; bat whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it? — Look on me — I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number: ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set ; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time 1 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs: mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break. 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks. 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet I must not leave 
him. 

Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
Thy days cf health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils. 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot 
for mine ? 

Mail. No, friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor ex- 
change 
My lot with iving being : I can bear — 
However wrei^ ledly, 'tis still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream. 
But perish in thyr slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pp.hi, 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say i«:t so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 



1 [This scene is one of the most poetical and most sweetly 
written in tlie poem. There is a still and delicious witchery 
in the tranquillity and seciusion of the place, and the celestial 
beauty of the benig who reveals herself in the midst of thes j 
visible enchantments.— Jeffrey.] 

2 This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower 
part of the Alpine torrents : it is exactly like a rainbow come 
down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk mto it : 
this effect lasts till noon. — ['' Before ascending the mountain, 
went to the torrent ; the sun upon it, forming a rainbow of 
the lower part of all colors, but principally purple and gold ; 
the bow moving as you move : I never saw any thing like 
this ; it is only in the sunshine." — Swiss Journal.'^ 

3 ["Arrived at the foot of the Jungfrau ; glaciers ; torrents : 
one of these torrents nine hundred feet in height of visible 
descent; heard an avalanche fall, like thunder; g.,iciers 
enormous ; storm came on— thunder, lightning, hail ; all in 
perfection, and beautiful. The torrent is in shape curving 
over the rock, like the tail of a white horse streaming in the 



Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 

My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my juat defence — 
But my embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself ; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thy pity. I depart — 
'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and flianks for 

thee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I kno^^•my path — the mountain peril 's pass'd : — 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

• {Exit Manfrld. 



A loicer Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract.^ 

Enter Manfred. 

It is not noon — the sunbow's rays^ still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale coursers tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse.' No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred takes some of the ivater into the palm 
of his hand, andfings it in the air, muttering 
the adjuration. After a pause, the Witch of 
THE Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunbow 
of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart. 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
The blu-sh of earth, embracing with her heaven, — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee.'' 
Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 



win I, such as it might, be conceived would be that of the 
' pal- horse' on which Death is mounted in the Apocalypse. 
It is neither mist nor water, but a something between both ; 
its immense height gives it a wave or curve, a spreading 
here or condensation there, wonderful and indescribable." — 
Swiss Journal.] 

4 [In all Lord Byron's heroes we recognise, though with 
infinite modifications, the same great characteristics — a high 
and audacious conception of the power of the mind,— an 
intense sensibility of passion, — an almost boundless capacity 
of tumultuous emotion, — a haunting admiration of the 
grandeur of disordered power, — and, above all, a soul-felt, 
blood-felt delight in beauty. Parisina is full of it to over- 
flowing ; it breathes from every page of the " Prisoner of 
Chillon;" but it is in " Manfred" that it riots and revels 
among the streams, and waterfalls, and groves, and moun- 
tains, and heavens. There is in the character of Manfred 
more of the .self-might of Byron than in all his previous pro- 
ductions. He has therein' brought, with wonderful power, 



192 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act ii. 



Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 

Which of itself shows immortality, 

I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 

Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 

At times to commune with them — if that ho 

Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 

And gaze on thee a moment. 

Witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme ii. both. 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with 
me? % 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further." 
The face of the eartfe hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the q^iest 

Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 

Witch. I know iwt that ; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
The thirst of their ambition was not mine. 
The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who 'but of her anon. 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead. 
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top. 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon, 
The stars and their development ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes gre\-7 dim ; 



metaphysical conceptions into forms, — and we know of no 
poem ill which the aspect of external nature is throughout 
liglited up with an expression at once so beautiful, solemn, 
and majestic. It is the poem, next to " Childe Harold," 
which we should give to a foreigner to read, that he might 
know something of Byron. Shakspeare has given to those 
abstractions of human life and being, which are truth in tlie 
intellect, forms as full, clear, glowing, as the idealized 
• forms of visible nature. The very words of Ariel picture to 
us his beautiful being. In " Manfred," we see glorious but 
immature manifestations of similar power. The poet there 
creates, with delight, thoughts and feelings and fancies into 
visible forms, that he may cling and cleave to them, and 
clasp them in his passion. The beautiful "Witch of the Alps 
seems exhaled from the luminous spray of the cataract,— as 
if til 3 poet's eyes, unsated with the beauty of inanimate 
•nat; -3, gave spectral apparitions of lovehness to feed the 
pure passion of the poet's soul. — Wilson.] 

1 [There is something exquisitely beautiful in all this 
passage ; and 'joth the apparition and the dialogue are so 
managed, that the sense of their improbability is swallowed 
up in that of their beauty ; and, without actually believing 



Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 

While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 

These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 

For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 

Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 

I felt myself degraded back to them, 

And was all clay again. And then I dived. 

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 

Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 

From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd up dust. 

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences untaught. 

Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 

And terrible ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air. 

And spirits that do compass air and earth. 

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros,'^ at Gadara, 

As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until, 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being. 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were hke to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty : 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings. 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were miue — her virtues were her own — 
I loved her, and destroy'd her I 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke 
her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 



that such spirits exist or communicate themselves, we feel 
for the moment as if we stood in their presence. — Jeffrey.] 
2 The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the raising 
of Eros and Anteros may he found in his life by Eunapius. 
It is well told. — [" It is reported of hirn," says Eunapius, 
"that while he and his scholars were bathing in the hot 
baths of Gadara in Syria, a dispute arising concerning the 
baths, he, smiling, ordered his disciples to ask the in- 
habitants by what names the two lesser springs, that were 
nearer and handsomer than the rest, were called. To 
which the inhabitants replied, that ' the one was called Eros, 
and the other Anteros, but for what reason they knew not.' 
Upon which Jamblicus, sitting by one of the springs, put his 
hand in the water, and muttering some few words to him- 
self, called up a fair-complexioned boy, with gold-colored 
locks dangling from his back and breast, so that he looked 
like one that was washing : and then, going to the other 
spring, and doing as he had done before, called up another 
Cupid, with darker and more dishevelled hair: upon which 
both the Cupids clung about Jamblicus ; but he presently 
sent them back to tfieir proper places. After this, his 
friends submitted their belief to him in every thing."] 



Scene hi. 



MANFRED. 



193 



B ood, but not hers— and yet her blood was slied— 
I faw — and could not stanch it. 

Witch. And for this— 

A bein<T of the race thou dost despise, 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
M'"no-hng with us and ours, thou dost forego 
Tlte^o-iffs of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 

To re'creant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that horn-- 
But words are breath— look on me in my sleep. 
Or watch my watcliings— Come and sit by mo ! 
My solitude is solitude no more, 
But peopled with the Furies ;— I have gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn. 
Then cursed myself till sunset ;— I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
I have affronted death— but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
And fatal things pass'd harmless— the cold hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul— which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of ir.y unfathom'd thought. 
I plijnged amidst mankind— Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 'tis to bo found, 
And that I have to learn— my sciences. 
My long-pursued and superhuman <lrt. 
Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live forever. 

Witch. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes 

Man. I will not swear — Obey! and whom? the 
spirits 
\Vliose presence I command, and be the slave 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all? 

Hast thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethink thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough !— I may retire then— say ! 
Man. Iletire ! 

[The Witch disappears. 
Man. (alone.) We are the fools of time and terror : 
Days 



Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke — 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart. 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pao, 
Or joy that ends in agony Or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, wo can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if ibey ans^;^i^J: not— 
The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slew 
That which he loved, unknowing what he slew, 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath. 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfiU'd.' 
If I had never Uved, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
That which I love v/ould still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare • 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what I most abhor. 
And champion human fears. — The night approaches. 

[Exit. 

SCENE III. 
The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 
Enter First Destiny. 
The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, wo nightly tread. 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumblmg tempest's foam, 



1 The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta, (who commanded 
the Greeks at the battle of Platea, and afterwards perished 
for an attempt to betray the Lacettemonians,) and Cleonice, 
is told in Plutarch's life of Cimon ; and in the Laconics of 
Pausanias the sophist, in his description of Greece.— [The 
following is the passage from Plutarch :— " It is related, that 
when Pausanias was at Byzantium, he cast his eyes upon a 
young virgin named Cleonice, of a noble family there, and 
insisted on having her for a mistress. The parents, intimida- 
t3d by his power, were under the hard necessity of giving 
ap tlieir daughter. The young woman begged that the hght 
might be taken out of his apartments, that she might go to 
his bed in secrecy and silence. When she entered he was 
asleep, and she unfortunately stumbled upon the candlestick 
and threw it down. The noiise waked him suddenly, and he, 
la his confusion, thinking it was an enemy coming to assas 
sinate him, unsheathed a dagger that lay by him, and plunged 
It into the vhgin's heart. After this he could never rest. 



25 



Her image appeared to him every night, and with a mena- 
cing tone repeated this heroic verse,— 

' Go to the fate which pride and lust prepare !' 
The allies, highly incensed at this infamous action, jomed 
Cimon to besiege him in Byzantium. But he found means to 
escape thence ; and as he was still haunted by the spectre, 
he is said to have appUed to a temple at Heraclea, where 
the manes of the dead were consulted. There he invoked 
the spirit of Cleonice, and entreated her pardon. She ap- 
peared, and told him ' he would soon be delivered from all 
his troubles, after his return to Sparta ;' in which, it seems, 
his death was enigmatically foretold. These particuJais we 
have from many historians."— Lan ghorne's I Mtarch, vol.m. 
p 279. " Thus we find," adds the translator, " that it was 
a custom in tie Pagan as well as in the Hetrcw theology^ 
to conjure up the spirits of the dead ; and tliat the witch ot 
Endor was not the only witch in the wo-ld."j 



104 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Frozen in a moment' — a dead whirlpool's image : 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 

Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 

A Voice without, singing 
The Captive Usurper, 

Htirrd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor. 

Forgotten and lone ; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He's Tyrant again I 
With the blood of a million he'll answer my care. 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck. 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care ; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 

First Destipjy, answering. 

The city lies shieping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly ; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they shall cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish 
And evil and dread. 

Envelop a nation — 
The bless'd are the dead, 
Who stie not the sight 

Of their owu desolation — 
Th's work of a night — 
This wreck Oj a realm — this deed of my doing — 
For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Enter the Second anc Third Destinies. 

The Three. 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again 

The spirits of our slaves ! 



1 ■" Came to a morass ; Hobhouse dismounted to get over 
well ; 1 Iried to pass my horse over ; the horse sunk up to 
the chin, and of course lie and I were in the mud together ; 
bemired. but not hurt ; laughed, and rode on. Arrived at 
t^€ Grindenwold ; mounted again, and rode to the liigher 
glacier — like a frozen huvicane." — Swiss Journal.'] 

2 [This stanza we think is out of place, at least, if not out 
of character ; and though the autiior may tell us that hu- 



First Des. Welcome ! — ^Where's Nemesis ? 
Second Des. At some great work } 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 



Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. , Say, where hast thou been? 

My sisters and tiijself are slow to-night. 

Nejn. I was detain'd repairing shalter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the v/ise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date. 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
We have outstay'd tho hour — mount we our clouds !' 

'Exeunt. 



The Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on Ms Thr9m, e 
Globe of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

Hail to our MastCT ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breathcth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ;^ 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies — 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne I 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine. 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours. 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fidfill'd to the utmost. 



man calamities are naturally subjects of derision to the 
ministers of vengeance, yet we cannot be persuaded that 
satirical and political allusions are at all compatible with 
the feelings and impressions which it was here his business 
to maintain. — Jeffrey.] 

8 [" The comtts herald through llie \ ul',^?,'^''"^ \ skies "— 
MS.] ' Lurmng > 



Scene iv. 



MANFRED. 



195 



Yea. 



Ente^ Manfred. 
A Spirit. What is here? 

A mortal !— Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship I 

Second Spirit. I do know the man— 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill . 

Third Spirit. Bow down and woi-ship, slave . — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign?— Tremble, and obey! 
All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemn- 
ed clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know It; 

And yet ye see I kneel noL 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

Man. 'Tis taught already ;— many a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimancs on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his Glory ?— Crouch ! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above 
him. 
The overruling Infinite— the Maker 
Who made him not for worship— let him kneel. 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the wonn ! 

Tear him in pieces ! — 

First Des. Hence ! Avaunt !— he's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge and his powers and will, 
As far as is compatible with clay. 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne : his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor 

being. 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing which I, who pity not. 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine. 
And thine, it may be— be it so, or not. 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his— or power upon his soul. 
Nem. What doth he here then ! 
First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without 
power 
I cc aid not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond— I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
Nem. What wouldst thou? 

3fa,j. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead— my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal ? 



Ari. 

Nerr 
Unchame» t 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 

Astarte. 



Whom wculdst tliou 



Nemesis. 

Shadow ! or Spirit ! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which sli'l doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, ,, 

Which return'd to the earth, 

Reappear to the day ! 
Bear what thou borest. 

The heart and the foi-m, 
And the a.spect thou worest 

Redeem firm the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 

[The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands 
in the midst. 
Man. Can this be death? there's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or conderrm me. 



Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which inthrall'd thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken. 
Or those who have call'd thee ! 

Man. S^e is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit— obey this sceptre ! 

Ne7n. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain. 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee: ve were not made 
To torture thus each other, thmgh it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both— that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality— 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art— and what I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to zae I 



196 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act in. 



For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 

Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 

Acquainted with thy vainly echo'd name, 

Which answer'd me — mauy things answer'd me — 

Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 

Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars. 

And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 

Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 

And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 

Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 

I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 

Speak <o me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 

I reck not what — but let me hear thee oiice — 

This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred I 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 

Phan, Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly 
ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. . Say, shall we meet again? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred! 

[The Spirit 0/ Astarte disappears.'^ 

Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal. 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and 
makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Ne7n. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 

Man. None. 

Ne?n. Then for a time farewell. 

Man. We meet then ! "Wliere ? On the earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well I 

[Exit Manfred. 

(Scene closes.) 



> [Over this fine drama, a moral feeling hangs like a 
sornbrous thunder-cloud. No other guilt but that so darkly 
siiadowed out could have furnished so dreadful an illustra- 
tion of the hideous aberrations of human nature, however 
noble and majestic, when left a prey to its desires, its pas- 
sions, and its imagination. The beauty, at one time so 
innocently adored, is at last soiled, profaned, and violated. 
Affection, love, guilt, horror, remorse, and death, come in 
terrible succession, yet all darkly hnked together. We 
think of Astarte as young beautiful, innocent — gudty— lost 
—murdered— buried— judged— pardoned ; but still, in her 
permitted visit to earth, speaking in a voice of sorrow, and 
with a countenance yet pale with mortal trouble. We had 
but a glimpse of her in her beauty and innocence ; but, at 
last, she rises up before us in all the mortal silence of a 
ghost, with fixed, glazed, and passionless eyes, revealing 
death, judgment, and eternity. The moral breathes and 
burns in ever>' word,— in sadness, misery, insanity, desola- 
tion, and death. The work is " instinct with spirit,"— and 
in the agony and distraction, and all its dimly imagined 
causes, we behold, though broken up, confused, and shat- 
tered, the elements of a purer existence. — Wilson.] 

2 [The third Act, as originally written, being shown to 
Mr Gifford, he expressed his unfavorable opinion of it very 
distinctly ; and Mr. Rlurray transmitted this opinion to Lord 
BjTon. The lesuh is told in the following extracts from 
his letters : — 



. ACT III.* 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfred and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunsej. 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the lower 
As I directed ? 

Her. All, my lord, are ready : 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well : 

Thou mayst retire. [Exit Herman 

Man. (alone.) The!c is v. calm upon mo — 
Inexplicable stillness ! which tdl now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman's jargon, I should ceem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found. 
And seated in my soid. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once: 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense. 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 

Re-enter Herman 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 
Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thankfe, holy father ! welcome to these walls ; 
Thy presence honors them, and hlesaeth those 
Why dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so. Count !-— 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — Wliat would my reverend 

guest? 
Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and zeal, my 
office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neigbborhood, 



" Venice, April 14, 1817.— The third Act is certainly d — d 

bad, and, like the Archbishop of Grenada's homily, (which 
savored of the palsy,) has the dregs of my fever, during 
which it was written. It must on no account be published in 
its present state. I will try and reform it, or rewrite it 
altogether ; but the impulse is gone, and I have no cbunce 
of making any thing out of it. The speech of Manfrtd to 
the Sun is the only part of this Act I thought good myself; 
the rest is certainly as bad as bad can be, and I wonder -vhat 
the devil possessed me. I am very glad indeed that you 
sent me Mr. Gifford's opinion without deduction. Do you 
suppose me such a booby as not to be very much obliged to 
him ? or that I was not, and am not, convinced and convicted 
in my conscience of this same overt act of nonsense ? I 
shall try at it agam ; in the mean time, lay it upon the shelf 
— the whole Drama I mean.— Recollect not to publish, upon 
pain of I know not what, until I have tried again at the 
third Act. I am not sure that I shall try, and still less that 
I shall succeed if I do." 

" Rome, May 5.— I have rewritten the greater part, and 
returned what is not altered in the proof you sent me. The 
Abbot is become a good man, and the Spirits are brought in 
at the death. You will find, I think, some good poetry in 
this new Act, here and there ; and if so, prmt it, without 
sending me farther proofs, under Mr. Gifford's carrection, 11 
he will have the goodness to overlook it."] 



Scene i. 



MANFRED. 



197 



May also be my herald. Rumors strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it iiow 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot 'Tis said thou boldest converse with the 
things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes. 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things? 

Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee • 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 

I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity : reconcile thee [heaven. 

With the true church, and through the church to 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : whato'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish !' 

Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 



1 (Thus far the text stands as originally penned : we sub- 
Join the sequel of the scene as given in the first MS. : — 

" Abbot. Then, hear and tremble ! For the headstrong 
Who in the mail of innate hardihood [wretch 
Would shield himself, and battle for his sins, 
There is the stake on earth, and beyond earth eternal 

Man. Charity, most reverend father. 
Becomes thy lips so much more than this menace, 
That I would call thee back to it : but say, 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Abbot. It may be there are 

Things that would shake thee— but I keep them back. 
And give thee till to-morrow to repent. 
Then if thou dost not all devote thyself 
To penance, and with gift of all thy lands 
To the monastery 

Man. I understand thee,— -well ! 

Abbot. Expe 3'- no mercy ; 1 have warn'd theo. 

Man. {opening the casket.) Stop — 
There is a gift for thee within this casket. 

[Manfred opens the ciiket, strikes a light,, and 
burns some incense. 
Ho ! Ashtaroth ! 

TTie Demon Ashtakoth appears, singing as follows: — 
The raven sits 

On the raven-stone. 
And his black wing flits 

O'er the milk-white bone ; 
To and fro, as the night-winds blow, 

Thj ;arcass of the assassin swings ; 
And there alone, on the raven-stone,* 

The raven flaps his dusky wings. 
The fetters.creak— and his ebon beak 

Croaks to the close of the hollow sound ; 
And this is the tune, by the light of the moon, 

To which the witches dance their round — 
Merrily, merrily, cheerily, cheerily. 

Merrily speeds the ball : 
The dead in their shrouds, and the demons in clouds, 

Flock to the witches' carnival. 



* ■*' Raven-stone, (Rabenstein,) a translation of the Ger- 
man woid for the gibbet, which in Germany and Switzer- 
land is permanent, and made of stone." 



The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given me power to smooth the path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
I leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine alone !" 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 

Man. Old man ! there is no pov/er in holy meUv 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortuits of hat deep despair, 
Which is remorse witncut the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself ; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn d 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
AVith calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon' d. 

Man. When Rome's sixih emperor^ was near his 
last, 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound. 
To shun the torments of a public death* 



Abbot. I fear thee not— hence— hence — 
Avaunt thee, evil one 1 — help, ho ! without there ! 

Man. Convey this man to the Shreckhorn— to its peak — 
To Its extremest peak — watch with him there 
From now till sunrise ; let him gaze, and know 
He ne'er again will be so near to heaven. 
But harm him not ; and, when the morrow breaks, 
Set him down safe in his cell — away with him I 

Ash. Had I not better bring his brethren too, 
Convent and all, to bear him company ? 

Man. No, this will serve for the present. Take hiit up. 

Ash. Come, friar ! now an exorcism or two. 
And we shall fly the lighter. 

AsHTAKOTH disappears with the Abbot, singing as follows : — 
A prodigal son, and a maid unaone. 

And a widow re-wedded within the yeai ; 
And a worldly monk, and a pregnant nun, 

Are things which every day appear. 

Manfred alone. 

Man. Why would this fool break in on me, and lorce 
My art to pranks fantastical ? — no matter. 
It was not of my seeking. My heart sickens, 
And weighs a fix'd foreboding on my soul : 
But it is calm — calm as a sullen sea 
After the hurricane ; the winds are still. 
But the cold waves swell high and heavily, 
And there is danger in them. Such a resi 
Is no repose. My life hath been a combat. 
And every thought a wound, till I am scarr 
In the immortal part of me. — What now ?"] 

2 Otho, being defeated in a general engagement neat 
Brixellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch says, that, though he 
lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were those of 
a philosopher. He comforted his soldiers who lamented his 
fortune, and expressed his concern for their safety,when they 
solicited to pay him the last friendly offices. Martial says : 
" Sit Cato, dum vivit, sane vel Ceesare. major, 
Dum moritur, numquid major Othone fuit '" 
not loss of life, but i 
the torments of a \ 
Choose between them."— MS.] 



3 [" To shun I ■ 



public death. 



198 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act m. 



From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — is this fidelity ?" 

Abbot. And what of this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman — 

" It is too late !" 

Abbot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
'Tis strange — even those who do despair above. 
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 

Man. Ay — fatlier! I have had those earthly visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth. 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain-cataract. 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss, 
(Which casts up misty columns tliat become 
Clouds raining from the reascended skies,) 
Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so ? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for ho 
Must serve who fain woidd sway — and soothe — and 

sue — 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone,, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men? 

Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make. 
But find a desolation : — like the wind. 
The red-liot breath of the most lone simoom. 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 



1 [This speech has been quoted in more than one of the 
sketches of the Poet's own life. Much earlier, when only 
twenty-turee years of age, he had thus prophesied: — "It 
seems as if I were to experience in my youth the greatest 
misery of old age. My friends fall around me, and I shall 
be left a lonely tree before I am withered. Other men can 
always take refuge in their families — / have no resource 
but my own reflections, and they present no prospect, here 
or hereafter, except the selfish satisfaction of surviving my 
betters. 1 am, indeed, very wretched. My days are list- 
less, and my nights restless. I have very seldom any so- 
ciety ; and when I have, I run out of it. I don't know 
that I shan't end with insanity."— Byron Letters, 1811.] 

2 [" Of the ininiortality of the soul, it appears to me that 
there can be little doubt— if we attend for a moment to the 
action of mind. It is in perpetual activity. 1 used to 
doubt it— but reflection has taught me better. How far our 
future state will be individual ; or, rather, how far it will 
at all resemble our present existence, is another question ; 
but that the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the 
body is not so." — Byron Diary, 1821.—" I hav^ no wish to 
reject Christianity without investigation ; on the contrary, 
I am very desirous of beheving ; for I have no happiness 
in my present unsettled notions on religion." — Byron Con 
ve'sations with Kennedy, 1823.] 

3 [There are three only, even among the great poets of 
»r<5dern times, who have chosen to depict, in their full 
shape and vigor, those agonies to which great and medita- 
tive intellects are, in the present progress of human history, 
eaposed by the eternal recurrence of a deep and discon- 



And seeketh not, bo that it is not sought. 
But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
The course of my existence ; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die re middle age. 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some insanity — ' 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in tlio lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look i;p6n me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these lh!:.gs. 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thine years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
AH further colloquy — and so — ^farewell.^ 

{Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature:' he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is. 
It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
Mix'd, and contending without end or order. 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more. 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

{Exit Abdot. 



tented skepticism. But there is only one who has dared 
to represent himself as the victim of those nameless and 
undefinable suflerings. Goethe chose for his doubts and 
his darkness the terrible disguise of the mysterious Faus- 
tus. Schiller, with still greater boldness, planted the same 
anguish in the restless, haughty, and heroic bosom of 
Wallenstein. But Byron has sought no external symbol in 
which to embody the inquietudes of his soul. He takes 
the world, and all that it inherit, for his arena and his 
spectators ; and he displays himself before their gaze, 
wrestling unceasingly and inefl'ectually with 'h'* demon 
that torments him. At times, there is something mournful 
and depressing in his skepticism; but ofteiier it is of a 
high and solemn character, approaching to the very verge 
of a confidmg faith. Whatever the poet may believe, we, 
his readers, always feel ourselves too much ennobled and 
elevated, even by his melancholy, not to be confirmed in 
our own belief by the very doubts so majestically con- 
ceived and uttered. His slicpticism, if it ever approaches 
to a creed, carries with it its refutation in its grandeur. 
There is neither philosophy nor religion in those Ijilter and 
savage taunts which have' been cruelly thrown out, from 
many quarters, against those moods of mind which arc in- 
voluntary, and will not pass away ; the shadows and 
spectres which still haunt his imagination may once have 
disturbed our own ;— through his gloom there are frequent 
flashes of illumination ; — and the sublime sadness which to 
him is breathed from the mysteries of mortal existenc^., is 
always joined with a longing after immortality, and ex 
pressed in language that is itself divine. — Wilsok ] 



Scene ii. 



MANFRED. 



199 



SCENE II. 

Another Chamher. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. 
Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons' 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er^ return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature.'' He is gone : 
I follow. {Exit Manfred. 

SCENE III. 

The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at some 
distance — A Terrace before a Tower — Time, 
Twilight. 
Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of 

Manfred. 
Her 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for 
years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower. 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been of!.'jmcs : but from it. 



Or its contents, it were impossible 

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 

One chamber where none enter : I would give 

The fee of what I have to come these three years, 

To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou nrt elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle — 
How many years is't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he naught resembles. 
Her. There be more sons in like predijameut. 
But wherein do they differ ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day ; ho did- not walk iho rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman.^ 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which happeu'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do. 

The Lady Astarte, his ^ 

Hush ! who comes here ? 



> " And it came to pass, ttiat the Sons of God saw the 
daughters of men, that they w jre fair," &c.— " There were 
giants in the earth m those days -jnd also after that, when 
the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and 
they bare children to them, the same became mighty men 
which were of old, men of renown." — Genesis, ch. vi. verses 
2 and 4. 

3 [" Pray, was Manfred's speech to the Sun still retained 
in Act third I I hope so : it was one of the best in the thing, 
and better thail the Coliseum " — ISyron Letters, 1817.] 
» [" Some strange things in these few years."— MS.] 
[The remainder of the Third Act, in its original shape, 
;an thus : — 

Her. Look— look— the tower— 

Tlie tower's on fire. Oh, heavens and earth ! what sound, 
What dreadful sound is that ? [A crash like thunder. 

Manuel. Help, help, there !— to the rescue of the Count,— 
The Count's in danger, — what ho ! there ! approach ! 

iThe Servants, Vassals, and Peasantry approach, 
slupified with terror. 

If there be any of you whc have heart 



And love of human kind, and will to aid 

Those in distress— pause not— but follow me— 

The portal's open, follow. [Manuel goes in- 

Her. Come — Who follows? 

What, none of ye ? — ye recreants ! shiver then 
Without. I will not see old Manuel risk 
His few remaining years unaided. [Hermapt goes in. 

Vassal. Hark ! — 

No— all is silent— not a breath— the flame 
Which shot forth such a blaze is also gone : 
What may this mean ? Let's enter ! 

Peasant. Faith, not I, — 

Not that, if one, or two, or more, will join, 
I then will stay behind ; but, for my part, 
I do not see precisely to what end. 

Vassal. Cease your vain prating— come. 

Manuel, {speaking within.) 'Tis all in vaUl — 

He's dead. 

Her. (within.) Not SO— even now methought he n»ved 
But it is dark — so bear him gently out — 
Softly— how cold he is ! take care of his temples 
In winding down the staircase. 



200 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act iiT. 



Enter the Abbot 

Abbot. Where is your master? 

Her. Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 
The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve al;eady. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee. 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald- 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 

SCENE IV.' 
Interior of the Tower. 
Manfred alone. 
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learu'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth. 
When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall,^ ■ 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; '' 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight^ and tlie stars > 
Shone through the rents of ruii'i ; from afar i 
The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and • 
More near from out the CiEsars' palace came • 
The owl's long cryj and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 



Re-enter Manuel and Herman, bearing Manfred in their 
arms. 
Manuel. Hie to the castle, some of ye, and bring 
What aid you can. Saddle the barb, and speed 
For the leech to the city— quick I some water there ! 

Her. His cheek is black — but there is a faint beat 
Still lingering about the heart. Some water. 

[They sprinkle Manfred with water : after a pause, 
he gives some signs of life. 
Manuel. He seems to strive to speak — come — cheerly, 
Count '. 
He moves his lips— canst hear him ? I am old, 
And cannot catch famt sounds. 

[Herman inclining his head and listening. 
Her. I hear a word 

Or two— but indistinctly— what is next ^ 
What's to be done ? let's bear him to the castle. 

[Manfred motions with his hand not to remove him. 
Manuel. He disapproves — and 'twere of no avail — 
He changes rapidly. 
Her. 'Twill soon be over. 

Manuel. Oh ! what a death is this ! that I should live 
To shake my gray hairs over the last chief 
Of the house of Sigismund. — And such a death ! 
Alone — we know not how — unshrived — untended — 



Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlementu, 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Coesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls. 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fiU'd up, 

"As 'twere anew, the gaft '^f centuries ; y 

Leaving tht beautiful v/hich still was so,*''^ y^ 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er ' 

With silent worship of the great of old I — >'' 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — 

'Twas such a night ! 
'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on mo ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded ; 
Retire, or 'twill bo dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost uot mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not 1 ; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost mean? 

Man. Look there ! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say, 

And steadfastly ; — now tell me what, thou seest. 



"With strange accompaniments and fearful signs — 
I shudder at the sight — but must not leave him. 

Manfred, (speaking faint/ y and slowly.) Old man ! 'tis not 
so difficult to die. 

[Manfred having said this expires. 
/fer.»His eyes are fix'd and lifeless. — He is gone. — 
Manuel. Close them. — My old hand quivers. — He de- 
parts — 
Whither? I dread to think — but he is gone !] 

1 [The opening of this scene is, perhaps, the finest passage 
in the drama ; and its solemn, calm, and majestic character 
throws an air of grandeur over the catastrophe, which was 
in danger of appearing extravagant, and somewhat too much 
in the style of the " Devil and Dr. Faustus." — Wilson.] 

2 [" Drove at midnight to see the Coliseum by moonlight : 
but what can I say of the Coliseum? *t must be seen; to 
describe it I should have thought impossible, if I had not read 
' Manfred.' To see it aright, as tlie Poet of the North tells 
us of the fair Melrose, one ' must see it by the pale moon- 
light.' The stillness of night, the whispering echoes, the 
moonlight shadows, and the awful grandeur of the impending 
rums, form a scene of romantic sublimity, such as Byron 
alone could describe as it deserves. His description is the 
very thing itself." — Matthews's Diary of an Invalid.^ 



Scene iv. 



MANFRED. 



201 



Abhot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it 
not — • 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapp'd iu a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me— but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — ho shall not harm 
thee — but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs Into palsy. 
I say to thee — Retire ! 

Ahhot. And I reply — 

Npver — till I have battled with this fiend :■ — 
What doth ho here ? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here'-— - 

I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. [these 

Ahhot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests like 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
Why dotli he gaze on thee, and thou on hun? 
Ah 1 ho unveils his aspect: on liis brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the Immortality of hell — 
Avauut ! — ■ 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? answer ! — 
speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who s^nt thee here ? 

Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour Is come — Away ! I say. 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit Then I must summon up my brethren. — 
Rise ! [Other Spirits rise vp. 

Abhot. Avannt ! ye evil ones ! — Avaunt ! I say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power. 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses. 
It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the magian who would so pervade 



1 [In the first edition, this Ime was accidentally left out. 
On uisoovering the omission. Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Mur- 
ray — " You have destroyed the whole eftect and moral of the 
poem, by omitting the last line of Manfred's speaking."] 

2 [In June, 1820, Lord Byron thus writes to Mr. Murray: 
— "Enclosed is something which will interest you ; to wit, 
the opinion of the greatest man in Germany — perhaps in 
Kurope— upon one of the great men of your advertisements 
(all ' famous hands,' as Jacob Tonson used to say of his 
ragamuflins)— in short, a critique of Goethe's upon Manfred. 
There is tlie original, an English translation, and an Italian 
one : keep them all in your archives ; for the opinions of 
such a man as Goethe, whether favorable or not, are always 
interesting— and this is more so, as favorable. His Faust I 
never raad, for I don't know German ; but Matthew Monk 



26 



The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal ? — Can it be that tliou 
Art thus In love with life ? the very lifo 
Which made thee wretched ! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
I do not couAat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew. 
But by superior science — ieT7ance — daring — 
And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy: I stand 
Upon my strength — I do defy — den> — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many cruiies 

Have made thee 

Man. What are they to such i£ thee? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ?— Back to thy hell ! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou itever shalt possess me, that I know: 
What I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thure: 
The mind which is immortal makes itself ■ 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No color from the fleeting things without ; 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. [me ; 

Thou didst not tempt mo, and thou couldst not tempt 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye oaffled fiends ! 
The hand of death is on me— but not yours ! 

[The Demons disappear. 

Abhot. Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are 
white — 
■ And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — 

But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee 7 

Man. Old man ! 'tis not so diflicult to die.' 

[Manfred expires, 

Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en his earthlese 
flight- 
Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone.'' 



Lewis, in 1816, at Coligny, translated most of it to me vivd 
voce, and I was naturally much struck with it: but it was 
the Steinbach and tlie Jungfrau, and somethiijg else, much 
more than Faustu.s, that made me write Manfi ed. The first 
scene, however, and that of Faustus are very similar." 

The following is the extract from Goethe's Kunst und Al- 
therthiim (i. e. Art and Antiquity) which the above letter en- 
closed : — 

" Byron's tragedy, ' Manfred,' was to me a wonderful phe- 
nomenon, and one that closely touched me. This singularly 
intellectual poet has taken my Faustus to himself, and ex- 
tracted from it the strongest nourishment for his hypochon- 
driac humor. He has made use of the impelling principles 
in his own way, for his own purposes, so that no one of them 
remains the same ; and it is particularly on this account 



202 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



that I cannot enough admire his genius. The whole is in 
this way so completely formed anew, that it would be an 
interesting task for the critic to point out, not only the al- 
terations he has made, but their degree of resemblance with, 
or dissunilarity to, the original : in the course of which I 
cannot deny, that the gloomy heat of an unbounded^ and 
exuberant despair becomes at last oppressive to us. Yet is 
the dissatisfaction we feel always comiected with esteem 
and admiration. 

" We find thus, in this tragedy, the quintessence of the 
most astonishing talent born to be its own tormentor. The 
character of Lord Byron's life and poetry hardly permits a 
just and equitable appreciation lie has oflen enough con- 
fessed what it is that torments him. He has repeatedly por- 
trayed it ; and scarcely any one feels compassion for this 
intolerable suflfering,.over which he is ever laboriously ru- 
minating. There are, properly speaking, two females whose 
phantoms forever haunt him, and which, in this piece also, 
perform principal parts— one under the name of Astarte, the 
other without form or actual presence, and merely a voice. 
Of the horrid occurrence which took place with the former, 
the following is related :— When a bold and enterprising 
young man, he won the affections of a Florentine lady.* 
Her husband discovered the amour, and murdered his wife ; 
but the murderer was the same night found dead in the 
street, and there was no one on whom any suspicion could 
be attached. Lord Byron removed from Florence, and 
these spirits haunted him all his life after. 

" This romantic incident is rendered highly probable by 
innumerable allusions to it in his poems. As, for instance, 
when turning his sad contemplations inwards, he applies to 
himself the latal history of the king of Sparta. It is as fol- 
lows ;— Pausanias, a Lacedaemonian general, acquires glory 
by the important victory at Plataja, but afterwards forfeits 
the confidence of his countrymen through his arrogance, 
obstinacy, and secret intrigues with the enemies of his coun- 
try. This man draws upon himself the heavy guilt of inno- 
cent blood, which attends him to his end ; for, while com- 
manding the fleet of the allied Greeks, in the Black Sea, he 
is inflamed with a violent passion for a Byzantine maiden. 
After long resistance, he at length obtains her from her 
parents, and she is to be delivered up to him at night. She 
modestly desires the servant to put out the lamp, and, whUe 
groping her way in the dark, she overturns it. Pausanias is 
awakened from his sleep— apprehensive of an attack from 
murderers, he seizes his sword, and destroys his mistress. 
The horrid signt never leaves him. Her shade pursues him 
imceasingly, and he implores for aid in vain from the gods 
and the exorcising priests. 

" That poet must have a lacerated heart who selects such a 
scene from antiquity, appropriates it to himself, and burdens 
his tragic image with it. The following soliloquy, which 
is overladen w-ith gloom and a weariness of life, is, by this 
remark, rendered intelligible. We recommend it as an ex- 
ercise to all friends of declamation. Hamlet's soliloquy 
appears improved upon here."— Goethe here subjoins Man- 
fred's soliloquy, beginning, " We are the fools of time and 
terror," in which the allusion to Pausanias occurs. 

The reader will not be sorry to pass f^om this German 
criticism to that of the Edinburgh Review on Manfred.— 
"This is, undoubtedly, a work of great genius and originality. 
lii w^orst fault, perhaps, is that it fatigues and overawes us 
by the uniformity of its terror and solemnity. Another, is 
the painful and offensive nature of the circumstance on 
wliich its distress is ultimately founded. The lyrical songs 
of the Spirits are too long, and not all excellent. There is 
something of pedantry in them now and then ; and even 
Manfred deals in classical allusions a little too much. If 
we were to consider it as a proper drama, or even as a fin- 
ished poem, we should be obliged to add, that it is far too 
indistinct and unsatisfactory. But this we take to be ac- 



* [" The grave confidence with which the venerable critic 
traces the fancies of his brother poet to real persons and 
events, making no difficulty even of a double murder at Flor- 
ence to furnish grounds for his theory, affords an amusing 
instance of the disposition so prevalent throughout Europe, 
to picture Byron as a man of marvels and mysteries, as well 
in his lite as his poetry. To these exaggerated, or wholly 
false notions of him, the numerous fictions palmed upon the 
world of his romantic tours and wonderful adventures, in 
places he never saw, and with persons that never existed, 
have, no doubt, considerably contributed ; and the conse- 
luence is, so utterly out of truth and nature are the repre- 
33ntations of his life and character long current upon the 
Continent, that it may be questioned whether the real ' flesh 
and blood' hero of these pages, — the social, practical- mind- 
ed, and, with all his faults and eccentricities, English Lord 
j}yroi>^_tp.ay not, to the over-exalted imaginations of most 
of his foreign admirers, appear but an ordinary, unromantic, 
and prosaic personage."— Mooee.] 



cording to the design and conception of the author. He 
contemplated but a dim and magnificent sketch of a subject 
which did not admit of more accurate drawing or more 
brilliant coloring. Its obscurity is a part of its grandeur ;— 
and the darkness that rests upon it, and the smoky distance 
in which it is lost, are all devices to increase its majesty, to 
stimulate our curiosity, and to impress us with deeper awe. 
—It is suggested, in an ingenious paper in a late number of 
the Edinburgh Magazine, that the general conception of 
this piece, and much of what is excellent in the manner of 
its execution, have been borrowed from 'The Tragical 
History of Dr. Faustus,' of Marlow ;t and a variety of pas- 
sages are quoted, which the author considers as similar, 
and, in many respects, superior to others in the poem before 
us. We cannot agree in the general terms of the conclu- 
sion ; but there is no doubt a certain resemblance, both in 
some of the topics that are suggested, and m the cast of the 
diction in whith they are expressed. Thus, to induce 
Faustus to persist in his unlawful studies, he is told that 
the Spirits of the Elements will serve him, — 
' Sometimes like women, or unwedded maids. 
Shadowing more beauty in their ayrie browes, 
Than have the white breasts of the Queene of Love. 

And again, when the amorous sorcerer commands Helen 
of Troy to revive again to be his pi-imour, ht sddresses 
her, on her first appearance, in these rapturous lines — 
' Was this the face that launcht a thousand ships, 

And burn'd the topless towers of Ilium ? 

Sweet Helen I make ine irnmoiiaj with a kiss. 

Her lips suck forth my soule ! — see where it flies. 

Come, Helen, come give me my soule againe, 

Here will I dwell, for heaven is on that lip, 

And all is dross that is not Helena. 

O ! thou art fairer than the evening ayre. 

Clad in the beauty of a thousand starres ; 

More lovely than the monarch of the skyes, 

In wanton Arethusa's azure arms !' 
The catastrophe, too, is bewailed in verses of great elegance 
and classical beauty— * 

' Cut is the branch that might have growne full straight, 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough 

That sometime grew within this learned man. 
Faustus is gone I — regard his hellish fall. 

Whose findful torture may exhort the wise, 

Only to wonder at unlawful things I' 
But these, and many other smooth and fanciful verses in 
this curious old drama, prove nothing, we think, against the 
originality of Manfred ; for there is nothing to be found 
there of the pride, the abstraction, and the heart-rooted 
misery in which that originality consists. Faustus is a vul- 
gar sorcerer, tempted to sell his soul to the devil for the 
ordinary price of sensual pleasure, and earthly power and 
glory ; and wiio shrinks and shudders in agony when the 
forfeit comes to be exacted. The style, too, of Marlow, 
though elegant and scholarlike, is weak and childish com- 
pared with the depth and force of much of Lord Byron ; and 
the disgusting buffoonery and low farce of wliich his piece 
is principally made up, place it more in contrast, than in 
any terms of comparison, with that of his noble successor. 
In the tone and pitch of the composition, as well as in the 
character of the diction in the more solemn parts, Manfred 
reminds us much more of the ' Prometheus' of jEschylus,t 
than of any more modern perforrc^ance. The tremendous 
soUtude of the pimcipal person— the supernatural beings 
with whom alone he holds communion — the guilt — the firm- 
ness—the misery— are all points of resemblance, to which 
the grandeur of the poetic imagery only gives a more striking 
effect. The chief differences are, that the subject of the 
Greek poet was sanctified and exalted by the established 
belief of his country, and that his terrors are nowhere tem- 
pered with the sweetness which breathes from so many 
passages of Ms English rival."] 



t [On reading this. Lord Byron wrote from Venice : — 
" Jeffrey is very kind about Manfred, and defends its origin- 
ality, which I did not know that anybody had attacked 
As to the germs of it, they may be found in the Journal 
which I sent to Mrs. Leigh, before I left Switzerland. I have 
the whole scene of Manfred before me, as if it was but yes- 
terday, and could point it out, spot by spot, torrent and ail."J 

i r" Of the ' Prometheus' of ^schylus I was passionately 
fond as a boy, (it was one of the Greek plays we read thrice 
a year at Harrow ;) indeed, that and the ' Medea' were the 
only ones, except the ' Seven before Thebes,' which ever 
much pleased me. The Prometheus, if not exactly in my 
plan, has always been so much in my head, that I can easily 
conceive its influence over all or any thing that I have 
written ; but I deny Marlow and his progeny, and beg that 
you will do the same." — Byron Letters, 1817.] 



MARINO FALIERO. 



203 



MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE: 

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY, 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



" Dux inquieti turbidus Adrifa " — Hc£ acb 



PREFACE. 



The conspiracy of the Doge Marino Falieto is one 
of the most remarkable events in the annals of the 



1 [On the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron 
lias written :— " Begirn April 4th, 1820— completed July 16th, 
1820— finished copying August 16th-l"th, 1820; the which 
copying makes ten times the toil of composing, considering 
the weather — thermometer 90 in the shade— and my domes- 
tic duties." He at the time intended to keep it by him for 
six years before sending it to the press ; biit resolutions of 
this kind are, in modern days, very seldom adhered to. It 
was published in the end of the same year ; and, to the po- 
et's great disgust, and in spite of his urgent and repeated 
remonstrances, was produced on the stage of Drury Lane 
Theatre early m 1821. The extracts from his letters suffi- 
ciently explain his feelings on this occasion. 

Marino Faliero was, greatly to his satisfaction, commend- 
ed warmly for the truth of its adhesion to Venetian history 
and manners, as well as the antique severity of its structure 
and language, by that eminent master of Italian and classi- 
cal literature, tlie late Ugo Foscolo. Mr. Gifford also de- 
lighted him by pronouncing it '' English— genuine English." 
It was, however, little favored by the contemporary critics. 
There was, indeed, only one who spoke of it as quite wor- 
thy of Lord Byron's reputation. " Nothing," said he, " has 
for a long time afforded us so much pleasure, as the rich 
promise of dramatic excellence unfolded in this production 
r>{ Lord Byron. Without question, no such tragedy as Ma- 
rino Faiero has appeared in English, since the day when 
Otway also was inspired to Iris masterpiece by the interests 
of a Venetian story and a Venetian conspiracy. The story 
of which Lord Byron has possessed himself is, we think, by 
far the liner of the two, — and wo say possessed, because we 
believe he has adhered almost to the letter of the transac- 
tions as they really took place." — The language of the Edin- 
burgh and Quarterly Reviewers, Mr Jeffrey and Bishop He- 
ber, was in a far different strain. The former says— 

" Marino Faliero has undoubtedly considerable beauties, 
both dramatic and poetical ; and might have made the for- 
tune of any young aspirant for fame : but the name of Byron 
raises expectations which are not so easily satisfied ; and, 
judging of it by the lofty standard which he himself has es- 
tablished, we are compelled to say, that we cannot but re- 
gard it as a failure, both as a poem and a play. This may be 
partly accounted for from the inherent difficulty of uniting 
these two sorts of excellence— of confining the daring and 
digressive genius of poetry within the forms and limits of a 
regular drama, and, at the same time, imparting its warm 
and vivifying spirit to the practical preparation and neces- 
sary details of a complete theatrical action. These, how- 
ever, are difficulties with which dramatic adventurers ha\'e 
long had to struggle ; and over which, though they are in- 
comparably most formidable to the most powerful spiritsi 
there is no reason to doubt that the powers of Lord Byron 
would have triumphed. The true history of his failure, 
therefore, we conceive, and the actual cause of his miscar- 
riage on the present occasion, is to be found in the bad 
choice of his subject— his selection of a story which not 
only gives no scope to the peculiar and commanding graces 
of his genius, but runs continually counter to the master cur- 
rents of his fancy. His great gifts are exquisite tenderness, 
and demoniacal sublimity ; the power of conjuring up at 
pleasure those delicious visions'of love and beauty, and jjity 
and purity, which melt our hearts within us with a thrilling 
and ethereal softness — and of wielding, at the same time, that 
infernal fire which blasts and overthrows all things willi the 
dark and capricious fulminations of its scorn, rancor, and 
revenge. With the consciousness of these great powers, and 
as if in wilful perversity to their suggestions, he has here 
chosen a story which, in a great measure, excludes the 



most singular government, city, and people of modem 
history. It occurred in the year 1355. Every thing 
about Venice is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect 
is like a dream, and her history is like a romance. 



agency of either ; and resolutely conducted it, so as to se- 
cure himself against their intrusion ;— a story without love 
or hatred — misanthropy or pity— containiijg nothing volup- 
tuous and nothing terrific— but depending, for its grandeur, 
on the anger of a very old and irritable man ; and, for its at- 
traction, on the elaborate representations of conjugal digni- 
ty and domestic honor, — the sober and austere triumphs of 
cold and untempted chastity, and the noble propriety of a 
pure and disciplined understanding. These, we think, are 
not the most promising themes for any writer. whose busi- 
ness is to raise powerful emotions ; nor very likely, in any 
hands, to redeem the modern drama from the imputation of 
want of spirit, interest, and excitement. But, for Lord By- 
ron to seleet them for a grand dramatic efFoit. is as if a 
swift-footed racer were to tie his feet together at the start- 
ing, or a valiant knight to enter the lists without his arms. 
No mortal prowess could succeed under such disadvan- 
tages. — The story, in so far as it is original in our drama, is 
extremely improbable, though, like most other very impro- 
bable stories, derived from authentic sources : but, in the 
main, it is original ; being, indeed, merely another ' Venice 
Preserved,' and continually recalling, though certainly 
without eclipsing, the memory of the first. Except that 
Jaffier is driven to join the conspirators by the natural im- 
pulse of love and misery, and the Doge by a resentment so 
outrageous as to exclude all sympathy, — and that the disclo- 
sure, which is produced by love in the old play, is here as- 
cribed to mere friendship, — the general action and catas- 
trophe of the two pieces are almost identical ; while, with 
regard to the writing and management, it must be owned 
that, if Lord Byron has most sense and vigor, Otway has by 
far the most passion and pathos ; and that though his con- 
spirators are better orators and reasoners than the gang of 
Pierre and Reynault, the tenderness of Belvidere is as much 
more touching, as it is more natural, than the stoical and 
self-satisfied decorum of Angiolina." 

After an elaborate disquisition on the Unitic? Bishop He- 
ber thus concludes ; — 

" We cannot conceive a greater instance of the efficacy of 
system to blind the most acute perception, than the fact that 
Lord Byron, in works avowedly and exclusively intended for 
the closet, has piqued himself on the observance of rules, 
which (be their advantage on the stage what it may) are 
evidently, oft'the stage, a matter of perfect indifference. The 
only object of adhering to the unities is to preserve the illu- 
sion of the scene. To the reader they are obviously use- 
less. It is true, that, in the closet, not only are their sup- 
posed advantages destroyed, but their inconveniences are 
also, in a great measure, neutralized : and it is true also, that 
poetry so splendid has often accompanied them, as to make 
us who! " overlook, in the blaze of greater excellences, 
whatever inconveniences result from them, either in the 
closet or the theatre. But even diminished difficulties are 
not to be needlessly courted, and though, in the strength and 
dexterity of the combatant, we soon lose sight of the cum- 
brous trappings by which he has chosen to distinguish him- 
self ; yet, if those trappings are at once cumbersome and 
pedantic, not only will his difficulty of success be increased, 
but his failure, if he fails, will be rendered the more signal 
and ridiculous. 

" Marino Faliero has, we believe, been pretty generally 
pronounced a failure by the public voice, and we see no 
reason to call for a revision of their sentence. It contains, 
beyond all doubt, many passages of commanding eloquence, 
and some of genuine poetry ; and the scenes, more par 
ticularly, in which Lord Byron has neglected the absura 



204 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The story of this Doge is to be found in all her 
Chronicles, and particularly detailed in the " Lives of 
the Doges,' by Marin Sanuto, which is given in the 
Appendix. It is simply and clearly related, and is 
perhaps more dramatic in itself than any scenes vi'hich 
can be founded upon the subject. 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of 
talents and of courage. I find him commander in 



creed of his pseudo-Hellenic writers, are conceived and ela- 
borated with great tragic eflfect and dexterity. But the sub- 
ject is decidedly il' chosen. In the main tissue of the plot, 
and in all the busiest and most interesting parts of it, it 
is, in fact, no more than another ' Venice Preserved,' in 
which the author has had to contend (nor has he contended 
successfully) with our recollections of a former aitd deserv- 
edly popular play on tne same subject. And the only re- 
spect in which it differs is, that the Jaffier of Lord Byron's 
plot is drawn in to join the conspirators, not by the natural 
and intelligible motives of poverty, aggravated by the suf- 
ferings of a beloved wife, and a deep and well-grounded re- 
centment of oppression, but by his outrageous anger for a 
private wrong of no very atrocious nature. The Doge of 
Venice, to chastise the vulgar libel of a foolish boy, attempts 
to overturn that republic of which he is the first and most 
trusted servant ; to massacre all his ancient friends and fel- 
low-soldiers, the magistracy and nobility of the land. With 
such a resentment as this, thus simply stated and taken 
singly, who ever sympathized, or who but Lord Byron would 
have expected in such a case to bs able to awaken sympa- 
thy? It is little to the purpose to say that this is all histor- 
ically true. A thing may be true without being probable ; 
and such a case of idiosyncrasy as is implied in a resent- 
ment so sudden and extravagant, is no more a fitting sub- 
ject for the poet, than an animal with two heads would be 
for an artist of a different description. 

" It is true that, when a long course of mutual bickering 
had preceded, when the mind of the prince had been pre- 
pared, by due degrees, to hate the oligarchy with which he 
was surrounded and overruled, and to feel or suspect, in 
every act of the senate, a studied and persevering design to 
woimd and degrade him, a very slight addition of injury 
might make the cup of anger overflow ; and the insufficient 
punishment of .Steno (though co most men this punishment 
seems not unequal to the offence) might have opened the last 
floodgate to that torrent which had been long gathering 
strength from innumerable petty insults and aggressions. 

" It is also possible that an old man, doatingly fond of a 
young and beautiful wife, yet not insensible to the ridicule 
of such an unequal alliance, might for months or years 
have been tormenting himself with the suspected suspicions 
of his countrymen ; have smarted, though convinced of his 
consort's purity, under the idea that others were not equal- 
ly candid, and have attached, at length, the greater import- 
ance to Steno's ribaldry, from apprehending this last to be 
no more than an overt demonstration of the secret thoughts 
of half the little world of Venice. 

" And we cannot but believe that, if the story of Faliero 
(unpromising as we regard it in every way of'telling) had 
fallen into the hands of the barbarian .Shakspeare, the com- 
mencement of the play would have been placed considera- 
bly earlier ; that time would have been given for the gradual 
development of those strong lines of character which were 
to decide the fate of the hero, and for the working of those 
subtle but not instantaneous poisons which were to destroy 
the peace, and imbitter the feelings, and confuse the under- 
standing, of a brave and high-minded but proud and irrita- 
ble veteran. 

" But the misfortune is, (and it is in a great measure, as 
we conceive, to be ascribed to Lord Byron's passion for the 
unities,) that, instead of placing this accumulation of painful 
feelings before our eyes, even our ears are made very im- 
perfectly acquainted with them. Of the previous encroach- 
ments of the oligarchy on the ducal power we see nothing. 
Nay, we only hear a very little of it, and that in general 
terms, and at the conclusion of the piece ; in the form of an 
apology for the Doge's past conduct, not as the constant and 
painful feeling which we ought to have shared with him in 
the first instance, if we were to sympathize m his views and 
wish siii:cess to his enterprise. The fear that his wife might 
be an ob ect of suspicion to his countrymen is, in like man- 
ner, scari ely hinted at ; and no other reason for such a fear 
is named than that which, simply taken, could never have 
proiuced it— a libel scribbled on the back of a chair. We 
are, therefore, through the whole tragedy, under feelings of 
surprise rr.ther than of pity or sympathy, as persons wit- 
nessing portentous events from causes apparently inade- 
quate. We see a man become a traitor for no other visible 



chief of the land forces at the siege of Zara, whero 
he beat the King of Hungary and his army of eighty 
thousand men, killing eight thousand men, and 
keeping the besieged at the san e time in check; an 
exploit to which I know none similar in history, 
except that of Caesar at Alesia, and of Prince Eugene 
at Belgrade. He was afterwards cominander of the 
fleet in the same war. Ho took Capo d'Istria. He 



cause (however other causes are incidentally insinuated) 
than a single vulgar insult, which was more likely to recoil 
on the perpetrator than to wound the object and we cannot 
pity a death incurred m such a quarrel." 

The following extract Irom a letter of January, 1621, will 
show the author's own estimate of the piece thus criticised. 
After repeating his hope, that no manager would be so au- 
dacious as to trample on his feelings by producing it on the 
stage, he thus proceeds : — 

"It is too regular — the time, twenty-four hours— the 
change of place not frequent— nothing me/o-dramatic— no 
surprises— no starts, nor trap-ccc rs, nor opportunities ' for 
tossing their, heads and kicking iheir heels' — and no love, 
the grand ingredient of a modern play. I am persuaded 
that a great tragedy is not to be produced by following the 
old dramatists — who are full of gross faults, pardoned only 
for the beauty of their language, — but by writing naturally 
and regularly, and producing regular tragedies, like the 
Greeks ; but not in imitation,— merely the outline of their 
conduct, adapted to our own times and circumstances, and 
of course no chortis. You will laugh, and say, ' Why don't 
you do so V I have, you see, tried a sketch in Marino Fa- 
hero ; btit many people think my talent ' essentially undrama- 
tic,^ and I am not at all clear that they are not right. If Ma- 
rino Faliero don't fail — in the perusal— I shall, perhaps, try 
again, (but not for the stage ;) and as I think that love is not 
the principal passion for tragedy, (and yet most of ours 'turn 
upon it,) you will not find me a popular writer.' Unless it 
is love furious, criminal, and hapless, it ought not to make a 
tragic subject. When it is melting and maudlin, it does, but 
it ought not to do ; it is then for the gallery and second- 
price boxes. If you want to have a notion of what I am 
trying, take up a translation of any of the Greek tragedians. 
If I said the original, it would be an impudent presumption 
of mine : but the translations are so inferior to the origi 
nals, that I think I may risk it. Then judge of the ' simplici- 
ty of plot.' and do not judge me by your old mad dramatists ; 
which is like drinking usquebaugh, and then proving a foun- 
tain. Yet, after all, I suppose you do not mean that spirits 
is a nobler element than a clear spring bubbling up in the 
sun? and this I take to be the difference between the 
Greeks and those turbid mountebanks— always excepting 
Ben Jonson, who was a scholar and a classic. Or, take up 
a translation of Alfieri, and try the interest, &c., of these 
my new attempts in the old line, by him in English ; and 
then tell me fairly your opinion. But don't measure me by 
YouK OWN old or new tailor's yard. Nothing so easy as in- 
tricate confusion of plot and rant. Mrs. Centiivre, in com- 
edy, has ten times the bustle of Congreve ; but are they 
to 'be compared? and yet she drove Congreve from ths 
theatre." 

Again, February 16, he thus writes, — 

" You say the Doge will not be popular : did I ever write 
for popularity ? I defy you to show a work of mine (e rcept 
a tale or two) of a popular style or complexion. It appears 
to me that there is room for a different style of the dram^. , 
neither a servile following of tlie old diama, which u a 
grossly erroneous one, nor yet too French, like those wno 
succeeded the old writers. It appears to me that good Eng- 
lish, and a severer approach to the rules, might combine 
something not dishonorable to Oi,r literature. I have also 
attempted to make a play without love ; and there are 
neither rings, nor mistakes, nor starts, nor outrageous cant- 
ing villains, nor melodrama in it. All this will prevent its 
popularity, but does not persuade me that it is therefore faul 
ty. Whatever fault it has will arise from deficiency in the 
conduct, rather than in the conception, which is .-simple 
and severe. 

" Reproach is useless always, and irritating — but my feel- 
ings were veiy much hurt, 8b be dragged like a gladiator to 
the fate of a gladiator by that ' rctiarlus,'' Mr. Elliston as 
to his defence and offers of compensation, what is a!! this to 
the purpose ? It is like Louis XIV. who insisted upon buy- 
ing at any price Algernon Sydney's horse, and, on his re- 
fusal, on taking it by force, Sydney shot his horse. 1 co aid 
not shoot my tragedy, but I would have flung it into the file 
rather than have had it represented."] 



MARINO FALIERO. 



205 



Wns ambassador at Genoa and Rome, — at which last 
he received the news of his election to the dukedom ; 
his absence being a proof tliat he sought it by no 
intrigue, since he was apprized of his predecessor's 
death and his own succession at the same moment. 
But he appears to have been of an ungovernable 
temper. A story is told by Sanuto, of his having, 
many years before, when podesta and captain at 
Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, who was some- 
what tardy in bringing the Host. For this, honest 
Sanuto " saddles him with a judgment," as Thwackum 
did Square ; but he does not tell us whether he was 
punished or rebuked by the Senate for this outrage 
vl the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to 
have been afterwards at peace with the church, for 
we find him ambassador at Rome, and invested with 
the fief of Val di Marino, in the march of Treviso, 
and with the title of Count, by Lorenzo Count-bishop 
of Ceneda. For these facts my authorities are Sanuto, 
Vottor Sandi, Andrea Navagero, and the account of 
the siege of Zara, first published by the indefatigable 
Abate Morelli, in his " Monumenti Veneziani di varia 
Letteratura," printed in 1796, all of which I have 
looked over in the original language. The moderns, 
Daru, Sismondi, and Laugier, nearly agree with the 
ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes the con- 
spiracy to his jealousy; but I find this nowhere 
asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, in- 
deed, says, that " Altri scrissero che dalla gelosa 

suspizion di esso Doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) stac- 
car con violenza," &c. &c. ; but this appears to have 
been by no means the general opinion, nor is it alluded 
to by Sanuto or by Navagero ; and Sandi himself adds, 
a moment after, that "per altre Veneziane memorie 
traspiri, che non il solo desidorio di vendetta lo dispose 
alia congiura ma anche la innata abituale ambizion 
sua, per cui anelava a farsi principe independente." 
"the first motive appears to have been excited by the 
gross affront of the words written by Michel Steno on 
the ducal chair, and by the light and inadequate 
sentence of the Forty on the offender, who was one 
of their " tre Capi." The attentions of Steno himself 
appear to have been directed towards one of her dam- 
sels, and not to the " Dogaressa" herself, against 
whose fame not the slightest insinuation appears, 
while she is praised for her beauty, and remarked for 
her youth. Neither do I find it asserted (unless the 
hint of Sandi be an assertion) that the Doge was 
actuated by jealousy of his wife ; but rather by respect 
for her, and for his own honor, warranted by his past 
services and present dignity. 

I know not that the historical facts are alluded to 
in English, unless by Dr. Moore in his View of Italy. 
His account is false and flippant, full of stale jests 
about old men and young wives, and wondering at so 
great an effect from so slight a cause. How so acute 
and severe an observer of mankind as the author of 
Zeluco could wonder at this is inconceivable. He 
knew that a basin of water spilt on Mrs. Masham's 
gown deprived the Duke of Marlborough of his com- 
mand, and led to the inglorious peace of Utrecht — 
that Louis XIV. was plunged into the most desolating 
wars, because his minister was nettled at bis finding 



' [The Abb6's biographer denies the correctness of this 
statement. — " Quelques tcrivams," he says, " qui trouvaient 
sans doute piquant d'attribuer de grands eiTets a de petites 
causes, ont pr6iendu que PAbb6 avait insistii dans le conseil 
pour faire declarer la guerre a la Prusse, par ressentiment 
centre Fr6d6ric, et pour venger sa vanite po6t lie, liumilie 
pai le vers du rnonarque bel-esprit et poete— 
' Evitez de Bemis la st6rile abondance.' 



fault with a window, and wished to give him another 
occupation— that Helen lost Troy— that Lucretia ex- 
pelled the Tarquins from Rome— and that Cava 
brought the Moors to Spain— that an insulted hus- 
band led tne Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Rome — 
that a single verse of Frederick II. of Prussia on the 
Abbe de Bernis, and a jest on Madame de Pompadour, 
led to the battle of Rosbach' — that the elopement of 
Dearbhorgil with Mac Murchad conducted the Eng- 
lish to the slavery of Ireland — that a personal pi(|lie 
between Maria Antoinette and the Duke of Orleans, 
precipitated the first expulsion of the Bourbons — and, 
not to multiply instances, that Commodus, Domitian, 
and Caligula, fell victims, not to their public tyranny, 
but to private vengeance — and that an order to make 
Cromwell disembark from the ship in which he would 
have sailed to Ameiica, destroyed both king and coia- 
monwealth. After these instances, on the least re- 
flection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore to 
seem surprised that a man used to command, who had 
senred and swayed in the most impoitt^r.t offices, 
should fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished 
affront, the grossest that can bo offered to a man, be 
he prince or peasant. The age of Faliero is little to 
the purpooe, unless to favor it — 

" The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
But like red-hot stttl is the old man's ire." 

" Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical : — " Tale 
fii il fine ignominioso di un' uomo, che la sua nascitS,, 
la sua etii, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano 
dalle passioni produttrici di grandi delitti. I suoi 
talenti per lungo tempo esercitati ne' maggiori im- 
pieghi, la sua capacity, sperimentata ne' governi e 
nello ambasciate, gli avevano acquistato la stima e la 
fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano uniti i suffragj per 
collocarlo alia testa della republica. Innalzato ad un 
grado che terminava gloriosamento la sua vita, il ri- 
sentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinub nel suo 
cuore tal velcno che basto a corrompere le antiche 
sue quality, e a condurlo al termine dei scellerati ; 
serio esenipio, che prova non esservi etdf in cui la 
prudenza umana sia sicura, e che nelV uomo restano 
sempre passioni capaci a disonorarlo, quando non 
invigili sopra se stesso."'^ 

Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero 
begged his life? I have searched the chroniclers, 
and find nothing of the kind ; it is true that he avow- 
ed all. He was conducted to the place of tortuve, but 
there is no mention made of any application for mercy 
on his part ; and the very circumstance of their having 
taken him to the rack seems to argue any thing but 
his having shown a want of firmness, wbich would 
doubtless have been also mentioned by those minute 
historians, who by no means favor him : such, indeed, 
would be contrary to his character as a soldier, to the 
age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it is to 
the truth of history. I know no justification, at any 
distance of time, for calumniating an historical cha- 
racter : surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the 
unfortunate ; and they who have died upon a scaffold 
have generally had faults enough of their own, with- 



j'e ne m'amuserai point a refuter cette opinion ridicule; 
eile tombe par le fait, si I'abbS, conune dit Duclos, sa 
declara au contraire, dans le conseil, constamment pcur 
I'alliance avec la Prusse, centre le senluiient nieme da 
Louis XV. et de Madame de Pompadour."— i?i6. Urnv.'i 

2 Laugier, Kist. de la R6pub. de Venise, Itahan transla 
tiou, vol. iv. p. 30. 



206 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



out attributing to them that which the very incurring 
of the perils which conducted them to their violent 
death renders, of all others, the most improbable. The 
black veil which is painted over the place of Marino 
Faliero amongst the Doges, and the Giant's Stair- 
case where he was crowned, and discrowned, and 
decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagination ; as 
did his fiery character and strange story. I went, in 
1819, in search of his tomb more than once to the 
church San Giovanni e San Paolo ; and, as I was 
standing before the monument of another family, a 
priest came up to me and said, " I can show you finer 
monuments than that." I told him that I was in 
search of that of the Faliero family, and particularly 
of the Doge Marino's. " Oh," said he, " I will show 
it you ;" and conducting me to the outside, pointed 
out a sarcophagus in the wall with an illegible inscrip- 
tion. He said that it had been in a convent adjoining, 
but was removed after the French came, and placed 
in its present situation ; that he had seen the tomb 
opened at its removal ; there were still some bones 
reniur.'ng, but no positive vestige of the decapitation. 
The equestrian statue of which I have made mention 
in the third Act as before that church is not, however, 
of a Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, 
although of a later date. There were two other 
Doges of this family prior to Marino ; Ordelafo, who 
fell in battle at Zara in 1117, (where his descendant 
afterwards conquered the Huns,) and Vital Faliero, 
who reigned in 1082. The family, originally from 
Fano, was of the most illustrious in blood and wealth 
in the city of once the most wealthy and still the 
most ancient families in Europe. The length I have 
gone into on this subject will show the interest I have 
taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in the 
tragedy, I have at least transferred into our language 
an historical fact worthy of commemoration. 



1 [In February, 1817, Lord Byron writes to Mr. Murray— 
" Look into Dr. Moore's ' View of Italy' for me : in one of 
the volumes you will find an account of the Doge Valiero 
(it ought to be Faliero) and his conspiracy, or the motives 
of it. Get it transcribed for me, and send it in a letter to 
me soon. I want it, and cannot find so good an account of 
that business here ; though the veiled patriot, and the place 
where ne was crowned, and afterwards decapitated, still 
exist and are shown. I have searched all their histories ; 
but the policy of the old aris tocracy made their writers silent 
on nis motives, which wen- a private grievance against one 
of the patricians. I mean t-i write a tragedy on the subject, 
which appears to me very dramatic ; an old man, jealous, 
and conspiring against the .itate, of which he was actually 
reigning chief. The last circumstance makes it the most 
remarkable, and only fact cf the kind in all history of all 
nations."! 

'^ [" It is like being at the whole process of a woman's toilet 

—it disenchants." — MS.] 

3 While I was in the FUb-committee of Drury Lane 
Theatre, I can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for my- 
self, that we did our best to bring back the legitimate drama. 
I tried what I could to get " De Montfort" revived, but in 
vain, and equally in vair in favor of Sotheby's "Ivan," 
which was thought an acti.ig play ; and I endeavored also 
to wake Mr. Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who are 
not in the secret will hardly believe that the " School for 
Scandal" is the play which has brought least money, aver- 
aging the number of times it bas been acted since its produc- 
tion ; so Manager Dibden assured me. Of what has occurred 



* [The Rev. Charles Maturin (a curate in Dublin) died in 
1824. His first production, the " House of I\Iontorio,"' a 
romance, is the only one of his n-v orks that has survived him. 
AVhen he wished his family to be aware that the fit was on 
him, this fantastical gentleiran used to stick a wafer on his 
forehead.—" Maturin." says Lord Byron, " sent his ' Bertram' 
bad a letter to the Drury L,'\ie Committee, without his ad- 
diess ; so mat hi firsi, I octJ give him no answer ; when I 
at length iiit upon his residence, I sent him a favorable one, 
and sometliing more substantial."] 



It is now four years that I have meditated this 
work ; and before I had sufficiently examined the 
record.s, I was rather disposed to have made it turn 
on a jealousy in Faliero.' But, perceiving no found- 
ation for this in historical truth, and aware that jealousy 
is an exhausted passion in the drama, I have given it a 
more historical form. I was, besides, well advised by 
the late Matthew Lewis on that point, in talking with 
him of my intention at Venice in 1817. " If you make 
him jealous," said he, " recollect that you have to con- 
tend with established writers, to say nothing of Shak- 
speare, and an exhausted subject ; — stick to the old fiery 
Doge's natural character, which will bear you out, if 
properly drawn ; and make your plot as regular as you 
can." Sir William Drummond gave me nearly the 
same counsel. How far I have followed these instruc- 
tions, or whether they have availed me, 's not for me to 
decide. I have had no view to the stage ' n its present 
state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted coject of am- 
bition : besides. I have been too much behind the scenes 
to have thought it so at any time.^ And I cannot con- 
ceive any man of irritable feeling putting himself at the 
mercies of an audience. The sneering reader, and the 
loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and distant 
calamities ; but the trampling of an intelligent or of an 
ignorant audience on a production which, be it good or 
bad, has been a mental labor to the writer, is a palpable 
and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt 
of their competency to judge, and his certainty of his 
own irpprudence in electing them his judges. Were I 
capable of writing a play which could be deemed stage- 
worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure 
great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the 
time of being one of the Committee of one of the 
theatres, I never made the attempt, and never will ' 
But surely there is a dramatic power somewhere, 
where Joanna Baillie,* and Millman,^ and John Wilson' 

since Maturin's* " Bertram" I am not aware ; so that I may 
be traducing, through ignorance, some excellent new w Ti- 
ters : if so, I beg their pardon. I have been absent from 
England nearly five years, and, till last year, I never read 
an English newspaper since my departure, and am now 
only aware of theatrical matters through the medium of 
the Parisian Gazette of Galignani, and only for the last 
twelve months. Let me tlien deprecate all offence to 
tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, and of whom 
I know nothing. The long complaints of the actual state 
of the drama arise, however, from no fault of the per- 
formers. I can conceive nothing better than Kemble, 
Cooke, and Kean in their very different manners, or than 
EUiston in gentleman^ s comedy, and in some parts of trage- 
dy. Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a 
determination to see notliing which should divide or dis- 
turb rny recollection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble 
were the ideal of tragic action ; I never saw any thing at 
all resembling them even in person : for this reason, we 
shall never see again Coriolanus or Macbeth. When 
Kean is blamed for want of dignity we should remember 
that it is a grace, and not an art, and not to be attained 
by study. In all, not supER-natural parts, he is perfect; 
even his very defects belong, or seem to belong, to the 
parts themselves, and appear truer to nature. But of 
Kemble we may say, with reference to his acting, what the 
Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Montrose, " that 
he was the only man he ever saw who reminded him of the 
heroes of Plutarch." 

< [Jlrs. Baillie's " Family Legend" is the only one of her 
dramas that ever had any success on the stage.] 

5 [The Rev. Henry Hart Millman, of Brazen Nose College, 
Oxford, for some time Professor of Poetry in that University, 
and now Rector of St. Margaret, Westminster. " Fazio,'* 
which he wrote before taking his first degree at Oxford, i.g 
the only one of his play? that has done well on the stage. 3 

6 [John Wilson, of Magdalen College, Oxford, now Pio- 
fessor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, 
— the well-known author of the " Isle of Palms," " Marga- 
ret Lindsay," " Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," <tc 
&c., and the principal critic as well as humori.st of B]?ii:k- 
wood's Magazine.j 



MARINO FALIERO. 



207 



exist. The " City of the Pla^e," and the " Fall of 
Jerusalem" are full of the best materiel for tragedy 
that has been seen shice Horace Walpole, except 
passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. It is tlio 
fashion to underrate Horace Walpole ; firstly, because 
he was a nobleman, and secondly, because lie was a 
gentlsman ; but, to say nothing of the composition 
of his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of 
Otranto, he is the " Ultimus Romanonmi,"' the author 
of the Mysterious Mother, a tragedy of the highest 
order, and not a puling love-play. He is the father 
of the first romance and of the last tragedy in our 
language, and surely worthy of a higher place than 
any livnig writer, be he who he may. 

In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I 
forgot to mention, that the desire of preserving, though 
ptill too remote, a nearer approach to unity than the 
irregularity, which is the reproach of the English 
theatrical compositions, permits, has induced me to 
represent the conspiracy as already formed, and the 
Doge acceding to it ; whereas, in fact, it was of his 
own preparation and that of Israel Bertuccio. The 
other characters, (e.xceptthatof the Duchess,) incidents, 
and almost the time, which was wonderfully short 
for such a design in real life, are strictly historical, 
except that all the consultations took place in the 
palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have been 
better preserved ; but I wished to produce the Doge in 
the full assembly of the conspirators, instead of monoto- 
nously placing him always in dialogue with the same 
individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix.' 



1 [Lord Byron originally designed to inscribe this tragedy 
to his friend, the late Mr. Douglas Kinnaird ; but the dedi- 
cation, then drawn up, has remained till now in MS. It is 
in these words : — 

" To THE HONOEABLE DOUOLAS KiNNAIIlB. 

" My dear Douglas, — I dedicate to you the following trage- 
dy, rather on account of your good opinion of it, than from 
any notion of my own that it may be worthy of your accept- 
ance. But if its merits were ten times greater than they 
possibly can be, this offering would still be a very inadequate 
acknowledgment of the active and steady friendship with 
whicli, for a series of years, you have honored your obliged 
and affectionate friend, BYRON." 

At another moment, the Poet resolved to dedicate this 
tragedy to Goethe, whose praises of " Manfred" had highly 
delighted him ; but this dedication shared tlie fate of that to 
Mr. Kinnai.d : — it did not reach the hands of Goethe till 
1831, when it was presented to him at Weimar, by Mr. Mur- 
ray, jun. ; nor was it printed at all, until Mr. Moore included 
it in his Life of Lord Byron. It is to be regretted that Mr. 
Moore, in doing so, omitted some passages, which, the MS. 
iiaving since been lost, we cannot now restore. " It is writ- 
ten," he says, '• in the poet's most whimsical and mocking 
mood ; and the unmeasured severity poured out in it upon the 
two favorite objects of his wrath and, ridicule, compels me 
to depriv.e the reader of some of its most amusing passages." 
The world are in possession of so much of Lord Byron's sar- 
castic criticisms on his contemporaries, and the utter reck- 
lessness with which he threw them off is so generally appre- 
ciated, that one is at a loss to understand what purpose could 
be served by suppressing the fragments thus characterized. 
" T" Baron Goethe,* &c. &c. &c. 

" Sir,— In the Appendix to an English work lately trans- 
lated into German and published at Leipsic, a judgment of 
yours upon Emrlish poetry is quoted as follows : ' That in 
English poetry, great genius, universal power, a feeling of 
profundity, with sufficient tenderness and force, are to be 
found ; but that altogether these dn not constitute poets,' &c. <fec. 

" I regret to see a great man falling into a great mistake. 
This opinion of yours only proves that the ^ Dictionary of ten 
thousand living English Authors' has not been translated into 
German. You will have read, in your friend Schlegel's ver- 
sion, the dialogue in Macbeth — 

' There are ten thousand ! 
Macbeth Geese, villain ? 
Answer Authors, sir.' 

[Goethe was ennobled, having the Von prefixed to his 
name, but never received the title of Baron.] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
LioNi, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the Three Capi of the Forty 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of ^ 

the Arsenal, 
Philip Cale.ndaro, > Conspirators. 

Dagolino, 
Bertram, 
Signor of the Night, (" Signore di Nottc,") one of 

the Officers belonging to the Republic. 
First Citizen. 
Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 
Vincenzo, ^ 

PiETRo, y Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
Battista, ) 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, Tlie Council of Ten, 

The Giunta, t^c. <f-c. 

WOMEN. 
Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 

Female Attendants, ^c. 
Scene Venice — in the year 1355. 



Now, of these ' ten thousand authors,' there are actually 
nineteen hundred and eighty-seven poets, all alive at this 
moment, whatever their works may be, as their booksellers 
well know : and amongst these there are several who possess 
afar greater reputation than mine, altliough considerably less 
than yours. It is owing to this neglect on the part of yoi;(r 
German translators that you are not aware of the works of 

" There is also another, named * * « 

***** 

" I mention these poets by way of sample to enlighten you. 
They form but two bricks of our Babel, (Windsor bricks, by 
the way,) but may serve for a specimen of the building. 

" It is, moreover, asserted, that ' the predominant character 
of the whole body of the present English poetry is a disgust 
and contempt for life.' But I rather suspect that, hy one 
single work of prose, you yourself have excited a greater 
contempt for life, than all the English volumes of poesy that 
ever were written. Madame de Staijl says, that ' Werther 
has occasioned more suicides than the most beautiful wo- 
man ;' and I really believe that ho has put more individuals 
out of this world than Napoleon himself,— except in the way 
of his profession. Perhaps, Illustrious Sir, the acrimonious 
judgment passed by a celebrated northern journal upon you 
in particular, and the Germans in general, has rather indis- 
posed you towards English poetry as well as criticism. But 
you must not regard our critics, who are at bottom good- 
natured fellows, considering their two professions,— taking 
up the law in court, and laying it down out of it. No one 
can more lament their hasty and unfair judgment, in your 
particular, than I do ; and I so expressed myself to your 
friend Schlegel, in 1816, at Coppet. 

" In behalf of my ' ten thousand' living brethren, and of 
myself, I have thus far taken notice of an opinion expressed 
with regard to ' English Poetry' in general, and which 
merited notice, because it was yours. 

" My principal object in addressing you was to testify my 
sincere respect and admiration of a man, who, for half a 
century, has led the literature of a great nation, and will go 
down to posterity as the first literary character of his age. 

" You have been fortunate, Sir, not only in the writings 
which have illustrated your name, but in the name itself, as 
being sufficiently musical for the articulation of posterity. 
In this you have the advantage of some of your countrymen, 
whose names would perhaps be immortal also— if anybody 
could pronounce them. 

" It may, perhaps, be supposed, by this apparent tone of 
levity, that I am wanting in intentional respect towards you ; 
but this will be a mistake : I am always flippant in prose, 
Considering you, as I reolly and warmly do, in common with 



208 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I. 
An Antechmiiber in the Ducal Palace. 

PiETRo speaks, in entering, to Ba'-'tista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger return'd ? 

Bat. Not yet ; 

I have sent frequent'f/, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense? 

Pie. With strugglmg patience. 

Placed at the ducal table, cover'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Dispatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports, 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door, 
Or aught that intimates a coming step, 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders. 
And ho will start up from his chair, then pause. 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. ['twas 

Bat. 'Tis said he is much moved, — and doubtless 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. , Then you think 

He will not bo judged hardly ? 

Pie. 'Twere pnough 

H<^ be judged justly ; but 'tis not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Bat. And here it comes. — What news, Vincenzo ? 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. 'Tis 

Decided ; but as yet his doom's unknown : 
I saw the president in act to seal 
The parchment which will bear the Forty's judgment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. [^Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge ; and his Nephew, 
Bertuccio Faliero. 
Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do you justice. 
Doge. Ay, such as the Avogadori' did. 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 



all your own. and with most other nations, to be by far the 
first literary character which has existed in Europe since 
the death of Voltaire, I felt, and feel, desirous to inscribe to 
you the following work,— not as being either a tragedy or a 
poem, (for I cannot pronounce upon its pretensions to be 
either one or tlie other, or both, or neither,) but as a mark 
of esteem and admiration from a foreigner to the man who 
has been hailed in Germany ' the Great Goethe.' I have 
the honor to be, with the truest respect, your most obedient 
and very humble servant, BYRON. 

"Ravenna, 8"" 14». 1820. 

"PS I perceive that in Germany as well as in Italy, there 
IS a great struggle about what they call ' Classical' and ' Ro- 
mantic,' — terms which were not subjects of classification in 
England, at least wlien I left it four or five years ago. Some 



Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him: such an 
act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. [Forty? 

Doge. Know you not Venice ? Know you not the 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. {addressing Vincenzo, then entering.) 
How now — what tidings? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the court 
Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soon 
As the due forms of judgment are gone throug} , 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the mean time the Forty doth salute 
The Fhnce of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes — 

They are wond'rous dutiful, and ever humble 
Sentence is pass'd, you say? 

Vin. It is, your highness : 

The president -was sealing it, when I 
Was call'd in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. [ceived, 

Ber. F. Are you aware, from aught you have per- 
Of their decision ? 

Vin. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Venice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given to 
guess. 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch at ; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men — most worthy men. 
And wise, and just, and cautious — this I grant — 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty ; but with all this, in their aspects — 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Vincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which passed among the Judges, even in seeming ; 
My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 
Made me 

Doge, {abruptly.) And how look'd he 7 deliver that 

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign'd 
To the decree, whate'er it Vfeie ; — but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty 
Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Venice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraign'd upon the charge 



of the English scribblers, it is true, abused Pope and Swift, 
but Uie reason was that they themselves did not know how to 
write either prose or verse ; but nobody thought them worth 
making a sect of. Perhaps there may be something of the kind 
sprung up lately, but I liave not heard much about it, and it 
would be such bad taste that I shall be very sorry to believe it." 

The illustrious Goethe was much gratified with this token 
of Lord Byron's admiration. He died at Weimar early iji 
the year 1832 — a year which swept away so many of the 
great men of the European world — among others, C\r\ iei 
and Scott.] 

1 [The Avogadori, three in number, were the conducttirs 
of criminal prosecutions on the part of the state ; and no act 
of the councils was valid, unless saner oned ty the jresence 
of one of them.] 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



209 



Containd, together with its penalty, 
Within tiie rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

{Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper : 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes : 
I cannot fix them. • 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

^Vhy do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. (reading.) " Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words '" 

Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them ? 

Wouldst thou repeat them — tJinu, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
Dislinnor'd in its chief — that chief the prince 
Of Venice, first of cities? — To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord ; I will obey — 
(Reads) " That Michel Steno be detaiu'd a month 
In close arrest."* 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 'tis finish'd. 

Doge. How, say you ? — finish'd ! Do I dream ? — 
'tis false — 
Give me the paper — (Snatches the paper and reads) 

— " 'Tis decreed in council 
That Michel Steno" Nephew, thine arm ! 

Ber. F. Nay, 

Cheer up, be calm ; this transport is uucall'd for — 
Let me seek some assistance 

Doge. Stop, Sir — Stir not — 

'Tis past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence — 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To affix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects ; but 'tis not 
Yet without remedy: you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
Who, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined, 
And do yon right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? why do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not ; — I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge, (dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld 
hy his nephew ) 
Oh ! that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F For the sake 

Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port I 



• [" Marino Faliero, dalla bella moglie— altri la gode, ed 
egli la mantiene." — Sanuto.] 

2 [It is not in the plot only, that we think we can trace the 
injurious effects of Lord Byron's continental prejudices and 
his choice of injudicious models. We trace them in the 
abruptness of his verse, which has all the harshness, though 
not all the vigor, of Alfieri, and which, instead of that 
richness and variety of cadence wliich distinguishes even 
the most careless of our elder dramatists, is often ordy dis- 
linguishable from prose by the unrelenting uniformity with 



Oh, that the Huns whom I o'erthrew at Zara 
Were ranged around the palace I 

Ber. F. 'Tis not well 

In Venice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Venice' Duke ! 

Who now is Duke in Venice ? let me seje him 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your office, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Venice 

Doge, (interrupting him.) There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse — a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless 

wretch, 
Who begs his bread, if 'tis refused by one, 
May win it from another kinder heart ; 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Whose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar — he's a slave — • 
And that am I, and thou, and all ou house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
WiW point the finger, and the haughty noble 
May spit upon us:— -vhere is our redress? 

Ber. F. The law, rry prince [done — 

Doge, (interrupting him.) You see what it has 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I call'd no judges but those named by law — 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my suhjects, 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign, 
And gave me thus a double right to be so. 
The rights of place and choice, of birth and service, - 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary hairs. 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues. 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
Were weigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest ^aln, 
The grossest insult, most contemptuous crime 
Of a rank, rash patrician — and found wanting! 
And this is to be borne I 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's eon? 
A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice 
But tliou say'st well — we must be humble now. 

Ber. F. My princely uncle ! you are too much 
moved : 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exoeed the provocation, 
Or any provocation : if we are wrong'd, 
We will ask justice ; if it be denied. 
We'll take it ; but may do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep SUence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years, 
I love our house, I honor you, its chief, 



which it is divided into decasyllabic portions. The sentence 
of the College of Justice was likely, indeed, to be prosaic ; 
and Shakspeare and our other elder tragedians would have 
given it as bond fide prose, without that affectation (for 
which, however, Lord Byron has many precedents in mod- 
ern times) which condemns letters, proclamations, the 
speeches of the vulgar, and the outcries of the rabble and 
the soldiery, to strut in the same precise pleasure with the 
lofty musings and dignified resentment of the powerful and 
the wise : — but Bertucoio FaUero might as well liave 
spoken poetry.— Hebek.] 



27 



210 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 1. 



The g^iardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appal me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian waves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I toll thee — must I tell thee — what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend 1 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul — 
No pnde — no passion — no deep sense of honor? 

Ber. F 'Tis the first time that honor has been 
doubted. 
And were the last, from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born villain. 
This creeping, coward, rank, acquitted felon, 
Who threw'his sting into a poisonous libel,' 
And on the honor of — Oh God ! — my wife, 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor. 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to mouth 
Of loose mechanicsj with all coarse foul comments, 
And villanous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
While sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them — a courteous wittol, 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie — you knew it false, 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Roman 

Said, " Csesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

Ber. F. True — but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a Roman would not suffer. 
That a Venetian prince must bear? Old Dandolo 
Refused the diadem of all the Cassars, 
And wore the ducal cap I trample on, 
Because 'tis now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'Tis even so. 

Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slauder'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord. 
For that he had been long her fathers friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her. 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
Tlio justice due unto the humblest being 
Who hath a wife whose faith is sweet to him, 
Who hath a home whose hearth is dear to him, 
Who hath a name whoso honor's all to him. 
When these are taintec ':v the accursing breath 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fit punishment? 

Doge. Death ! Was I not the sovereign of the 
state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men who should obey me ? 
Was I not injured as a husband? scorn'd 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason ? — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on the Doge's throne 
Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool, 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had eUibb'd him on the instant. 

Ber. F Do not doubt it, 



» [" Who threw his sting into a poisonous rhyme." — MS.] 



He shall not live till sunset — leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further wrath against this man. 

Ber. F What mean you ? is not the offence ro- 
«doubled 
By this most rank — I will not say — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowledgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd? 

Doge. It is redoubled, but not now by him . 
The Forty h^^th decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F. Obey them .' 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign? 

Doge. Why, yes ; — boy, you perceive it then at last: 
Whether as fellow-citizen who sues 
For justice, or as sovereign who commands it, 
They have defrauded me tl both my rights, 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen ;) 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head — he shall not wear it long. 

Ber. F. Not twelve hours longer, had you left to ure 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me 
I never meant this miscreant should escape. 
But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion. 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew, he must live ; 

At least, just now — a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour ; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim. 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my law ; and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honor of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
proof ; 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 
I am ashamed of my own anger now ; 
I pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why that's my uncle ! 

The leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself I 
I wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years. 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — "Wlien you lie down to rest. 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The smi and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer-day of festival : ^ 

So will it stand to me ; — but speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me ; — we shall have much to do, 
And you shall have a part. — But now retire, 
'Tis fit I were alone. 

Ber. F. (taking up and placing the ducal bonnet 
on the table.) Ere I depart, 
I pray you to resume what you have spum'd, 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero 

Doge, (solus.) Adieu, my vroilhy nephev/.— 
Hollow bauble ! [ Taking vp the ducul cap 
Beset with all the thorns that line a crown, 
Without investing the insulted brow 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



211 



With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 

Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy, 

Let mo resume tliee as I would a vizor. [Puts it on. 

How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 

Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 

Could I not turn thee to a diadem? 

Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 

Which in this hundred-handed senate rules, 

Making the people nothing, and the prince 

A pageant? In my life I have achieved 

Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 

Who thus repay me ! — Can I not requite them ? 

Oh for one year ! Oh ! but for even a day 

Of my full youth, while yet my body served 

My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 

I would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 

In aid to overthrow these ^woln patricians ; 

But now I must look round for other hands 

To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 

In such a sort as will not leave the task 

Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos 

Of darkly brooding thoughts : my fancy is 

In her first work, more nearly to the light 

Holding the sleeping images of things 

For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 

The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin, There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I'm unwell — 

I can see no one, not even a patrician — 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply ; 
It cannot much import — he's a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is — I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit Vincenzo. 

Doge, (solus.) This patron may be sounded ; I will 
try him. 
I know the people to be discontented : 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
When Genoa conquer'd ; they have further cause, 
Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines, 
To serve the nobles' most patrician pleasure. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised. 
And murmur deeply — any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
With plunder: — but the priests — I doubt the priest- 
hood 
Will not be with us ; — they have hated me 
Since tiiat rash hour, when, madden'd with the drone, 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso,' 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ue'ertheless, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions ; but, above 
Ail things, I must be speedy : at my hour 



1 An historical fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 
Doges. — [" Sanuto says that Heaven took away his senses 
for this bufl'et, and induced him to conspire : — ' Perb fu 
permesso che il Fahero perdette 1' intelleto,' &c." — Bi/tok 
Letters.} 

* 'This officer was chief of the artisans of the arsenal, 
and coranaaadcd the Buceutaur, for the safety of which. 



Of twilight little light of life remains. 

Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 

I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 

Next moment with my sires ; and, wanting this, 

Better that sixty of my fourscore years 

Had been already where — how soon, I care not— 

The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 

They ne'er had been, thaft drag me on to be 

The thiiig these arch-oppressors fain would make mo 

Let me consider — of efficient troops 

There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenz end Israel Bertuccio. 

Vin May it please 

Your highness, the same patron whca tpake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Doge. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — [Exit Vincenzo. 

Sir, you may advance — what would you 1 

I. Ber. Redress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

/. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

/. Ber. 'Twere in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There's blood upon thy face — how came it 
there ? 

/. Ber. 'Tis mine, and not the first I've shed for 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian hand : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

/. Ber. Not long — 

But for the hope I had and have, that you, 
My prince, yourself a soldier, will redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself; — if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do — 

Is it not so ? 

/. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why so is he who smote you. 

/. Ber. He is call'd so ; 

Nay, more, a noble one — at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
'Tis said the worm will. 

Doge. Say — his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause? or the pretext? 

/. Ber. I am the chief of the arsenal,^ eniploy'd 
At present in repairing certain galleys 
But roughly used by the Genoese 'aoi year. 
This morning comes the noble £arbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree : I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand ; — 



even if an accidental storm should arise, he was responsible 
with his life. He mounted guard at the ducal palace during 
an interregnum, and bore the red standard before the new 
Doge on his inauguration ; for which service his perquisites 
were the ducal mantle, and the two silvei basins from which 
the Doge scattered the regulated pittance which he was 
permitted to throw among the people. — Amelot de la Houj- 
saye, 79.] 



212 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er flow'd 
Dishonorably 

Doge. Have you long time sei-ved? 

/. Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Hmis 

there, 
Sometime my general, now the Doge Faliero. — 
Doge. How! are we comrades? — the state's ducal 
robes 
Sit newly on me, and you were appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognised you not. Who placed you? 
I Ber. The late Doge ; keeping still my old com- 
mand 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars, 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say :) 
I little thought his bounty would conduct mo 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 
Doge. Speak out ; fear nothing : being stung at 
heart. 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 
/. Ber. That which I dare not name, and yet will 

do. 
Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 
/. Ber. I come for justice, 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fiU'd the ducal throne, 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto 7we .' 
The Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 'twas denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 
/. Ber. How says your highness ? 
Doge. Steno is condemn'd 

To a month's confinement. 

/. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ?" 
Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
arsenal, 
Keeping due time with every hammer's clink 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
In the> vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He was not 6. shamed dotard like the Doge. 

/ Ber. Is't possible ? a month's imprisonment 1 
No more for Steno? 

Doge. You have heard the offence, 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You vjsk redress of ?nc .' Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They'll do as much by Barbaro, no doubt. 
/. Ber. Ah ! dared speak my feelings I 
Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then, in a word, it rests but on your word 
To punish and avenge — I will not say 
My pettj' wrong, for what is a mere blow. 
However vile, to such a thing as I am? — 
But the base insult done your state and person. 

Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pageant 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Nay, more, a beggar's are his own, and these 



But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

/. Ber Wouldst thou be king? 

Doge. Yes — of a nappy people. 

/. Ber Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice 1 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergrown aristocratic Hydra, 
The poisonous heads of whose enveuom'd body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon ug all. 

J. Ber. Yet, thou wast born, and still hast lived, 
patrician. 

Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Veii'.ce and her people, not the senate ; 
Their good and my own honor were my guero 
I have fought and bled ; commanded, ay, and con- 

quer'd ; 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies. 
As it might chance to be our country's 'vantage ; 
Have traversed land and sea in constant duty. 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once mere ; but not for any knot of men, 
Nor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican why she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bud a voice, 
She'd tell thee 'twas for all her little ones. 

/. Ber. And yet they made thee duke. 

Doge. They jnade me bo ; 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy, 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
At these late years, decline what was the highest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In what we have to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject. 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

/. Ber. You shall do both, if you possess the will ; 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
Who wait but for a signal — will you give it ? 

Doge. You speak in riddles. 

/. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber. Not thou. 

Nor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the whole people 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
The foreign soldiers in the senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops, 
Feel with their friends ; for who is ho amongst 

them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters, 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still mamtain'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed thorn fur- 
ther : 
Even now — but, I forget that speaking thus. 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 



SCE\E 11. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



213 



Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st 
thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou nast bled. 

/. Ber. No, I will speak 

At every hazard ; and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
Tlian I. 

Doffe. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 

/. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn 
in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true ; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over Ir.at of Venice, and have right 
To do so ; having served her in all climes, 
And having rescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do the same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means. 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient courage. 

Doge. For what then do they pause ? 

/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge, {aside) Saint Mark's shall strike that hour !' 

/. Ber. I now have placed 

My lifes my honor, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause. 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
Be our chief now — otir sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many aire ye ? 

/. Ber. I'll not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 

Doge. How, sir ! do you menace ? 

/. Ber. No ; I afHrm. I have betray'd myself ; 
But there's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which undermine your palace, nor in those 
Not less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi" and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might wring blood from me, but treachery 

never. 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er 
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on't, and avenge me. 

Dog . If such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

/. Ber. Because the man. 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made ma 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd. 



> The 3".ls of San Marco were never rung but by order of 
the Doge. One of the pretexts for ringing this alarm was to 
nave een an announcement of the appearance of a Genoese 
fleet off the Lagune. 

» [Ths state dungeons, called Pozzi. or wells, were sunk 
in the thick walls of the palace ; und the prisoner, when 



And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

Doge. Wliat was that? [moved 

/. Ber. Some rumors that the Doge was greatly 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honor'd you. 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted, 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 'twas 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
Now you know all ; and that I speak the truth, 
My peril be the proof. 

Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 

But all must do so wnc 'vould greatly win : 
Thus far I'll answer you — your secret's safe. 

I. Ber. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have me answer ? 

/• Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, 
and numbers ; 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen'd 

/. Ber. We're enough already: 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your 
chiefs. 

/. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When ? where ? 

/. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartment 

Two of the principals ; a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
And leave the palace? 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephev/. 

/. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He 
died in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

I. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
doubtest. 
But will regard thee with a filial faehng, 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge The die is cast. Where is the place of 
meeting? 

/. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick aud 
dusky ; 



taken out to die, was conducted across the gallery to 
the other side, and being then led back into the other 
compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. 
The low portal through which the criminal was taken 
into this. cell is now walled up ; but the passage is open, 
and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs.— 

HOBHOUSE.] 



214 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act i£. 



'Tis a nirocco. 

Doge At the midnight hour, then, 

Near to the cliurch where sleep my sires ;' the same, 
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 
A gondola," with one oar only, will 
Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by : 
Be there 

/. Ber I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire 

/. Ber In the full hope your highness will not falter 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

{Exit Israel Bertoccio. 

Doge, (solus.) At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
Where sleep my noble fcthers, I repair — 
To what? to hold a council in the dark 
With common rufBans leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vaidt, 
Where lie two doges who preceded me, 
fAud pluck me down amongst them? Would they 
could ! 
For I should rest in honor with the honor'd. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of --i name, 
Noblo and brave as aught of consular 
On Roman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time. 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails. 
But try the Ccasar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success.^ 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. 



An Apartment in the Ducal Palace. 

Angiolina {wife of the Doge) and Marianna. 

Ang. What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That he was 

That moment summon'd to a conference ; 
But 'tis by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking ; 
AuL '.he last gondola may new be seen 
Gliding into tlie throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Ang. Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late j 
And Time which has not tamed his fiery spirit. 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Which seems to be more liourish'd by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 



1 [The Doges were all buried in St. Mark's before Faliero. 
It is singular that when his predecessor, Andrea Dandolo, 
died, the Ten made a law that all the future Doges should 
be buried with their families in their own churches — one 
would think, by a kind of presentiment. So that all that is 
said of his ancestral Doges, as buried at St. John's and Paul's, 
.s altered from the fact, they being in St. Mark's. Make a 
note of this, and put Editor as the subscription to it. As I 
niake such pretensions to accuracy, I should not like to be 
twitted even with sucli trifles on that score. Of the play 
they may say what they please, but not so of my costume 
and dram, ycrs.— they having been real existences. — JJyron 
Letter's, Oct. 1820.] 

- A gf'r.dola is not like a comiran boat, but is as easily 



Less hardy clay — Time has but little power'y 

On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 

To other spirits %f his order, who, 

In the first burst of passion, pour away 

Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in hira 

An aspect of eternity ; his thoughts, 

His feelings, passions, good or evil, all 

Have nothing of old age ; and his bold brow 

Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, 

Not their decrepitude : and he of late 

Has been more agitated than his wont. 

Would he were come ! for I alone have powoi 

Upon his troubled sphit. 

Mar. It is true, 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause : 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Ang. 'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
Which it has made upon Faliero's soid, 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me : I tremble when I think • 

To what it may conduct. 

Mar. Assuredly 

The Doge can not suspect you ? 

Ang. Suspect 7ne ! 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd his lie. 
Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering 

light, 
His own still conscience smote him for the act, 
And every shadow on the walls frown'd sliamo 
Upon his coward calumny. 

Mar. 'Twere fit 

He should be pmiish'd grievously. 

Ang. He is so. 

Mar. What! is the sentence pass'd? is h© ctm- 
demn'd ? 

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul 
scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause. 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno j 
But if his insults sink no deooer in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acqtiittance. 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Roman said, " 'twas but a name :" 
It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 



rowed with one oar as with two, (though, of course, not so 
swiftly,) and often is so from motives of privacy ; and, since 
the decay of Venice, of economy. 

3 [" What Gifford says of the first act is very consolatory. 
English, sterling genuine English, is a desideratum amongst 
you, and I am glad that I have got so much left ; thougt 
Heaven knows how 1 retain it : I hear none but from my 
valet, and he is Nottinghamshire ; and I see none but in your 
new publications, and theirs is no language at all, but jargon 
Gifford says that it is good English, and Foscolo says thut 
the characters are right Venetian — 

' Here are in all two worthy voices gain'd.' " 
—Byron Letters, Sept. 1820.] 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



215 



Mar. Yet full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor. 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts. 
And would seem honest, as they must seem fair. 

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician 
dame. 

Ang. And yet they were my father's ; with his 
name. 
The solo inheritance he left. 

Mar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

Ang. I shoiild have sought none though a peasant's 
bride. 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend. 
The Count Yal di Marino, now our Doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart? 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
And, let me add, disparity of tempers. 
Might make (he world doubt whether such a union 
Could make you wisely, permanently, happy. 

Ang. The world will think with worldlings ; but 
my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

Mar. And do you love him ? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 
Upon Faliero: he had known him noble. 
Brave, generous ; rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
Such have I found him as my father said. 
His faults are those tiiat dwell in the high bosoms 
Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by 
The uses of patricians, and a life 
Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 
From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 
A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth upwards, 



1 [This scene is, perhaps, the finest in the whole play. 
The character of the calm, pure-spirited Angiolina is devel- 
oped in it most admirably ; — the great difference between 
her temper and that of her fiery husband is vividly portray- 
ed ;— but not less vividly touched is that strong bond of their 
union which exists in the common nobleness of their deep- 
er natures. There is no spark of jealousy in the old man's 
tliough'-s, — he does not expect the fervors of youthful pas- 
sion ia his wife, nor does he find them ; but he finds what 
is far better, — the fsarless confidence of one, who, being to 
the heait's core innocent, can scarcely be a believer in the 
existence of such a thing as guilt. He finds every charm 
which gratitude, respect, anxious and deep-seated affection 



Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the warieat of republics 

Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him, 

From his first fight to his last embassy. 

From which on his return the Dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand wore still to give, 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

Ang I answer'd your first question when I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second? 

Ang. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but sor.je surprise : I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose, 
Or aught save their past choice 

Mar. 'Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of fuch thoughts 

Mar. Here comes the Doge — sliall I retire ? 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seem^ wrapp'd 
In thought. — How pensively he takes huj way ! 

\Exit Marianna. 

Enter the Doge and Pietro 

Doge, (musing.) There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds comnSand 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon me 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged mo to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. [Exit Pietro. 

Ang. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me? — I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
Has parted from you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ?' 

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 



can give to the confidential language of a lovely, and a 
modest, and a pious woman. She has been extremely 
troubled by her observance of the countenance and gestures 
of the Doge, ever since the discovery of Sleno's guilt ; and 
she does all she can to soothe him from his proud irritation. 
Strong in her consciousness of purity, she has broiight her- 
self to regard without anger the insult offered to her; elf; 
and the yet uncorrected instinct of a noble heai t makes nor 
try to persuade her lord, as she is herself persuaded, that Ste- 
no, whatever be the sentence of his judges, must be punish- 
ed—more even than they would wish him to be— by the se- 
cret suggestions of his own guilty conscience, — the deep 
blushes of his privacy.— Lockhabt.] 



216 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act ir. 



Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in 

Venice. 
Doge He shall. — But let that pass. — We will be 
jocund. 
How fare? it with you? have you been abroad? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure. 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved v/ith many cares? 
Speak and 'tis done. 

Ang. You're ever kind to me — 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 
Ddge. Calmer? 

Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart, and walk alone. 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow. 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. Disclose too much ! — of what? 

What is there to disclose ? 

Ang. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering fi-om the Genoese without. 
And malecontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity. 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unaltcr'd brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 
Doge. Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me. 
Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels, 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 
Doge. I had the pride of honor, of your honor, 

Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Ang. Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress: were it of public import, 



1 [This scene between the Doge and Angiolina, though 
IT-iolerably long, has more force and beauty than any thing 
that goes before it. She endeavors to soothe the furious 
mood of her aged partner ; while he insists that nothing but 
the libeller's death could make fitting expiation for his of- 
fence. This speech of the Doge is an elauui ate, and, after 



You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
And I would soothe you back to what you were 
Doge. To what I was ! — Have you heard Steno's 

sentence ? 
Ang. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Ang. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley-slavo, 
Who, stung by stripes, may mc nnur at liis master ; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor. 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of z falsehood : 
All other punisliment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such men have no honor. 

They have but their vile lives — and these are spared. 
Ang. You would not have him die for this offence? 
Doge, l^oinow : — being still alive, I'd have him live 
Long as he can : he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for 
blood? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows. 
That make such deadly to the sense of man? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor? 
And, less than honor, for a little gold? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason? 
Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthful etirrent? is it nothing 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest 

names ? 
Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity [him.* 

In ours? — But let them look to it who have saved 
Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 
Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan 
saved 
From wrath eternal V 

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly — 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 
Doge. Amen! May Heaven forgive them! 
Ang. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 
Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 
Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters 

then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 



all, ineffectual attempt, by rhetorical exaggerations, to give 
some color to the insane and unmeasured resentment on 
which the piece hinges.— Jeffrey. 1 

s [" Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is there not Hell ?" 
— MS.l 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



217 



Being weak and worthless? I have hved too long.— 

But let us change the argument.— My child ! 

My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 

The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 

Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 

Tliat he was linking thee to shame '—Alas ! 

Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst 

thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand. 
This blasphemy, had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure. 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged 1 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me. 
And trust, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command? 

Doge. 'Tis well, 

And may bo better ; but whate'er betide. 
Bo thou at least kind to my memory. 
Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doo-e. It is no matter why ; 

But I would still, whatever others think. 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Ang. Why should you doubt it? has it ever fai.'d? 
Doge. Como hither, child; I would a word with 
you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly: when, oppress'd 
With his last malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils. 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Think with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed- his death -bed. 

jlug I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak. 
If liiy young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier ; nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. ' Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
Nar the false edge of aged appetite, 
Wiiich made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men. 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state tliat's honest. 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
Your father's choice. 

Ang. I did so ; I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours. 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you 
harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
And tlien the daughter of my earliest friend, 



28 



His worthy daughter, tiee to choose again, 

Wealthie'r and wiser, in the ripest bloom 

Of wc nanhood, more skilful to select 

By passing these probationary years ; 

Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 

Secured, by the short penance of enduring 

An old man for some summers, against all 

That law's chicane o\ envious kinsmen might 

Have urged against her right ; my best friend's chila 

Would choose more fitly in respect of years. 

And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

Ang. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true • 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days. 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change your 

choice ; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love. 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Aiiir. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose ; I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught 

you — 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 

Ang. You have done well. — I thank you for that 
trust. 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Doo-e. Where is honor. 

Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood. 
Although 'twere wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood. 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must forever fall ; 



218 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act ii. 



For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect.' 

Ang And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno 1 

Doge. You mistake me. 

It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 

Hid it been so, he should but let that pass. 

Ang What is't you feel so deeply, then, even 

now? 
Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ang. Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 

Doge. I have thought on't till but let me lead 

you back 
To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 
Ang. To what does this conduct ? 
Doge. . To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, whom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
Into a by-word ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort. 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 
Doge For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang. With me, my lord? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel : I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life can not be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll {Giving her a paper) Fear not ; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honor'd still by me : but may your days 

Be many yet -and happier than the present I 

This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing! 
But never more — oh ! never, never more, 
O'er the few days or houi's which yet await 



i These passages, though not perfectly dramatic, have 
great sweetness and digmty, and remind us, in their rich 



The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 

Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 

Those summer shadows rising from the past 

Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 

Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 

Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 

I had but little more to task, or hope. 

Save the regards due to the blood and sweat. 

And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd 

To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 

Her servant, though her chief — I would have gono 

Down to my fathers with a name serene 

And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 

AVould I had died at Zara ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an a^e , 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once, 
That which scarce one more li^vor'd citiien 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then why should I remember it? — Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens 

Ang. Remember what you were. 

Doge. It were in vain 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

Ang. At least, whate'er may urge, let me ini 
pbre 
That you will take some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
That it had been relief to have awaked you. 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers 

thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

Doge. I cannot— 

I must not, if I could ; for never was 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — but where ? — no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Ang. Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion I 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

Doge. Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine. 
Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 
When I am gone — it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within — above — around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
I As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
When I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember; — 
Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 

[Exc:int. 



verbosity, of the moral and mellifluous parts of Massinger 
— Jeffrey.] 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



219 



SCENE II. 
A retired Spot near the Arsenal. 
Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 
Cal. How sped you, Israel, iu your late complaint? 
/. Ber. Why, well. 

Cnl Is't possible ! will he be punisli'd ? 

/ Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest 1 
/. Ber. With death !— 

Cal. Now you rave, or must intend revenge, 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 

/. Ber. Yes ; and for one solo draught of hate, 
forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush'd, and thousands stinging 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No, Calendaro ; these same drops of blood. 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private WTongs alone ; 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men. 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

Cal. You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when you boro this insult, 
I must have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

I. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not — all had else 
been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal. ■ - You saw 

The Doge — what answer gave he ? 

/. Ber, That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
To think of justice from such hands. 

/. Ber. At least, 

It luU'd suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Council? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, who can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 
I. Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 
Cal. Why not now ? 

/. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your 
musters. 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : — 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow, 
Perhaps in a few hours ; we have long waited 
For a fit time — that hour is on the dial, 
It may be, of to-morrow's sun : delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our p'a",e of meeting. 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave words have breathed new life 
Into my veins ; I am sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl'd on, and added but another link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves. 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
I'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 



/. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty ? 

Cal. All save two, in which there aro 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

/. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. Whose 
are they 'f 

Cal. Bertram's ar.d old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

/. Ber. Your fiery nature makes you deem all those 
Who are not restless, cold ; but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder ; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I've seen that man 
W eep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

/. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of honor. 

Cal. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife, 
To work upon his milkiness.of spirit. 
He may go through the ordeal ; it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve. 

/. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths ; 
We must forget all feelings save the oi2e — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country — 
And only look on death as beautiful. 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

/. Ber. They never fail who dio 

In a great cause: the block may soak their gore ; 
Their heads may sodden in the sun ; their hmbs 
Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom, 
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 
Which overpower all others, and conduct 
The world at last to freedom : What were we 
If Brutus had not lived ? Ho died in giving 
Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson— 
A name which is a virtue, and a soul 
Which multiplies itself throughout all time. 
When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 
Turns servile : he and his high friend were styled 
" The last of Romans !" Let us be the first 
Of true Venetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into these isles, where palaces have sprung 
On banks redeem'd from the rude ocean's ooie, 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Better bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a word 
As with a spell. 



220 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act tii. 



/. Ber. It shall be broken soon 

You say that all thhigs are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowest ; but thy vigilance 
Will better have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment. 
Or fresh recruits obtain'd in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet.— Are all supplied with arms ? 
Cal. All who were deem'd trustworthy : there are 
some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignoraftce 
Till it be time to strike, and then supply them ; 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause, 
But needs must on with those who will surrom^.' 
thom. 
I. Ber. You have said well. Have you reraark'd 

all such ? 
Cal. I've noted most ; and caused the other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 'tis 
Commenced to-morrow : but, till 'tis begun, 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perils. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour. 
Except Soranzo, Nicoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
Within the arsenal, and hold all ready 
Expectant of the signal we will fix on. 
Cal. We will not fall. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest bo there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 

Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 
/. Ber Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends 
lives 
On a rash coiifidence in one we know not ? 

/. Ber I have risk'd no man's life except my own — 
Of that bo certain : ho is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid ; and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power ; he comes alone with me. 
And cannot 'scape us ; but he will not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him : 
Is he one of our order ? 

/. Ber. Ay, in spirit. 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who would become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great 

changes ; 
No tyrant, though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions. 
That if once stirr'd and baffled, as he has been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Fury 
In Grefcian story like to that which wrings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grows capable of all things for revenge ; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal, 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'o, 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 
We have need of such, and such have need of us. 
1 Cal. And what part would you have him take 

with us ? 
I / Ber. It may be, that of chief. 



Cal. What ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

/. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end well, 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness, 
Aug, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts, 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
AH leading qualities? No, Calcndaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. — 
Away ! and let us meet at the fix'd hour. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go well. 

Cal. Worthy Bertuccio, I have known you 6', er 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my own part, I seek no other chief ; 
What the rest will decide I know not, but 
I am with yoi;, as I have ever been, 
In all our undertakings. Now farewell, 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Exeunt. 



ACT HI. 



SCENE I. 



Scene, the Space betvieen the Canal and the Church 
of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An equestrian 
Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal at 
some distance. 

Enter the Doge alone, disguised. 

Doge, {solus.) I am before the hour, the hour 

whose voice. 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottdring. 
And rock their marbK^ to the corner-stone, 
Waking the sleepers fi>'m some hideous dream 
Of indistinct but awful augury 
Of that which will befall them. Yes, proud city ! . 
Thou must be cleansed of the black blood which 

makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
And therefore was I punish'd, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on, 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers, 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. Tall fane ! 
Where sleep my fathers, whose dim statues shadow 
The floor which doth divide us from the dead, 
Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 
Moulder'd into a mite of ashes, hold 
In one shrunk heap what once made many heroes, 
When what is now a handful shook the earth — 
Fane of the tutelar saints who guard our house ! 
Vault where two Doges rest — my sires ! who died 
The one of toil, the other in the field, 
With a long race of other lineal chiefs 
And sages, whose great labors, wounds, and state 
I have inherited, — let the graves gape, 
Till all thine aisles be peopled with the dead, 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



221 



And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me I 

I call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to tliis task — 

Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories. 

Their mighty name dishonor'd all in me. 

Not ly me, but by the ungrateful nobles 

We fought to make our equals, not our lords : — ' 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave. 

Who perish'd in the field, where I since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thino and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ?^ 

Spirits ! smile down upon me ; fol rny cause 

Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled up in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race . 

Let me but prosper, and I make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you were, now and hereafter !' 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

/. Ber. Who goes there ? 

Doge. A friend to Venice. 

/. Ber. 'Tis no. 

Welcome, n.y lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

/. Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased to 
see 
Such confident alacrity. Your doubts 
Since oui last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

Doge. Not so — but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
When I first listen'd to your treason — Start not I 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names. 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. Wlien 
I heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To ha^ve you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may. 
If it so please you, do as much by me. 

/. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most unmerited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge. We .' — We .' — no matter — you hars earn'd 
the right 
To talk of us. — But to the point. — If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing, when we are in our graves. 
Conducts her generations to our tombs. 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er her deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we sha be like the two Bruti in 
The annals oi hereafter ; but if not, 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 



, riii)ir„c „„i,f f„^^i,««„^ $ equals, not our lords: 

1 [" We fought to make our j p^^^^^ '^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ .„ 

-MS.] 
" f'By thy descendant, merit such j rental MIS.] 

5 [The Doge, true to his appointment, is waiting for his 
conductor before the church of San Paolo e Giovanni. 
There is great loftiness, both of feeling and diction, in this 
passage.— Jeffrey.] 

* [There is a great deal of natural struggle in the breast of 
the high-born and haughty Doge, between the resentment 
with whif h he burns on the one hand, and the reluctance 
with which he considers the meanness of the associates with 
whom he has leagued himself on the other. The conspiring 
Doge is not, we think, meant to be ambitious for himself, but 
he IS sternly, proudly, a Venetian noble ; and it is impossible 
for mm to tear from his bosom the scorn for eveiy thing 



And secret plot, although to a good end, 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

/. Ber. 'Tis not the moment to consider thus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 
Doge. We are observed, and have been. 
/. Be} . We observed , 

Let me discover — and this steel 

Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses : look there — 
What see you? 

/. Ber Only a tall warrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the c'ull moon. 

Doge. That warrior was the sire 

Of my sire s fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by the twice rescued city : — 
Think you that he looks down on us, or no? 

/. Ber. My lord, these are mere fantasies • there' 
are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death 

I tell thee, man, there is a spirit iu 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though felt ; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'Tis in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race is mine 
Can rest, when he, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ?^ 

/. Ber. It had been as weU 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you repent? 

Doge. No — but I feel, and shall do to the last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be,^ 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some pausoi 
Yet doubt me not ; it is this very feeling. 
And knowing what has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress : the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 
/. Ber. Let us away — hark — the hour strikes. 
Doge. On — On — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice — On ! 

/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising peal 

Of triumph This way — we are near the place. 

[Exeunt 



plebeian which has been implanted there by birth, education, 
and a long life of princely command. There are other 
thoughts, too, and of a gentler kind, which cross from time 
to time his perturbed spirit. He remembers — he cannot 
entirely forget — the days and nights of old companionship, 
by which he had long been bound to those whose sentence he 
has consented to seal. He has hnnself been declaiming 
against th^ folly of mercy, and arguing valiantly the necessity 
of total extirpation,— and that, too, in the teeth even of some 
of the plebeian conspirators themselves: yet the Poet, ■with 
profound insight into the human heart, makes him shudder 
when his own impetuosity has brought himself, and all who 
hear him, to the brink. He cannot look upon the bloody 
resolution, no, not even after he himself has been the chief 
instrument of its formation. — Lockhart.] 

^ rii M A ,.;„ ii„ t„ < the thing I now must be 

6 ["Nor dwmdle to | ^ cut-tiiroat without shuddering."- 

MS.] 



222 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 111. 



The House where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, Cal- 
ENDARO, Antonio delle Bende, &c. &c. 

Cal. (entering.) Are all here? 

Dag All with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here ! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured 
That they were worthy faith. 

Cal. There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith : who, save ourselves 
And our more cliosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent ? They think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signory,^ 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses ; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well-flesh d 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see 
The example of their chiefs, and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 

Ber. How say you ? all ! 

Cal. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. I spare ? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even amongst these wicked men 
There might be some, whose age and quahties 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As when the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun, 
In the last energy of venomous life. 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the svvoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these ; they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body ; 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert, — 
So let them die as one ! 

Dag. Should one survive, 

He would be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out ; and if there were 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'Twould fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruit. 
Bertram, we must be firm ! 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. Who 

Distrusts me ? 

Cal. Not I ; for if I did so. 

Thou wouldst not now be there to talk of trust : 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith, 



> An historical fact. See Appendix: Marine Faliero, 
Note A. 



Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

Who hear me, who and what I am ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who have seen ma 
Put to the proof; or, if you should have doubts, 
I'll clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcomCi 

When once our enterprise is o'er, which must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. I am no brawler; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else v»hy have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering ; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through hoary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well — too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If there were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take off some stain 
Of massacre, which t be pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion ! 

Dag. Calm thee, Bertram; 

For we suspect thee not, and take good heart. 
It is the cause, and not our will, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we'll wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 



Enter Israel Bertuccio, and the Doge, disguised 

Dag Welcome, Israel 

Consp. Most welcome. — Brave Bertuccio, thou art 
late — 
Who is this stranger? 

Cal. It is time to name him. 

Our comrades are even now prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That thou wouldst add a brother to our cause, 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all, 
Such is our trust in all thiue actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 

/. Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[ The Doge discovers himself. 

Consp. To arms ! — we are betray'd — it is the 
Doge! 
Down with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to I 

Cal. (drawing his sword.) Hold ! Hold I 
Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! hear 
Bertuccio — What I are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you ? — Israel, speak ! what means this 
mystery ? 

/. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms. 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, their fortunes, and their hopes. 

Doge. Strike ! — If I dreaded death, a death more 
fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here : — Oh ! noble Courage ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



223 



Against this solitary hoary head ! 

See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 

A-iid shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 

At sight of one patrician ! — Butcher me, 

Yon can ; I care not. — Israel, are these men 

The mighty hearts yon spoke of? look upon them ! 

Cal. Faith ! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Wab this your trust in your true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheath them, and hear him. 

I. Ber. I disdain to speak. 

TTiey might and must have known a heart like 

mine 
Incapable of treachery ; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To further their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
By me into this council had been led 
To take his choice — as brother, or as victim. 

Doge. And which am I to bo? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedom of the choice. 

/. Ber. My lord, we would have perish'd here 
together, 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold, 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them — Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in wonder. 

/. Ber. (addressing the Conspirators.) You are safe, 
Nay, more, almost triumphant — listen then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Doge. You see me here, 

As one of you hath said, an old, imarm'd, 
Defenceless man ; and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles, 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine. 
Nor yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know, or think you know ; 
Why I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd, 
He who among you hath been most insulted, 
Outraged and trodden on, until he doubt 
If he be worm or no, may answer for mo, 
Asking of his own heart, what brought him here ? 
You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from those 
Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
But spare me the recital — it is here. 
Here at my heart the outrage — but my words, 
Alr^-idy spent in unavailing plaints. 
Would only show my feebleness the more. 
And I come here to strengthen even the strong, 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; but I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices, 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth 
Nor kingdom, which hath neither prince nor people, 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state' 
Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
The lords of Lacedaemon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of whom I am the lowest, most enslaved ; 
Although dress'd out to head a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to form 
A pastime for their children. You are met 

1 r" Rut a the S s'l^s "'f the old Spartan state. 
I oui a., me j ^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ Spartan state."— MS.] 



To overthrow this monster of a state. 

This mockery of a government, this spectre, 

Which must be exorcised with blood, — and then 

We will renew the times of truth and justice, 

Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 

Not rash equality but equal rights, 

Proportion'd like the columns to the temple, 

Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 

And making firm the whole with grace and beauty 

So that no part could be removed without 

Infringement of the general symmetry. 

In operating this great change, I claim 

To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 

If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 

And I would rather fall by freemen's hands 

Than live another day to act the tyrant 

As delegate of tyrants : such I am not. 

And never have been — reaa in our annals ; 

I can appeal to my past government 

In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 

If I were an oppressor, or a man 

Feeling and thinking for my fellow-men. 

Haply had I been what the senate sought, 

A thing of robes aixl trinkets, dizen'd out 

To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture ; 

A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 

A stickler for the Senate and " the Forty," 

A skeptic of all measures which had not 

The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fawner, 

A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 

Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 

Has reach'd me through my pity for the people ; 

That many know, and they who know not yet 

Will one day learn : meantime, I do devote, 

Whate'er the issue, my last days of life — 

My present power such as it is — not that 

Of Doge, but of a man who has been great 

Before he was degraded to a Doge, 

And still has individual means and mind ; 

I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath — 

(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) 

My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast ! 

Such as I am, I offer me to you 

And to your chiefs : accept me or reject me, 

A Prince who fain would be a citizen 

Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Faliero I 

/. Ber. Comrades ! did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you? 

Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast been 
Of Venice — be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief! — general I — I was general at Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Venice : 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'Tis not to put on others, but to be 
Mate to my fellows — but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'Tis bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my friends? 
I have disposed ell for a sudden blow 
When shall it be then? 

Doge. At sunrise. 

Ber. So soon ? 

Doge. So floon '• — st late — each hour accumuldtes 



224 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



AC7 III. 



t- 



Peril on peril, and the more so now 

Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 

The Council, and " the Ten?" the spies, the eyes 

Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 

And now more dubious of the prince they have made 

one? 
I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield assent ; 
Our companies are ready, sixty each, 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action to his post ! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. When you hear 

The great bell of St. Mark's, which may not ba 
Struck without special order of the Doge, 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince,) 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

/. Ber. And there ?— 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march he directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dnwn 
Dlscern'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house. 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on. 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark ! — the foe is on our watei;s 1" 

Cal. I see it now — but on, my noble lord. 

Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council, 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower,) 
Will then be gatlier'd in unto the harvest. 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be but to be taken faint and single, 
When the majority are put to rest. [scotch, 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we will not 
But kill. 

Ber. Once more, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims — must all perish in this slaughter? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All! All! 

Is this a time to talk of pity? when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign'd it ? 

/. Ber. Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen ? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are one — 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression ! 'Tis 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart : 



'T" FouglU by my side, and j S^rZa^L" i ^^-'^'^ 
M/ ! SS^Tto'SoVe ; S I --'I ^^« ^f«." ^-^^-^ 



The hunter may reserve some single cub 
From out the tiger's litter, but whoe'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs? however, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 

Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with sucl a 
question — 
Decide yourselves. 

/. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppressio.i. 
Have made them deadly ; if there be amojgst them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. Dolfino's father was luy friend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared' 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of \ eniero — shall I save it twice ? 
Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
All these men, or their fsi.\ers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects ; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing ; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish ! 

Cal. They cannot coexist with Venice' freedom ! 

Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutued 
mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant^ 
What fatal poison to the springs of life. 
To human ties, and all that's good and dear. 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends ; I loved them, they 
Requited honorably my regards ; 
We served and fought; wo smiled and wept ia 

concert ; 
We revell'd or we sorrow'd side by side ; 
We made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honors fairly, — till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell! 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships. 
When the suiTivors of long years and actions. 
Which now belong to history, soothe the days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth. 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 

Oime ! Oime ! — and must I do this deed ? 

/. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is nt t 
now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Doge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour they made me Doge, the Doge thky 

made me — 
Farewell the past I I d ed to all that had been, 



2 [" Bear witness with me 1 ye who hear and knew, 
And feel our mutual mass of many wTongs." — MS ] 



Scene ii. 



MA.RINO FALIERO. 



225 



Or rather they to me : no friends, no Kindness, 

No privacy of life — all were cut off: 

They came not near me, such approach gave umbrage ; 

They could not love me, such was not the law ; 

They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy : 

They baffled me, 'twas a patrician's duty ; 

Thnv wroug'd me, for such was to right the state ; 

They could not right me, that would give suspicion ; 

So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 

So that I was a foe to my own friends ; 

Begirt with spies for guards — with robes for power — 

With pomp for freedom — jailers for a council — 

Inquisitors for friends — and hell for life I 

I had one only fount of quiet left. 

And that they poison'd ! My puro household gods' 

Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 

Sato grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 

/. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now 
shall be 
Nobly avenged before another night. 

Doge. I liad borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — until this last loud insult. 
Not only unredress'd, bat sanction'd ; then. 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush'd for me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, they abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure — and be broken ! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
They dreading he should snatch the tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To mo, then, these men have no private life, 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others • 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Ainenable, I look on them — as such 
Let them be dealt upon.^ 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this bo 
The last night of mere words : I'd fain be doing ! 
Saint Mark's great boll at dawn shall find me wake- 
ful ! 

/. Ber. "Disperse then to your posts: be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights we claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril ! 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join ny band ; let each be prompt to marshal 



1 [" I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any 
thing, but the deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I 
stood alone upon my hearth, with my household gods shiv- 
ered ai ound me Do you suppose I have forgotten or for- 
given it ? It has, comparatively, swallowed up in me every 
other feeling, and I am only a spectator upon earth till a 
tenfold opportunity offers. It may come yet." — Byron Letters, 
1819.] 

2 [The struggle of feelings with which the Doge under- 
takes the conspiracy is admu-ably contrasted with the fero- 
cious eagerne js of his low-born associates ; and only loses 
its ctfect, because v/e cannot but be sensible that the man 
who felt thus could not have gone on with his guilty pro- 
ject, unless stimulated by some greater and more accumu- 
lated injuries than are, in the course of the tragedy, brought 
before the perception of the reader.— Heber.j 

• [" Nor turn aside to strike at such a j wretch '"—"\IS 1 

< (The great defect of Marino Faliero is, that the nature 
and ch.iracter of the conspiracy excite no interest. It mat- 
ters little that Lord Byron has been faithful to history, if the 
event is destitute of a poetic character. Like Alfieri, to 



His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 

Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to 
you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey,^ 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
He dared not — in more honorable days 
Have risk'd it. I have merged all private wrath 
Against him, in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults mo — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it, 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it. 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the al!."=ui'JO 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him such dccn gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate, 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 
Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench'd two cities' ashes. 

/. Ber. Away, then, to your posts I I but remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 

Cal. Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 

/. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail — Away ! My lord, farewell.* 

[The Conspirators salute the Dogb and Israel 
Beutuccio, and retire, headed b,y Philip Calen- 
DARo. The Doge and Israel Bertuccio re- 
main. 

I. Ber. We have them in the toil — it cannot fp'l ! 
Now thou'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at kings ere now ; 
Coesars have fallen, and even patrician hands 
Have crush'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach'd patricians: but, until this hout, 
What Prince has plotted for his people's freedom ? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 



whom in many points his genius approximates, he is fet 
tered by an intractable story, which is wholly remote from 
the instincts and feehngs of mankind. How elevated soever 
may be his diction, how vivid soever his coloring, a moral 
truth is wanting — that charm, so difficult to define, so easy 
to apprehend, which, diflfused over the scene, excites in 
generous bosoms an exalted enthusiasm for the great inter- 
ests of humanity. This is the poesy of history. It is the 
charm of the William Tell of Schiller ; it is felt in the awful 
plot of Brutus, and, to a certain degree, in the conspiracy 
of Pierre and Jailier ; for the end and purpose of these 
conspiracies were, to redeem their country from insult 
and oppression. But in Marino Faliero's attempt against 
the state we contemplate nothing but the project of a san- 
guinary ruffian seeking to grasp unlimited authority, and 
making, after the established precedents of all usurpers, 
the wrongs and sufferings of the commonalty his pretence; 
while, in another aspect of his character, we see him goaded, 
by an imagined injury, into an enterprise which would have 
inundated Venice with her best blood. Is this a sublime 
spectacle, calculated to purge the mind, according to tho 
aphorism of Aristotle, by means of terror or pity' — K;i 
Rev.-\ 



2y 



226 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act III. 



Forever, and forever, they conspire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet^ 
Not glut, the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 'tis great, 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Doge. And is it then decided ? must they die ? 

/. Ber. Who ? 

Doge. My own friends by blood and courtesy, 

And many deeds and days — the senators ? 

/. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just 
one. 

Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you ; 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
The rebel's oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not — you act in your vocation ; 
They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised you ; 
So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing. 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
The isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide.' 

/. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child ; if you are not in second childhood. 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! I'd 

rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
Your own and that of others ; c?.u you shrink then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires, 
Who but give back what they have drain'd from 
millions ? 

Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on 
blow, 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver 
Ah ! no ; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have way, 
To which you only and the Night are conscious, 
And both regardless ; when the hour arrives, 



1 [The unmixed selfishness of the motives with which the 
Doge accedes to th(3 plot perpetually escapes him. Not 
that he is wholly untouched by the compunctious visitlngs 
of nature. But the fearful unity of such a character is broken 
bv assigning to it the ihrobblngs and the pangs of human 
feelHigs, and by m;iking him recoil with affright from 
slaughter and desolation. In the roar and whirlwind of the 
mighty passions which precede the acting of a dreadfu: plot, 
it is wholly unreasonable and out of keeping to put into his 
mouth the sen'.imental effusions of affectionate pity for his 
urier.ds, whom he Ihiiiks of rather too late to give these 



'Tis mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow. 

Which shall unpeople many palaces, 

And hew the highest genealogic trees 

Down to the earth, strew'd with their bleeding fruit. 

And crush their blossoms into barrenness : 

This will I — must I — have I sworn to do. 

Nor aught can turn me from my destiny ; 

But still I quiver to behold what I 

Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with mo. 

/. Ber. Re-man your breast : I feel no such remorse, 
I understand it not: why should you change? 
You acted, and you act, on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is — you feel not, nor do I, 
Else I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand livee, and, k^-uig, do no murder ; 
You feel not — you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-bom men were steers for shambles ! 
When all is over, you'll be free and merry, 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
Bat I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be, 
Shall see and feel — oh God ! oh God ! 'tis true, 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
" My own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I will do this I Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will. 
Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is hell within me and around. 
And like the demon who believes and trembles 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellovvs«I will hie nie 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not, Saint Mark's great bell shall waka all 

Venice, 
Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic, there 
Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
I am resolved — come on. 

/. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath wrung 

you 
To punish a few traitors to the people. 
Trust me, such were a pity more misplaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steuo. 

Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord which 
jars 
All nature from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 



touches of remorse and mercy any other character than 
that of hypocritical whining. The sentiments are certainly 
good, but lamentably out of time and place, and remind of 
Scarron's remark upon the moralizing Phlegyas m the in- 
fernal regions, — 

" Cette sentence est vrai et belie, 
Mais dans enfer de quoi sert-elle ?" 

Yet, though wholly repugnant to dramatic congruity, ths 
passage has great poetic power. — Eel. Rev.] 



Act 7v. Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



227 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



Palazzo of the Patrician Lion Lioni laying aside 
the mask and cloak which the Venetian Nobles wore 
in public^ attended by a Domestic. 

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
Tlie gayest we have held for many moons. 
And yet, I know not why, it cheer'd me not ; 
There came a heaviness across my heart, 
Which, in the lightest movement of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand iu hand united 
Evcn'with the lady of my love, oppress'd me. 
And through my spirit chiU'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 'twould not be : 
Through all the music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear, 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur iu the night, 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark: 
So that^I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfuhiess. 
Autonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
Th« lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. Yes, my lord: 

Command you no refreshment? 

Lioni. Naught, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Exit Antonio. 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits ; 'tis 
A goodly night ; the cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a stillness! 
[Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
Where the tall torches' glare, and eilver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls. 
Spread over the reluctant gloom which haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light. 
Which show'd all things, but nothing as they were. 
Tliere Age essaying to recall the past'. 
After long sti'-nig for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prank'd forth in all the pride of ornament, 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
There Youth, which needed not, nor thought of such 
Vain adjuncts, lavish'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure. 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 



On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, which should 

not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers — 
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments — 
The white arms and the raven hair — the braids 
And bracelets ; swanliKe bosoms, and the necklace, 
An India in itself, yet daitling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes. 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and heaven; 
The -7iany-twink!ing feet so small and sylphlike, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well — 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene, 
Its false and true enchantments— art and nature, 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beauty as the parch'd pilgrim's 
On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eluded thirst, 
Are gone. — Around me are the stars and waters — 
Worids mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Thau torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
And the great element, which is to space 
Wiiat ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces, 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts, 
Fraught with" the orient spoil of many marbles, 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal. 
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed 
Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 
No other record. AH is gentle : naught 
Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night. 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The tiuklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress. 
And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
That ho is not unheard ; while her young hand, 
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 
So delicately white, it trembles in 
The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 
To let in love through music, makes his heart 
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight ; — the dafih 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas. 
And the responsive voices of the choir 
Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 
Some dusky shadow clieckering the Rialto ; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire. 
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city — 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
I thank thee, Night ! for thou hast chased away 
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
I could not dissipate ; and with the blessing 



1 tThc fourth Act opens with the most poetical and bril- 
liantly wntlen scene in the play— though it is a soluoquy, 
and altogether alien from the business of the piece. ■L.ioni, 
s voung uobleraan, returns home from a splendid assembly, 
rather out of spirits ; and, opening his palace window tor 
air. contrasts the tranquillity of the night scene which lies 
before him, with the feverish turbulence and glittering en- 
chantments of tliat wluch he has just quitted. Nothiiig can 
be finer than this picture, in both its compartments. I here 



is a truth and a luxuriance in the description of the rout, 
which mark at once the hand of a master, and raise it to a 
very high rank as a piece of poetical painting ;— while the 
moonlight view from the windovi' is equally grand and beau- 
tiful, and reminds us of those magnificent and enchanting 
lookings forth in " Manfred," which have left, we will con- 
fess, far deeper traces on our fancy, than any thing m ir.c 
more elaborate work before us.— Jeffrey.] 



228 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Of tliy benigii and quiet influence, — 
Now will I to my rouch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging- such a night as this ' 

[A knocking is heard from without. 
Hark ! what is that? or who at such a moment?^ 

Enter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 

Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his nauiw, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'Tis a strange hour, and a suspicious bearing ! 
And yet there is slight peril : 'tis not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still. 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 
[Exit Antonio, and returns with Bertram muffled. 

Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou — dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram — Go, Antonio. 

[Exit Antonio. 
Now, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 

Ber. (discovering himself.) A boon, my noble na- 
tron ; you have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make hhn happy. 

Lioni. Thou hast known me 

From boyhood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
Beseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that the hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import — but say on — 
What has occurred, some rash and sudden broil ? — 
A cup too much, a scuffle, and a stab ? — 
Mere things of every day ; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ; 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay — but then I must not save thee I 
He who has ^.hed patrician blood 

Ber. I come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it I 
And thereunto I ihust be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, 



1 [This soliloquy is exquisite, and increases our regret 
that, with such powers of pleasing, Lord Byron should not 
always have condescended to please. — Hebeb.] 

2 fThe solilftiuy of Lioni is a fine instance of repose, as 
the painters te'-m it, amidst the horrors of the scene, and of 
that obscure but ruthless presentiment of evil, of which 
Sliakspeare frequently made a use somewhat similar. Yet 
this splendid passage, with reference to the romantic char- 



And is about to take, instead of sand, 

The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass '. — 

Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not? — 

What means this menace? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning 

But do as I implore thee ; — stir not forth, 
Whate'er bo stirring ; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of women, and the su.-ieks of babes — 
The groans of men — the clash of arms — the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollow bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum ! — Go not forth 
Until the tocsin's silent, nor even then 
Till I return ! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean? 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not ; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven — by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave hthind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee — 
By all thou hast of bless'd in hope or memory — 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me, 
Good I would now repay with greater good, 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods, 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel — but if not, thou art lost I 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder ; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have / to dread? 
Who are my foes? or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou .' or if so leagued, 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning ? 

Lioni. I was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so I 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. Nor is there aught which shall im- 
pede me ! 

Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul ! — 
Farewell ! [Going 

Lioni. Stay — there is more in this than my ow:i 
safety 
Which makes "me call thee back ; we must not part 

thus: 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signer, 

You have been my protector : in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rauK forgets, 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother ; years 
Saw us together — happy, heart-full hours ! 
Oh God ! the difference 'twixt those hours and this ! 

Lioni Bertram, 'tis thou who hast forgotten them. 



acter of the poem, is adventitious, and obviously transplsjil 
ed from the mind of the poet. It is the habitual casi of 
thought, tinged with misanthropy, which is peculiar to Lord 
Byron, and does not adapt itself to the situation or feelings 
of the personages of his poem. It is the cool contemplation 
of a mind raised above the storms of human life, and tlie 
perturbation of its passions, and viewing, as from " a pecu 
liar mount," the strife and conflicts of a wc rid in whict it 
ilisdains to mix. — Eel. Reu.i 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



229 



Ber. Nor now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I M'ould nave saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprunir, and you, devoted to the state. 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble. 
Still you forsook me not ; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, "twns no fault of hira 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
Which bear away the weaker : noble blood 
Ne'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow- senators were like thee ! 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the 

senate ? 
Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 

And turbulent muttercrs of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night ; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians, 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
Thou hardest not with such : 'tis true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrow and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber. Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides' 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering with thee, 
Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts ; 
Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection : 
But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villany would put thee to : 
Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature — 
What is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
Which should prevent thy friend, the only sou 
Of him who was a friend unto thy father. 
So that our good-will is a heritage 
We should bequeath to our posterity 
Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
Should deem tho> dangerous, and keep the house 
Like a sick girl ? 

Ber. Nay, question me no further: 

I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd ! — say. 

Was it no; thus thou sa.i'st, my gentle Bertram? 
Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I of mur- 
der? — ■ 
'Tis false ! I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from out thy wolfish 
eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 
The gladiator. If my life's thine object. 
Take it — I am unarm'd, — and then away ! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 



> '" On the aecurs.xl tyianny which | rXs^"— MS 



As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to ihy task- 
work. 
Ber. Sooner than spiU thy blood, I peiil mine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 
I am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs — who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

S^r. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself. 
And so will perish ere to-morrow's twilight I 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones I But now, 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out, 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 'tis more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark .00 — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was opei to thee, 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth, 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here ! 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee ? minutes fly. 
And thou art lost ! — thou .' my sole benefactor, 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee — but spare my honor I 

Lioni. Wliere 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for law ; 
And in my mind, there is* no traitor like 
Ho whose domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 
Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 
Ber. Not I ; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Thoii must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
Nay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thou miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 
Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 
Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend I 
I will disclose — ensnare — betray — destroy — 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
state's ! — 
Speak — pause not — all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants ; nay. 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again : it must not be — I 
love thee — 
Thou knowest it — that I stand here is the proof. 
Not least though last ; but having dono my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more in life I — farewell I 

Lioni. What, ho 1 — Antonio — Pedro — to the door ! 
See that none pass — arrest th'.s man ! 



230 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Enter AisTomo and other armed Domestics, who seize 
Bertram. 

Lioni, (continues.) Take care 

He hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak ; 
And man the gondola with four oars — quick — 

[Exit Antonio 
We will imto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro ; — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weal. 

Ber. Where wouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. . Fii-stly to " the Ten ;" 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly: 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ? — but we'll know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten" and their tribunal, 
And that St. Mark's has dungeons, and the dungeons 
A rack. 

Bei: Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven. — One more such word, 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You thiuli to doom to me. 

Re-enter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I'll reason with thee as we go 
To the Maguifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 

The Ducal Palace. — The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and his nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster ? 

Ber. F. They are array'd, and eager for the signal. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together. 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 'tis better as it is : 
A sudden sw .'Jing of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty. 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintaiu'd 
Tiie secret discipline we need for such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been 
These are the men f i- such an enterprise ; [given, 
These city slaves have all their private bias. 
Their prejudice against or for this noble. 
Which may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness ; the fierce peasants, 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alika to them Marcello or Cornaro, 



1 The Doge's family palace. 



A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 

They are not used to start at those vain names 

Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 

A chief in armor is their Suzerain, 

And not p. thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service. 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants: 
They made the sun shine through tiie host of Huns 
When sallow burghers slunk back to their tents. 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These'citivLens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there's much to do, you'll wish, with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike ; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men. 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or the faith : 
To-day might find 'mongst them a traitor to us. 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts hot in their hands, 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck, 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human hearts. 
Though circumstance may keep it in abeyance. 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more. 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel ; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Thau urge them when they have commenced, but 

tVl 
That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow. 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night ? 

Ber. F. 'Almost tipon the dawn. 

Doge. Then it is time to strike upon the be'' 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They have command from you through me in per- 
son. 

Doge. 'Tis well. — Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavens? 
I am settled and bound up, and being so. 
The very eifort which it cost me to 
Resolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire. 
Now leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty ; 
But now I have put down all idle passion. 
And look the growing tempest in the face. 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it, kinsman!) it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
Where I was leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



231 



To ste^ me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortc!, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Doge. It was ever thus 

With me ; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as calm 
As were the dead who lay around mo : this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power v/hich 1 preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst v/as spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection, 
And not an injpnlse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong. 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks — is jt not so ? look, 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ; — the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me. 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling m the sky.' 

Doge. Away then ! 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from St. Mark's, march on the palace 
With all our house's strength : here I will meet 

you — • 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment — 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
I would not trust " the Ten" except to us — 
Tlio rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come — ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint Mark and Liberty !" — Now — now to action ! 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

Doge. Come hitiier, my Bertuccio — cne embrace — 
Speed, for the day grows broader — So id me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound — sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Mark's ! 

[Exit Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge, (solus.) Ho is gone,'' 

And on each footstep moves a life. — 'Tis done. 
Now the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses ere he pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey. 
And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
Suspends the motion of his mighty wings. 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. — Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — march on — 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea-waves ! 



1 [" The night is clearing from the sky."— IMS. ] 

2 [At last the moment arrives when the bell is to be 
so\mded, and the whole of the conspiring bands are watch- 
ing in impatience for the signal. The nephew of the Doge, 
and the heir of his house, (for he is childless,) leaves Faliero 
in his place, and goes to strike with his own hand the 
latal Simmons. The Doge is left alone; and English 
poetry, we think, contains few passages superior to that 

which .'ollOWB.— LOCKHART.] 



I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 

With Genoese, Saracen, and Hunnish gore. 

While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious 

Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 

Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 

Unto that horrible incarnadine. 

But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 

And have I lived to fourscore years for this? 

I, who was named Preserver of the City ? 

I, at whose name the million's caps were flungr 

Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 

Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 

And fame, and length of days — to see this day ? 

But this day, black within tlie calendar, 

Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 

Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 

To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown ; 

I will resign a crown, and make the state 

Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means' 

The noble end must justify them — What 

Are a few drops of human blood ? 'tis false. 

The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 

Like to incarnate Molochs, feed on ours. 

Until 'tis time to give them to the tombs 

Which they have made so populous. — Oh world ! 

Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs, 

That we must work by crime to punish crime? 

And slay as if Death had but this one gate, 

When a few years would make the sword superfluous? 

And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm, 

Yet send so many heralds on before mo ? — 

I must not ponder this. 

[A pause. 
Hark ! was there not 
A raiu'mur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise ! 
It cannot be — the signal hath not rung — 
Why pauses it? My nephew's messenger 
Should bo upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even novv^ draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal, 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell,' 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its office, 
And be this peal its awfullest and last. 
Sound till the strong tower rock ! — What ! silent 

still? 
I would go forth, but that my post is here. 
To be the centre of reunion to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict ; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken : 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark! he comes — he comes, 

My nephew, brave Bcrtuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings? Is he marching? hath he sped? — 
They here ! — all's lost — yet will I make an effort.* 



3 [" Where swings the sullen \ jf^^eracular bell."-MS.] 

4 [A relenting conspirator, whom the contemplative 
Lioni had formerly befriended, calls to warn him of 
his danger ; and is gradually led to betray his associates. 
The plot is crushed in the moment of its development, 
and the Doge arrested in his palace. The scene imme- 
diately preceding this catastrophe is nible and thrilling — 
Jeffrey.] 



232 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Enter a Signor of the Night,' with Guards, 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Doge. Me ! 

Thy prince, of treason? — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order? 

Sig (showing his order.) Behold my order from 
the assembled Ten. 

Doge. And where are they, and why assembled? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

Sig. Duke ! it may not be : 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Doge. You dare to disobey me, tlien ? 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Doge. And till that vi^arrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as now applied, 
Rebellious — Hast thou weigh'd well thy life's worth, 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function?'^ 

Sig. 'Tis not my office to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard upon thy person, 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Doge, {aside.) I must gain time — So that the 
storm-bell sound 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed — speed — 

speed ! — 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Wo to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and people, 
Or slaves and senate — 

[ The great hell of Saint Mark's tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 

(aloud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, ye 

hirelings. 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear. 
It is your knell — Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives ? 

Sig. Confusion ! 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer .hath miss'd his patli or purpose. 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle.' 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the Tower ; the rest remain with me. 

[Exit part of the Guard. 

Doge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vilo life, 
implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth ; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be ! 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Doge. Fool I the high eagle flies at nobler game 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on. 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon t'ne sunbeams) to be free. 

Sig. And learn thou to be captive — It hath ceased, 
[The bell ceases to toll. 
Tl\u traitorous signal, which was to have set 



1 [" f signor: di Notts" held an important charge in the 
old.rcpubUc.j 

.,"Thatthusyoudareassun.eajl-l-^.f-^^^^^^^^^ 



The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey — • 
Tho knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's ! 

Doge, (after a pause.) All's silent, and all's lost ! 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce mo 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty? 

Doge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Thou hast done a worthy deed, and carn'd the price 
Of blood, and they who use thee will reward tlies. 
But thou wert sent to watch and not to prate. 
As thou saidst even now — then do thine -office, 
But let it be in silence, as behooves thee, 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy prince. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this 1 shall obey you. 

Doge, (aside.) There now is nothing left me save 
to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fc en, 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus I ■ 

Enter other Signors of the Night, with Bertuccio 
Faliero prisoner. 

2cZ Sig. We took him in tlie act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

1st Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

2d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not ; the chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now«on trial — 
Their followers are dispersed, and many taken. 

Ber.F. Uncle! 

Doge. It is in vain to war with Fortune ; 

The Glory hath departed from our house. 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it? — Ah I one 
moment sooner ! • 

Doge. That moment would have changed the face 
of ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We'll meet it 
As men whose triumph is not in success, 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
But a brief passage — I would go alone. 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together, 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not sliame you, uncle. 

\st Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers. 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Doge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockery up 
Even to the last? but let them deal upon us, 
As we had dealt on them, but with less pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides. 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice. — Who hath been our Judas ? 

\st Sig. I am not warranted to answer that. 

Ber. F. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain Bertram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

Doge. Bertram the Bergamask ! With what vile tools 
We operate to slay or save ! This creature. 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Revi^ards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 



Ifiital ) 
hideous \ obstac.e." 

-MS J 



Act v. Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



233 



Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph, 
While Manlius, who hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast' 
From the Tarpeian. 

Isi Sig. He aspired to treason. 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. Ho saved the state. 

And sought but to reform what he revived — 
But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

1st S)g. Noble Bertiiccio, we must now remove you 
Into an inner chamber. 

Ber. F. Farewell, uncle ! 

If we shall meet again in life I know not, 
But they perliaps will let our ashes mingle. 

Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which sliall yet go forth. 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd, hath fail'd in ! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



The Hall of the Council of Ten assejiibled with the 
additional Senators, who, on the Trials of the Con- 
spirators for the Treason of Marino Faliero, 
composed xvhat was called the Giunta. — Guards, 
Officers, <|-c. tj-c. — Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro as Prisoners — Bertram, Lioni, aiid 
Witnesses, ^c.'' 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende.' 
Ben. There now rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manifest offences, 
But to pronounce on these obdurate men 

?jie sentence of the law : — a grievous task 
those who hear, and those who speak. Alas ! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of office should be stigmatized through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To this most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
The earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank ; 
A city which has open'd India's wealth 
To Europe ; the last Roman refuge from 
O'erwhelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival ! 'Tis to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives — 
So let them die the death. 

/. Ber. We are prepared ; . 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. 

Ben. If ye have that to say which would obtain 
Abatement of your punishment, the Giunta 
Will hear you ; if you have aught to confess, 
Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

/. Ber. We stand to hear, and not to speak. 

Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices. 



» ["'While Manlius, who hurl'd j '|,°"'," [ the Gauls," &c.— 
MS] 



■ ( back 



^ [The fifth Act, which begins with the arraignment of the 
cngmal conspirators, is mvich in the style of that of Pierre 
and his associates in the old play. After them, the Doge is 



30 



And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet wo would hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason ; on the ver^o 
Of that dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit j'ou on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

/. Ber. Justice I 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 

Ben. You are brief, sir 

/. Ber. So my life grows : I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 

Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence? 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as I am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that meioy to your pardon. 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

/. Ber. Go, ask youE racks what they have wruag 
from us. 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left, 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrench'd 

limbs : 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — • 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appal your slaves to further slavery I 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
Nor affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome the soul into a V.s, 
For a short respite — must we bear or die ? 

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices? 

/. Ber. The Senate I 

Bpi. Wliat do you mean? 

/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

Ben. You know the Doge ? 

/. Ber. I served with him at Zara 

In the field, when you were pleading here your way 
To present office • we exposed our lives. 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the Senate's insults. 

Ben. You have held conference Vv'ith him? 

/. Ber. I am weary^ 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming. — 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you should not be doom'd? 

Cal. I never was a man of many words. 
And now have few left worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon engine 
May change your tone. 

Cal. Most tnte, it will do so; 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my words, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law? 

Ben. Assuredly 



brought in : his part is very forcibly wnllen throughou. — 
Jeffrey.] 

3 [" In the notes to Marino Faliero, it may be as well to say 
that Benintende was not really of the Ten, but merely Grnnd 
Chancellor— a separate office, though an important one. It 
was an arbitrary alteration of mine."— Bi/ron Letters.;] 



234 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



Cal. Whoe'ei 

The culprit be wliom I accuse of treason? 

Ben. Without doubt, lie will, be brought up to trial. 

Cal. Aud on this testimony would he perish? 

Ben. So your confession be detaii'd and full, 
rie will stand here in peril of his life. 

Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President! 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack, 
If I be stretch'd there for the second time. 

One of the Giuvta. Lord President, 'twere best 
proceed to judo^ment ; 
There is no more to be drawn from tliese men. 

Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime — our law — and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite — 
Guards ! lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of tlie red columns, where, on festal Thursday,' 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls. 
Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in tlie place of judgment. 
To the full view of the assembled people I — 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

The Giunta. Amen ! 

/. Ber. Signers, farewell I we shall not all agaui 
Meet iu one place. 

Ben. And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards ! let their mouths be gagg'd," even in the act 
Of execution. — Lead them hence ! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend. 
Nor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber; 
But, for your friends, such interviews would bo 
Paiuful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who had not lieart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts ; but still I deem'd 
Tliat in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

/. Ber Even let them have their way, brave 
Calendaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let's die 
Without the slightest sliow of favor from them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices — nay, they dread 
Our very silence — let them live in fear I — 
Leave them unto their thoughts, aud let us now 
Address our own above I — Lead on ; we are ready. 



1 " GioveiU prasso"— I'aj or greasy Thursday,"— which 
I cannot literally translate in the text, was the day. 

2 [Historical fact. See Sanuto, Appendix: Marino Faliero, 
Note A. 

3 " 1 know what Foscolo means, about Calendaro's spil- 
ijn-j' at Bertram; //wZ's national— the objection. I mean. The 
Isalians and French, with those ' flags of abomination,' their 
pocket handkerchiefs, spit tliere, ani.1 here, and everywhere 
else— in youi face almost, and therefore objrct to it on the 
stage as too familiar. But we who spit nov\here--but in a 
man's face wlien we grow savage— are not likely to feel this. 
Remember Massinger, and Kean's Sir Giles Overreach— 

' Lord ! thus I spit at thee and at thy counsel 1' 
Eosides, Calendaro does no* spit in Bertram's face ; he spits 
at hira, afi i have seen the Mussulmans do upon the ground 



Cal. Israel, hadst thou but Itearken'd unto me 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain. 
The coward Bertram, woidd 

/. Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this. 

Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me ; 
I did not seek this task ; 'twas forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive mo, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 

/. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

Cal. (^spittintr at him.y I die and scorn thee ! 

[Exeunt Israel Bertuccio and PiiiLiP 
Calendaro, Guards, cj-c. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed of, 
'Tis time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge j'aliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be call'd in to receive the award ? 

The Giunta. Ay, ay. 

Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
Be brought before the council. 

One of the Giunta. And the rort, 

When shall they be brought up? 

Ben. When all the chiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have fled to Chiozza; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them. 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
None will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, with Guards, ^-c. ^c. 

Bj;n. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider'd, till the hour shall come 
When you must doff the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown more noblfe 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honor. 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glory — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Which have appear'd against you ; and mere ample 
Ne'er rear'd their sanguinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Doge. What shall I say to ye. 

Since my defence must be your condemnation? 
You are at onco offenders and accusers^ 
Judges and executioners I — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 



when they are in a rage. Again, he does not in fact despise 
Bertram, though he affects it, — as we all do, when angry with 
one we think our inferior. He is angry at not being allowed 
to die in his own way, (althougli not afraid of death ;) and 
recollect that he suspected and liated Bertram from the fi'St. 
Israel Bertuccio, on the otlier hand, is a cooler and more 
concentrated fellow ; he acts upon principle antl impulse • 
Calendaro upon impulse and example. So there's argumer.t 
for you. — ' The Doge repeats ;' — true, but it is from engross- 
ing passion, and oecause he sees different persons, and is al- 
ways obliged to recur to the cause uppermost in his mind. 
' His speeches are long ;' — true, but I wrote for the closet, 
and on the French and Italian model rather than yours, 
which I think not very highly of, for all your ild dramatists, 
who are long eniiugli too, God knows ; Iook uiio any of 
them." — Byron Letters.] 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



235 



Doge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In niimber many ; but 

The first now stands before you and the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — would you question him ? 

Doge, (looking at him contemptuously.) No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Caleudaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Doge. And wliero aro they ? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth 

Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal? — 
How did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own : 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then? 

Doge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognise your legal power to try rae. 
Show me the law ! 

Ben. On great emergencies, 

The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of such a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetfulness ; they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms : who would have foreseen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such h aught traitors, 
As would with treason mount to tyranny ; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye? 
What's nobler than the signory of Venice ?' 

Doge. The signory of Venice ! You betray'd me — 
«YoM — you, who sit thei'e, traitors as yo are ! 
From my equality with you in birth, 
And my superiority in action, 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
In distant lands — on flood — in field — in cities — 
You singled me out like a victim to 
Stand crown'd, but bound and helpless, at the altar 
Where you alone could minister. I knew not — • 
I sought not — wish'd not — dream not the election 
Which reach'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 
But found on my arrival, that, besides 
The jealous vigilance which always led you 
To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 
You had, even in the interregnum of 
My journey to the capital, curtail'd 
And mutilated the few privileges * 

Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 
Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 
By the pollution of your ribaldry, 
And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you — 

Fit judge in such tribunal ! 

Ben. {interrwpting him.) Michel Steno 
Is here in virtue of his office, as 



1 [One source of feebleness in this passage, and it is one 
of frequent occurrence in all Lord Byron's plays, is his 
rractice of ending his lines with insignificant monosyllables. 
" O/," " to.'" " and," '■* till," '■'■but," ^' from," all occur in the 
(.■curse of a very few pages, in situations where, had the 
harmony or vigor of the line been consulted, the voice 
ivould have been allowed to pause, and the energy of the 
ecutiment would have been carried to its highest tone of 
elevation. This we should have set down to the account 
01 care, essness, had it not been so frequent, and had not the 



One of the Forty ; " the Ten" having craved 
A Giunta of patricians from the senate 
To aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced upon him, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the !aW| 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishment of others by the statutes 
Which he himself denies and violates I 

Doge. His ruNisn.MEN'T ! I rather see him there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death, 
Than in the mockery of castigation, 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence Base as was his crime, 
'Twas purity compareu with your protection. 

Ben. And can it be, that the great Doge of Veu.ce, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honors on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creates the flame — 'tis the last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
Already : you oppress'd the prince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
The price of such success would have been glorj^ 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to that of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after, 
And mine to Gelon and to Thrasybulus : — 
Failing, I know the penalty of faiJure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
I would have shown no mercy, and I seek none ; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard. 
And being lost, take what I would have taker ! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs : 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it, 
As you have done upon my heart while living. 

Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our equity ? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me net with questions. 
I am resign'd to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days, 
And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing, 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
'Tis true, these sullen walls should yield no echo : 
But walls have ears — nay, more, they have tongues ; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them," 



stiffness and labor of the author's general style almost 
tempted us to believe it systematic. A more inharmonious 
system of versification, or one more necessarily tending to 
weight and feebleness, could hardly have been invented 
But with all these defects, there is much to praise in the 
Doge of Venice. — Heber.] 

^ C" There were no other way for truth to | ^ll^f^p i ticm " 
—MS ] 



230 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me, 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true uwrds are things, 
And dying men's aro things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge tnem ; bury mine, 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel, 
And though too oft ye made mo live in wrath, 
Let me die calmly ; you may grant me this ; — 
I deny nothing — defend nothing — nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth.' 

Doge. The torture ! you have put me there already, 
7)aily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may : these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron ; but 
There's that within my heart shall strain your engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

OJicer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero'' 
Requests admission to the Giunta's presence. 

Ben. Say, conscript fathers,^ shall she be admitted? 

One of the Giiinta. She may have revelations of 
importance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doge Oh, admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify againat the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames ! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno ! if this woman fail, 
I'll pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape, 
And my own violent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters.* 
Ben. Lady ! this just tribunal has resolved. 

Though the request be strange, to grant it, and 

Whatever be its purport, to accord 

A patient hearing with the due respect 

Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues : 

But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady ! 

Place a chair instintly. 

■Ang. A moment's faintuess — 

'Tis past ; I pray yoi' pardon me, — I sit not 



1 t" The torture \ f°'' 'i^^^^P°-T^°^.*''lH,"''lVa •, 
I to ehcit the whole truth."— MS.] 

c Doge Faliero's consort 
a [" Noble Venetians I 7 with respect the Duchess 
( Duchess Faliero."— MS.] 

» The Venetian senate took the same title as the Roman, 
of " conscript fathers." 

* [The drama, which has the merit, uncommon in modem 
performances, of embodying no episodical deformity what- 
ever, now hurries in full career to its close. Every thing is 
dispatched wiih the stern decision of a tyrannical aristoc- 
racy. There is no hope of mercy on any side,— there is no 
petition— nay, there is no wish for mercy. Even the ple- 
beiau conspirators have too much Venetian blood in tbem 



In presence of my prince, and of my husband, 
While he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady ? 

Ang. Strange rumors, but most true, if all I hear 
And see be sooth, have reach'd me, and I come 
To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken. 
With eyes averted, and with gloomy brows — 
v,h God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 

Ben. (after a pause.) Spare us, and spare thyself 
the repetition 
Of our most awful, but inexorable 
Duty to heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he coudemn'd? 

Ben. Alas ! 

Ang. And was he guilty ? 

Ben. Lady ! the natural distraction of 
Thy thoughts at such a moment makes the question 
Merit forgiveness ; else a doubt like this 
Against a just and paramount tribunal 
Were deep oiFence. But question even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy own bosom. 

Ang. Is it so ? 

My lord — my sovereign — my poor father's friend — 
The mighty in the field, the sage in council ; 
Unsay the words of this man ! — Thou art silent ! 

Ben. He hath already own'd to his own guilt,^ 
Nor, as thou see'st, doth he deny it now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die ! Spare his few years; 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days 1 
One day of baffled crime must not efface 
Near sixteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben. His doom must be fulfill'd ■without remission 
Of time or penalty — 'tis a decree. 

Ang. He hath been guilty, but there may be mere) 

Ben. Not in this case with justice. 

Ang. Alas! signer. 

He who is only just is cruel ; who 
L^pon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 

Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray' 
the state. 

Ang. And, but for him, there now had been no stat 
To save or to destroy ; and you, who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer. 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
Or digging in the Huni.ish mines in fetters ! 



to be either scared by the approach, or sliaken in the mo 
ment of death ; and as for the Doge, he bears hunself as be 
comes a warrior of sixty years, and a dc eply insulted prince 
At the moment, however, which immediately precedes lu- 
pronouncing of the sentence, admission is asked and obtain 
ed by one from whom less of the Spartan firmness might hav 
been expected. This is Angiolina. She indeed hazards on 
fervent prayer to the unbending senate ; but she sees in 
moment that it is in vain, and she recovers herself on th 
instant ; and turning to her lord, who stands calm and col 
lected at the foot of the council table, speaks words worth 
of him and of her. Nothing can be more unexpected, o 
more beautiful, than tlie behavior of the young pairicia 
who interrupts their conversation. — Lockhabt.] 

6 [" He hath already | °^^^^^^ I his own guilt."-MS.] 



Scene i. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



237 



One of the Council. No, lady, there are others who 
would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery ! 

Ang. If there aro so 

Within these walls, thou art not of the number: 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen ! — 
Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang (turning to the Doge.) Then die, Fallero I 
since it must be so ; 
f?ut with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great offence, 
Half-cancell'd by the harshness of these men. 
I would have sued to them — have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish'd mendicants for bread — 
Have wept as they will cry unto their God 
For merc)% and be answer'd as they answer — 
Had 't been fitting for thy name or mine. 
And il Uie cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless wrath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

Doge. I have lived too long not to know how to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bloating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the surge : I would not take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villanies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

Michel Steno. Doge, 

A'word with thee, and with this noble lady, 
Whom I liave grievously offended. Would 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part. 
Could cancel ti)e inexorable past! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 
I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you. 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

Ang. Sage Benintende, now chief judge of Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano's daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
For such as he is : would that others had 
Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, cou.d such 
Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
A single life of others lost for that 
Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
A good name for reward, but to itself. 
To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
Unto the rock : but as there are — alas ! 
Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
Light as the whirlwind on the waters ; souls 
To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
More terrible than death, here and hereafter ; 
Men wlioso vice is to start at vice's scoffing. 
And who, though proof against all blandishments 
Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are feeble 
When the proud name on which they pinnacled 
Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 



' [The Duchess is formal anJ cold, without even that 
degree of love for her old husband which a cliild might 
have for her parent, or a pupil for her instructor. Even in 
this her longest and best speech, at the most touching 
moment of the catastrophe, she can moralize, in a strain 
of pedantry less natural to a woman than to any other 
person similarly circumstanced, on lions stung by gnats, 
Achilles, Helen, Lucretia, the siege of Clusium, Caligula, 
Caaba, and I'ersepolis ! The Unes are fuie in tliemselves, 



Of her high aiery ; let v^hat we now 

Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 

To wretches how they tamper in their spleen 

With beinsfs of a higher order. Insects 

Have made the lion mad ere now ; a shaft 

I' the hce o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 

A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy ; 

A wife's dishonor unking'd Rome forever ; 

An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 

And thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 

An obscene gesture cost Caligula 

His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 

A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish nrovince ; 

And Stcno's lie, couch'd in two worthless lines, 

Hath decimated Venice, put in per:! 

A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 

Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 

And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 

Let the poor wretch, like to the courtesan 

Who fired Persppolis, be prouo of this. 

If it so please him — 'twere a pride fit for him ! 

But let him not insult the last hours of 

Him, who, whate'er he now is, was a hero, 

By the intrusion of his very prayers : 

Nothing of good can come from such a source. 

Nor would wo aught witli him, nor now, nor over : 

We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 

Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 

And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 

And no resentment : things like him must sting, 

And higher beings suffer ; 'tis the charter 

Of life. The man who dies by the adder's fang 

May have the crawler crush'd, but feels no anger: 

'Twas the worm's nature ; and some men are worms 

In soul, more than the living things of tombs.' 

Doge, (to Ben.) Signor ! complete that which yen 
deem j'our duty. 

Ben. Before we can proceed upon that duty, 
Wo would request the princess to withdraw ; 
'Twill move her too much to be witness to it. 

Ang. I know it will, and yet I must endure it 
For 'tis a part of mine — I will not quit, 
Except by force, my husband's side. — Proceed ! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear ; 
Though my heart burst, it shall be silent. — Speak I 
I have that within wliich shall o'ermaster all. 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice, 
Count of Val di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the state with high employments. 
Even to the highest, listen to the sentence. 
Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 
And by thine own confession, of the guilt 
Of treachery and treason, yet unheard of 
Until this trial — the decree is death. 
Thy goods are confiscate unto the state, 
Thy name is razed from out her records, save 
Upon a i^ublic day of thanksgiving 
For this our most miraculous deliverance, 
When thou art noted in our calendars 



indeed ; and if they had been spoken by Benintende as a 
funeral oration over the Duke's body, or still more, jierhaps, 
if they had been spoken by the Duke's counsel on his trial, 
they would have been perfectly in place- and character. 
But that is not the highest order of female intellect which 
is disposed to be long-winded in distress; nor does anyone, 
either male or female, who is really and deeply alfecte-d, 
find time for wise saws and instances ancient and modem — 
Hebeu.] 



23B 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



With earthquakes, pestilence, and forei^ ices, 

And the great enemy of man, as subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatching 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

The place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted. 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath, — 

" This place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Doge. " His crimes !" 

But let it bo so : — it will be in vain. 
The veil which blackens o'er this blighted name; 
And hides, or seems to hide, the^e lineaments. 
Shall draw more gazers than the thousand portraits 
Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings — 
Your delegated slaves — the people's tyrants ! 
" Decapitated for his crimes!" — What crimes? 
Were it not better to record the facts. 
So that the contemplator might apprcn^e, 
Or at the least learn whence the crimes arose? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired. 
Let him bo told the cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
Their fathers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap. 
Thou shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot where it was first assumed, 
Thy head shall be struck off; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul ! 

Doge. Is this the Giunta's sentence ? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. I can endure it. — And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate — Make thy peace with 
God: 
Within an hour thou must be in His presence 

Dogr. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands confiscated? 

Ben. They are ; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure, 
Except two thousand ducats — these dispose of. 

Doge. That's harsh. — I would liave fain reserved 
the lands 
Near to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence the Count-bishop of Ceueda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
To portion them (leaving my city spoil, 
My palace and my treasures, to your forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Ben. Tlieso 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew, 
In peril of his own life ; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd piincess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signers, 

I snare not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
I am devoted unto God alone, 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
Have 1 aught else to undergo save death ? 

Ben. You have naught to do, except tonfess and 
die, 
The priest Is robed, the cimeter is bare, 
And both await without. — But, above all 
Thiuk not to speak unto the people ; they 



Are now by thousands swarming at the gates. 
But these are closed: the Ten, the Avogadori, 
The Giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom. 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shalt dio 
A sovereign ; till the moment which precedes 
The separation of that head and trunk. 
That ducal crown and head shall bo united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors ; not so we, 
Who in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices have died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel a proud compassion for thee, 
And mourn even the inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild wrath, and regal fierceness. 
Now we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place where first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and mast now be parted from thee 
As such forever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE II. 
The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner, and the Duchess attending 
him. 

Doge. Now, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless 
all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour. 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alas ! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
Which thou, compliant with my father's wish. 
Didst promise at his death, thou hast seai'd thica 
own. 

Doge. Not so: there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse ; 
The marvel is, it came not until now — 
And yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. How foretold you? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they ara a doubt 
In memory, and yet they live in annals : 
When I was in my youth, and served the secate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso, on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger, 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof ; I raised my hand and smote him. 
Until he reel'd beneath his holy burden ; 
And as he rose from earth again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards Heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from 

him. 
He tum'd to me, and said, " The hour will come 
Wlien he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow theet 
The glory shall depa.'t from out thy hiuse, 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy t^oul, 



Scene ii. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



J39 



And in thy best maturity of miud 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee ;' 
Passion shall tear thee when all passions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues ; 
And majesty, which docks all other heads, 
Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honors shall 
But prove to thee the heralds of destruction, 
And hoary hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saying, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not have 
striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone, 
By penitence for that which thou hadst done? 

Dogre. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice, 
Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
And I repented ; but 'twas not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would not fear. — Nay more, 
Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember. 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my return from Rome, a mist of such 
Unwonted destiny went on before 
The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud 
Which usher'd Israel out of Egypt, till 
The pilot was misled, and disembark'd us 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 'tis 
The custom of the state to put to death 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Riva della Paglia, as the wont is, — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

Ang. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

Voge. And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
For I would rather yield to gods than men, 
Or.clmg to any creed of destiny. 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust. 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o'errr.';ng power ; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him who oft had conquer'd for them ! 

Ang. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these wretches take thy flight to Heaven. 

Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, when their sons' sous, 
And this proud city, and these azuro waters. 
And all which makes them eminent anc bright, 
Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations, 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an Ocean Babel ! 

Ang. Speak not thus now ; the surge of passion still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last ; thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Doge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, palpable as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time — the days which I denounce 



' '"A madness of the heart shall rise within." — MS.] 

* [" With unimpair'd but not outrageous grief,"— MS.] 

5 This was the actual reply of Bailli, maire of Paris, to a 
Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his way to 
cxerution, in the earliest part of their revolution. I find in 
reading over, (smce the completion of this tragedy.) for the 



Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Guard, {coming forward.) Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one embrace — 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — • 
I would not ask so much for me still living. 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now. 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years. 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and namft, 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 
Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 
A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 
No, not enough to extract an epitaph 
From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one h. ur 
I have uprooted all my former life, 
And outlived every thing, except thy heart, 
The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 
With unimpair'd bat not a clamorous grief^ 

Still keep Thou turn'st so pale I — Alas ! she faiats, 

She has no breath, no pulse! — Guards! lend your 

aid — • 

I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better. 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
WTien she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her. 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[The Attendants of Angiolina enter, and sur- 
round their mistress, loho has fainted. — Exeuv.t 
the Doge, Guards, tj-c. ^c. 

SCENE III. 

The Court of the Ducal Palace : the outer gates arc 
shut against the people. — The Doge enters in his 
ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten 
and other Patricians, attended hy the Guards, till 
they arrive at the top of the " Giants' Staircase" 
{where the Doges took the oaths;) the Executioner 
is stationed there with his sword. — On arriving, a 
Chief of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the 
Doge's head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
I am again Marino Faliero : 
'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. 
Here was I crown'd, and here, bear witness. Heaven ! 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'Tis with ago, then.* 

Ben. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to com- 
mend. 
Compatible with justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy, 
My consort to theii justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 



first time these six years, " Venice Preserved," a similar 
reply on a different occasion by Renault, and other coinci 
dences arising from the subject. I need hardly remind the 
gentlest reader, that such coincidences must be accidental, 
from the very facility of their detection hy refei cnce to so 
popular a play on the stage and in the closet it Otway'b 
chef-d'oeuvre. 



240 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



Ben. They shall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Doge. Unheard of! ay, there's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 

Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Ven- 
ice — 
Afjio and Faliero ! 

Bin. Hast thou more 

To utter or to do ? 

Doge. May I speak? 

Ben. . Thou mayst ; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity,' 
Of which I gi-ow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which boro my banner, 
Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it. 
And fill'd niy swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth. 
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! 
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to Heaven ! Ye skies, v/hich will receive it ! 
Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou I 
Who kindlest and who qucnchest suns I'' — Attest! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless? 
I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages 



1 [Sentence being passed upon the Doge, he is brought 
with much pomp to the place of execution. His last speech 
is a grand proplietic rant ; something strained and elaborate 
— but eloquent and terrible.— Jeffrey.] 

2 [ " and Thou ! 

Who makest and destroyest suns !"— MS.] 

3 Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the reader 
look to the historical, of the period prophesied, or rather of 
the few years preceding that period. Voltaire calculated 
their " nostre bene merite Meretrici" at 12,000 of regulars, 
without including volunteers and local militia, on what 
authority 1 know not ; but it is, perhaps, the only part of the 
population not aecreased, Venice once contained two hun- 
dred thousand inhabitants : there are now about ninety 
thousand ; and these ! ! — few individuals can conceive, and 
none could describe, the actual state ii/o which the more 
than infernal tyranny of Austria has plung :d this unhappy 
city. From the present decay and degeneracy of Venice 
under the Barb'arians, there are some honorable individual 
exceptions. There is Pasqualigo, the last, and, alas 1 pos- 
thumous son of the marriage of the Doges with the Adriatic, 
who fought his frigate with far greater gallantry than any 
of his French coadjutors in the memorable action off Lissa. 
I came home in the squadron with the prizes in 1811, and 
recollect to have heard Sir William Hoste, and the other 
officers engaged in that glorious confhct, speak in the hign- 
est terms of Pasqualigo's behavior. There is the Abbate 
Morelli. There is Alvise Querini, w "zo, after a long and 
honorable diplomatic career, finds somb consolation for the 
wrongs of his country, in the pursuits of literature with his 
nephew, Vittor Benzon, the son of the celebrated beauty, 
the heroine of " La Biondina in Gondoletta." There are 
the patrician poet Morosini, and the poet Lamberti, the 
author of the "Biondina," &c. and many other estimable 
productions ; and, not least in an Englishman's estimation, 
Madame Michelli, the translator of Shakspeare. There are 
the young Dandolo and the improvvisatore Carrer, and 
Giuseppe Albrizzi, the accomplished son of an accomplished 
mother. There is Aglietti, and, were there nothing else, 
there is the immortality of Canova. Cicognara, Mustoxithi, 
Bucati, &c. &c., I do not reckon, because the one is a 
Greek, and the others were bom at least a hundred miles 
off, which, throughout Italy, constitutes, if not a foreigner, 
at leasi' a stranger, (foresticre.) 

c lazars \ 

J" Beggars for nobles ^ lepers > for a people !" — MS.] 

( wretches ) 



Float up from the abyss of time to be. 

And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 

Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On her and hers forever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day, 

When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark. 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 

As these old v^ins, oft drain'd in shielding her. 

Shall pom- in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and Lf an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her !' — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars for nobles'*, panders for a people !'' 

Then when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,* 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ; 

When thy patricians beg their bitter biead 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 

Make tlieir nobility a plea for pity : 

Then, when the few who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-geient, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns, 

Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign, 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ;' — when 



6 [The following sketch of the indigent Venetian noble ia 
by Gritti :— 

■' Sono un povero ladro anstocratico 

Errante per la Veneta paludc, 

Che i denti per il mio duro panaticc 

Aguzzo in su la cote e in su I'mcude ; , 

Ml slombo in piedi, e a seder' mi snatico, 

Ballotando or la fame, or la virtude : 
' Prego, piango, minaccio, insisto, adulo, 

Ed ho me stesso, e la mia patria in culo." 

" I'm a poor peer of Venice loose among her 
Marshes ! With standing bows I've double grown, 
And in my trade of place and pension-monger, 
Sale till I've ground my buttocks to the bone ; 
Balloting now for merit, now for hunger ; 
Breaking, myself, my teeth, upon a stone, 
I crave, cringe, storm, and strive, through life's short 

farce. 
And vote friends, self, and country all."— Rose.] 

1 The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong to the Jewj • 
who in the earher times of tlie republic were only aliowed 
to inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city of Venice. The 
whole commerce is in the hands of the Jews and Greeks, 
■md the Huns form the garrison. 

' ["It must be owned," says Bishop Heoer, "that the 
Durie bears his calamities with a patience which would be 
more heroic if it were less wordy. It is possible that a con- 
demned man might recollect his quarrel with the Bishop of 
Treviso, and the evil omen which accompanied his solemn 
landing at Venice. But there are not many condemned 
men who, during a last and stinted interviewwith a beloved 
wife, would have employed so much time in relating an- 
ecdotes of themselves ; and we should least of all expect it 
in one whose fiery character would have induced him to 
hurry forward to his end. The same objection apphes to 
his prophecy of the future miseries of Venice. Its language 
and imagery are, doubtless, extremely powerful and im- i 
pressive ; but we cannot allow that it is either dramatic or ' 
characteristic. A prophecy (which we know to be ex post 
facto) is, under any circumstances, one of the cheapest and 
least artificial of poetical machines. But, under such cir- 
cumstances as the present, no audience could have endured 
so long a speech without disgust and weariness ; and Marmo 
Fahero was most likely to have met his death like cur < wn 
Sydney — 



Scene hi. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



241 



Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being, 

Slaves tuni'd o'er to the vaiiquish'd by the victors, 

Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom. 

All thine inheritance sljall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution ; — 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee, 

Vice without splendor, sin without relief 

Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er. 

But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude,* 

Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness. 

Depraving nature's frailty to an art ; — 

When these and more are heavy on thee, when 

Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure, 

Youth without honor, age without respect. 

Meanness and weakness, and a sense of wo [mur,'' 

'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not mur- 

Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts, 

Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 

Amidst thy many murders, think of mine .' 

Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes !' 

Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom 1 

Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! 

Thee and thy serpent seed I 

[Here the Doge turns and addresses the Execu- 
tioner 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike — and but once ! 

[The Doge tlirows himself upon his knees, and as 
the Executiowir raises his sword the scene closes. 



SCENE IV. 

The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint Mark's. — The 
People in crowds gathered round the grated gates 
of the Ducal Palace, which are shut. 

First Citizen. I have gain'd the gate, and can dis- 
cern the Ten, 
Robed in their gown.s of state, ranged round the Doge. 



' With no harangue idly proclaim'd aloud 
To catch the worthless plaudit of the crowd ; 
No feeble b?ast, death's terrors to defy, 
Yet a'-.iU delaying, as afraid to die !' " 

W^ are surprised that Bish v) Heber did not quote Andrew 
Marvell's magnificent lines jii Charles I. :— 

" While round the armed bands 

Did clap their bloody hands, 
He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon that memorable scene ; 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try ; 
Nor caird the Gods with vulgar spigh 
To vindicate his helpless right, 

But bow'd his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed."] 

' [See Appendix : Marino Faliero, Note C] 
3 If the Doge's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the 
following, made by Alimanni two hundred and seventy years 
ago: — "There is one very singular prophecy concerning 
Venice . ' If thou dost not change,' it says to that proud re- 
public, thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will not 
reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' If we 
carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to the establish- 
ment v>f the government under which the republic flourish- 
ed, wo shall find that the date of the election of the first 
Doge is 697 ; and if we add one century to a thousand, that 
is, eleven hundred years, we shall find the sense of the 
prediction to be literally this : ' Thy liberty will not last 



31 



Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight [effort 

Is tlius prohibited unto the people. 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

First Cit. One has approach'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
He raises his keen eyes to Heaven ; I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush !- —no, 
'Twas but a murmur — Curse upon the distance I 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunder ; would we could 
But gather a solo sentence ! 

Second Cit. Hush ! we perhaps may catch the sound. 
First Cit. 'Tis vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary nair 
Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
Now — now — he kneels — and now they form a circle 
Round him, and all is hidden — but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 

The People murmur. 
Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him who 

would have freed us. 
Fourth Cit. He was a kind man to the commons 

ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals 
barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were preparing 
Ere we were summou'd here — we would have brought 
Weapons, and forced them ! 

Sixth Cit. Are you sure he's deadi 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall — Lo .' what have 
we here ? 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace lohich fronts 
Saint Mark's Place a Chief of the Ten, with 
a bloody sword. He waves it thrice before the 
People, and exclaims, 

" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor !" 

[ The gates are opened; the populace rush in towards 
the " Giants' Staircase," where the execution has 
taken place. The foremost of them exclaims to 
those behind. 
The gory head rolls down the Giants' Steps '. 

[The curtain falls.* 



till 1797.' Recollect that Venice ceased to be free in the 
year 1796, the fifth year of the French republic ; and you 
will perceive, that there never was prediction more pointed, 
or more exactly followed by the event. You will, therefore, 
note, as very remarkable, the throe lines of Alimanni ad- 
dressed to Venice; which, however, no one has poiured 
out : — 

' Se non cangi pensier, un secol solo 
Non contera sopra '1 millesimo anno 
Tua liberta, che va fuggendo a volo.' 
Many prophecies have passed for such, and many men have 
been called prophets for much less."— GinguenIi;, t. ix. 
p. 114. 

s Of the first fifty Doges, /tie abdicated— /ue were banished 
with their eyes put owl— five were massaceed— and nine 
deposed ; so that nineteen out of fifty lost the throne by 
violence, besides two who fell in battle : this occurred lor.g 
previous to the reign of Marino Faliero. One of his more 
immediate predecessors, Andrea Dandolo, died of vexation. 
Marino Faliero himself perished as related. Amongst his 
successors, Foscari, after seeing his son repeatedly tortured 
and banished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the 
election of his successor. Morosini was impeached for the 
loss of Candia ; but this was previous to his dukedom, 
during which he conquered the Morea, and was styled the 
Peloponnesian. Faliero might truly say, 

" Thou den of drunkards with the blood of primes "." 
* [As a play, Marino Faliero is deficient in the attra-'ifive 
passions, in probability, and in depth and variety of into reit ; 



242 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part '. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH: 

A MYSTERY, 

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP VL 

" And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they wete fair • and they 
took them wives of all which they chose."' 



' And woman wailing for her demon lover "— Coleiiidqe 



DRAMATIS PERSONiR. 



Angels. — Samiasa. 

AzAZIEL. 

Raphael the Archangel. 
Men. — Noah and his Sons. 
Irad. 
Japhet. 

Women. — Anah. 

Aholibamah. 

Chorus of Spirits of the Earth. — Chorus of Mortals. 

and revolts throughout, by the extravagant disproportion 
which the injury bears to the unmeasured resentment with 
which It is pursued. As a poem, though it occasionally 
displays great force and elevation, it obviously wants both 
grace and facility. The diction is often heavy and cumbrous, 
and the versification without sweetness or elasticity. It is 
generally very verbose, and sometimes exceedingly dull. 
Altogether, it gives us the impression of a thing worked out 
against the grain, and not poured forth from the fulness of 
the heart or the fancy ; — the ambitious and elaborate work 
of a powerful mind engaged with an unsuitable task — not the 
spontaneous efi'usion of an exuberant imagination, sporting 
in the fulness of its strength. Every thing is heightened 
and enforced with visible eftbrt and design ; and the noble 
author is often contented to be emphatic by dint of exag- 
geration, and eloquent by the common topics of declama- 
tion. Lord Uyron is, undoubtedly, a poet of the very first 
order, and has talents to reach the very highest honors of 
the drama. But he must not again disdain love, and am- 
b-i_; ■}-, and jealousy ; he must not substitute what is merely 
bizarre and extraordinary, for what is naturally and uni- 
versally interesting, nor expect, by any exagfjeratioi.s, so to 
rouse and rule our sympathies by the senseless anger o.' an 
old man, and i,.-. i prudish proprieties of an untempted 
woman, as by the agency of the great and simple passions 
with which, in some of their degrees, all men are familiar, 
and by which alone the Dramatic Muse has hitherto 
wrought her miracles. — Jeffrey. 

On the whole, the D ^g ? :if Venice is the effe ;"; of a pow- 
erful and cultivat 3 1 mi.ai It has all the reqviisites of 
tragedy, sublimity, terror, and pathos — all but that without 
which'the rest are unavailing, interest ! With many de- 
tached passages which neither derogate from Lord Byron's 
former fame, nor would have derogated from the reputation 
of our best ancient tragedians, it is, as a whole, neither 
sustained nor impressive. The poet, except in the soliloquy 
of Lioiii, scarcely ever seems to have written with his own 
thorough good liking. He may be suspected throughout to 
have had in his eye some other model than nature ; and we 
rise from hu work with the same feeling as if we had been 
reading a tr.anslation. For this want of interest the subject 
itself is, doubtless, in some measure to blame ; though, if 
the same subject had been differently treated, we are in- 
clined to believe a very different eftect would have been 
produced. But for the constraint and stiffness of the 
poetry, we have nothing to blame but the apparent resolu- 
tion of its author to set (at whatever risk) an example of 
classical correctness to Ins uncivilized countrymen, and 
rather *o forego success than to succeed after the manner 
of ShaKspeare.— Heber.] 

1 [" Heaven and Earth" was written at Ravenna, in 
October, 1821. In forwarding it to l\Ir. Murray, in the fol- 
lowing month. Lord Byron says—" Enclosed is a lyrical 
djaaia, entit.ei A Mystery.' You will fmd it pious enough, 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



PART I. 



SCENE I. 

A looody and mountainous district near Mc xnt 
Ararat. — Time, Midnight. 

Enter Anah and AHOLiBAinAn.' 
Anah. Our father sleeps ; it is tlie hour when they 
Who love us are aceustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
How my heart beats ! 



I trust — at least some of the chorus might have been writ- 
ten by Sternhold and Hopkins themselves for that, and 
perhaps for melody. As it is longer, and more lyrical and 
Greek, than I intended at first, I have not divided it into 
acts, but called what I have sent Part First ; as there is a 
suspension of the action, which may either close there 
without impropriety, or be continued in a way that I have 
in view. I wish the first part to be published before the 
second ; because, if it don't succeed, it is better to stop 
there, than to go on in a fruitless experiment." Though 
witliout delay revised by Mr. GifTord, and printed, this 
" First Part" was not published till 1622, when it appeared 
in the second number of the " Liberal." The " Mystery" 
was never completed.] 

2 [" It is impossible to suppose two poems more nearly 
diametrically opposite to each other in object and execution, 
than the ' Loves of the Angels' by Mr. Moore, and ' Heaven 
and Earth, a Mystery,' by Lord Byron. The first is all 
glitter and point, like a piece of Derbyshire spar; and the 
other is dark and massy, like a block of marble. In the 
one, angels harangue each other, like authors wislung to 
make a great public impression ; in the other, they appear 
silent and majestic, even when tlioir souls have been visited 
with human passions. In tlie one, the women whom the 
angels love, although beautiful and amiable, are blue- 
stockingish and pedantic, and their sins proceed from 
curiosity and the love of knowledge. In the other, they 
are the gentle, or the daring, daughters of flesh and blood, 
dissolving in tenderness, or burning with passion for the 
Sons of the Morning. In the one, we have sighs, tears, 
kisses, shiverings, thrillings, perfumes, feathered angels 
on beds of down, and all the transports of the honey-moon ; 
in the other, silent looks of joy or despair, passion seen 
blending in vain union between the spirits of mortal and 
immortal, love shrieking on the wild shore of death, and 
all the thoughts that ever agitated human hearts dashed 
and distracted beneath the blackness and amidst the howl- 
ing of commingled eartli and heaven. The one is ex- 
tremely pretty, and the other is something terrible. The 
great power of this ' Mystery' is in its fearless and daring 
simplicity. Lord Byron faces at once all the grandeur ol 
his sublime subject. He seeks for nothing, but it rises be- 
fore him in its death-doomed magnificence. Man, or angel, 
or demon, the being who mourns, or laments, or exults, is 
driven to speak by his own soul. The angels deign not to 
use many words, even to their beautiful paramours : and 
they scorn Noah and his sententious sons. The first scete 
is a v/oody and mountainous district, near INlount Ararat, 
and the time midnight. Mortal creatures, conscious of 
their own wickedness, have heard awful predictions of 
the threatened flood, and all their lives are darkened 
with terror. But the sons of God have been d'vellers on 
earth, and women's hearts have been stirred by ihe beautv 
of these celestial visitants. Anah and Aholibamah, two of 



Scene i. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



243 



Let us proceed upon 



But the stars are hidden. 



Aho 
Our iin'ocation. 

Anah. 
I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 

Of aught save their delay. 

Anah. My sister, though 

I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures? 

AnaL But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
Tills cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin I 
There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long: 
Marry, and bring forth dust ? 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less, were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible ; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would bo such for him, were I the Seraph, 
And ho the perishable. 

Aho. ' Kather say. 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 

Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
Bettor thus than that he should weep for me. 

Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love. 
All Seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! — 'Tis the hour. 
Anah. Seraph I 

From thy sphere ! 
Wliatever star contain thy glory ; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with " the seven,'" 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 

And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all t > her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Sucii pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
Tlio bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thine years. 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
With mo thou canst not sympathize. 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
No"er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of hiin who made thee great. 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear! 
Oh hear I 



these angel-stricken maidens, come wandering along while 
others sleep, to pour forth their invocations to their demon 
loi-ers. They are of very different characters: Anah, soft, 
gent.e; and submissive ; Aholibamah, proud, impetuous, and 



For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep from 
o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 

A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight, 

Though sometimes with our vis'ons blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — 
Appear! Appear! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here. 
And leave the stars to their own light 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with Him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the 
abyss, 
Wliose tenants dying, while their world is 
falling, 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 

Or joining with the inferior cherubim. 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not: 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee. 
Descend and share my lot ! 
Though I be form'd of clay. 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams, 
Thine immortality can not repay 

With love more warm than mine 
My love. There is a ray 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long: death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away. 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 

I feel my' immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal. 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st forever !" 
But if it be in joy 
I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 
Who folds in clouds the fonts of bills and wo. 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 
Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 
With him if he will war with us : with thee 
I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 



aspiring— the one loving in fear, and the other m .imbiiion.' 
— Wilson.] 

1 The archangels, said to be seven in number, and to oc- 
cupy tlie eighth rank in the celestial hierarchy. 



244 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part 



For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 
And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 

No 1 though the serpent's sting should pierce- me 
thorough, 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Aiound me still I and I will smile, 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend, and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain I" 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 

Aho. Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there. 
To Samiasa's breast I 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

Oh Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and raany-color'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path. 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 

Wliich the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home. 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep.'' 

Aho. They have touch'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah. My Azaziel ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. 
Enter Irad and Japhet. 

Irad. Despond not: wherefore wilt thou wander 
thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And Uft thy tearful eye unto the stars? 
They cannot aid thee. 

Japh. But they soothe me — now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being that is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beaufy. 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh, Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 

Japh. Alas ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also 

Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. ' Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 



» [This invocation is extremely beautiful : its chief beau- 
ty lies in the continuous and meandering flow of its impas- 
sioned versification At its close,— and it might well win 
down to earth errinj. angels from heaven,— the maidens dis- 
appear in the midnight darkness, hoping the presence of 
tlieir celestial lovers. — Wilson.] 

aiLjrdByron here tnkes a wide career, and is some- 
'uaes >b8i;ure and confused ; but the flashes of fire continu- 
OL.V break through, and illumine the clouds of smoke and 



It may be, time too will avenge it 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought? 

Irad. ' Nor joy, nor sorrow 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love ; as 'tis, 1 leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies? 

Ii-ad. I have some cause fco thioB 

She loves another. 

Japh. Aaiah ! 

Irad. No ; her sister 

Jajih. What other? 

Irad. That I know not ; but hfci air, 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 

Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee?^ 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad. And so do I 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. i pity thee. 

Irad Me ! why ? 

Japh. For being happy, 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring if weigth'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they tiy to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolored trash. 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and Vvool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then? 

Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner sphits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wlierefore so ? 

What wouldst thou there ? 

Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeles? spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with ter- 
rors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 



vapor. The extravagance is dictated by passion. His 
muse, even in her riddles and digressions, has a sibyl-liia 
prophetic fuiy.— Jeffrey J 

3 [This is one of those bitter, taunting sar -asms tnat es- 
cape from Lord Byron's pen, in spite of himself. Japhet is 
afterwards introduced alone, in a mountainous cave ; and 
his soliloquy, bemoaning his own fate, and the approaciiing 
destruction of mankind, is interrupted by a laugh of demons, 
rejoicing over the event. This scene is terrific. — Jeffbbv.J 



Scene hi. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



245 



1 must proceed alone. 

Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 

Japh. (solus.) Peace ! I have sought it where it 
should be found, 
In love — witli love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
Ai\d, in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
A v/sakness of the spirit — listless days, 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 
Of desolation, and the stillness of 
The untrodden forest, only broken by 
The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 
Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
Of my mind overworn. The earth's grown wicked, 
And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 
A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 
To perishable beings. Oh, my An ah ! 
When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 
The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
The elements; this bosom, which in vain 
Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainlifc 

While thine Oh, God ! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing 

As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 

Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah I 

How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not ; 

And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 

When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 

By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 

Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 

Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noah and Suem. 

Ksnh. Wlnre is thy brother Japhet? 

Skem. He went forth, 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Towards Anah's tents, round which he bovvers nightly, 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even v/lcked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
Although he could not ved her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not 3h, the unhappy hea~ts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days. 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulgo 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for I 

Shc7n. Go not forward, father : 

I will seek Japhet 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah — Let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 

Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem 

SCENE III. 

The mountains. — A cavern, and the rocks of Caucasus. 

Japh. (solus.) Y© wilds, that look eternal ; and 
thou cave, 
Which eeom'et unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 



So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 

Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 

And toppling trees that twine their roots with stoue 

In perpendicular places, where the foot 

Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 

Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 

Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 

Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 

Which seems to lead into a lower world. 

Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave. 

And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man Oh, men! my fellow-beings! Who 

Shall weep above your universal grave, 

Save I? Who shall be left to weep? My kinsmen, 

Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 

That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 

The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 

While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 

Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her? 

And can it be ! — Shall yon exulting peak, 

Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 

Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep ? 

No more to have the morning sun break forth. 

And scatter back the mists in floating folds 

From its tremendous brow? no more to have 

Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 

Leaving it with a crown of many hues? 

No more to be the beacon of the world, 

For angels to alight on, as the spot 

Nearest the stars? And can those words " no more" 

Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us. 

And the predestined creeping things reserved 

By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 

He preser^^e them, and / not have the power 

To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 

A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 

Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 

To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 

Reeking and dank from out the slime, whose ooze. 

Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 

The salt morass subside into a sphere 

Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 

The sole and undi&iinguish'd sepulchre, 

Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 

Breath will bo still'd at once ! All-beauteou" world i 

So young, so mark'd out for destructiou, I 

With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 

And night by night, thy number'd days and nights : 

I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 

Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 

A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 

Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 

Such as — Oh God ! and canst thou — [He pauses. 

A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passes. 

Japh. In the uamo 

Of the Most High, what art thou? 

Spirit, (laughs.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 

Spirit, (laughs.) Ha ! ha ! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep which will lay open all her fountains . 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes .' 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct, 
Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 



246 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 
Spirit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[Spirit vanishes. 
Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world, 
Tlie coming desolation of an orb, 
Oil which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it? What is here, 
Which look like death in life, and speak like things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
[ Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 
Spirit. Rejoice ! 

The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 
But listen'd to the voice 
Of knowledge without power. 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor soitow. 
Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion. 
Shall they drop off! Behold their last to-morrow ! 
Earth shall be ocean I 
And no breath. 
Save of the wmds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even -& rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save, 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void, 
Destroy'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth naught left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated momitain 
Shall naught remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain ; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 

And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 

Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. {coming forward.) My sire I 
Earth's seed shall not expire ; 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place, 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 

In restless wretchedness along all space I 
Spirit. Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved » 

The wide and warring element ; 

When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 

Shall thoi' and thine be good or happy? — No! 

Tliy new world and new race shall be of wo — 

I»ess goodly iu their aspect, m then- years 



Less than the glorious giants, who * 

Yet walk the world in pride, 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride 
Thine shall be nothuig of the past, save tears 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive. 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? . 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
As even to hear this wide destruction named. 
Without such grief and courage, as should ratner 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Than seek a shelter with thy favor'd father. 

And build thy city o'er the drown'd Earth's grave? 
Who would outlive their kind. 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine. 
As of a different order in the sphere. 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here. 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above what they have done. 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more. 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one t 
Thyself for being his son ! 

Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 

Rejoice ! 
No more ihe human voice 
Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer; 
No more 

Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice ; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay. 
Shall perish, and their bleachctl bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The Deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each other. 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
Till all things shall be as they were. 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation. 
To generate new nations for his use ; 
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to Time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
With all companionship of hate and toil, 
Until— 
Japh. {interrupting them.) The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 
Unto himself all times, all things ; 



Scene hi. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



247 



And, gather'd under his almighty wings, 
Abolish hell ! 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 

Her Eden in an endless paradise, 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell. 
And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 

spell ? 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain. 

And then in glory. 
Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain, 
Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain. 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men: but 

still. 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill. 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 

But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.' 

Chorus of Spirits. 

Brethren, rejoice ! 
Mortal, farewell ! 
Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 

The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ; 
The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ; 
The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 
And heaven set wide her windows f while man- 
kind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening 
sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd — 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 

Yet imdisplay'd. 
Save to. the Spirit's all-pervading eye. , 
Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow i 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells. 

The little shells .">f ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 

How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space 
brings 
Naught to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice — 

All die. 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — ■ 

The seed of Seth, 
E.T£empt for future Sorrow's sake from death. 



' " And there were giants in the earth in those days, and 
after ; mighty men, which were of old, men of renown." — 

» '• Tho sam? dar were all the fountains of the great deep 



But of the sons of Cain 

None shall remain ; 

And all his goodly daughters 

Must he beneath the desolating waters — 

Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 

Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid, 

Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It IS decreed, 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed ' 

Fly, brethren, fly 1 

But still rejoice I 
Wo fell ! 
They fall ! 

So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell I 

[The Spirits disappear, soaring iipwaraa. 
Japh. (solus.) God hath proclaim'd the destiny of 

earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll' of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear: 
And yet men listen'd not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh. 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief. 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose. 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfils it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture, 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, " Shine !" and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds. 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites ; 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing ! and day will break ! Both near. 
So near the awful close ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day. 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise ; but upon what ? — a chaos. 
Which was ere day ; and which, renew'd, makes time 
Nothing! for, without life, what are the hours? 
No more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void : without man, time, as made for man, 
Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world. — 
What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 
And after the swart savage spirits, whoso 
Infernal immortality pour'd forth 



broken up ; and the windows of heaven were opened." — 
Jbid. 

3 The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is said 
by them to be anterior to the flood. 



248 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



Theii impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
For which I have so often pray'd. — They come ! 
Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 

Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anaii, and Aiiolibamah. 

Anah Japhet I 

Sam, Lo ! 

A sou of Adam . 

Aza. What doth the earth-born here, 

While all his race are slumbering? 

Japh. Angel ! what 

Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 

Aza. Know'st thou not, or forget'st thou, that a part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with this spirit, in those hours 
When no good spirit longer lights below ? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee ; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
We know thee not. 

Japh. The hour may come when thou 

Mayst know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the patriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whatever thy gifts. 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong ? 

Japh. Wrong I the greatest of all wrongs ; but thou 
Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whatc"cr 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast tliou the power 
To save this beautiful — these beautiful 
Children of Cain? 

Aza. From what? 

Japh. And is it so. 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment ; or, at the least, 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 
To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded 
them ? 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa ! 

Anah. Sister ! sister ! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Anah. Yes, for thee : 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know a pang. 

Japh. It is for him, then ! for the seraph thou 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 



Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 

Be happy or be hallow'd. Wo are sent 

Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 

Are made to minister on high unto 

The Highest: but if he can save thee, soon , 

The hour will come in which celestial aid 

Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah I he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us.' and those who are with vsl 
But that the man seems full of sorrow, I 
Could smile. 

Japh. I grieve not for myself, rao^ fear ; 

1 am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, who hath been found 
RighteoiK enough to save his children. Would 
His power was greater of redemption ! or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that we, 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins, — strong Cain! who was begotten 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From tlie beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah ! 
Too much of the forefatlier whom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine, 
Albeit thou art not ; 'tis a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My Anah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me dream that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. {inieiTupling him.) And wouldst thou have 
her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought. 
And dream'd that aught of Abel was in her I — 
Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him? 

Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
him, and 
I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He was our fathers' father ; 
The eldest bom of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring: — Shall I blush for him 
From whom we had oui" being? Look upon 
Our race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 
Their courage, strength, and length of days 

Japh. They are number'd 

Aho Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
1 glory jn my brethren and our fathers. 

Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his diead hour 



Scene hi. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



249 



Of universal vengeance, (if such should be,) 

It would not be to live, alone exempt 

Of all my house. My sister! oh, my sister! 

What were the world, or other worlds, or all 

The brightest future, without the sweet past— 

Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 

The things which sprang up with me, like the stars, 

Making my dim existence radiant with 

Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah ! 

Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 

I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Alio. What, hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 
Shaken my sister? Are we not the loved 
Of seraphs? and if we were not, must we 
Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engender'd 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way? 
Who shall do this? 

Japh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Wlio heard that word ? 

Japh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn? 
Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not, 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy Giod ! 

Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mine : a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'Tis said so. 

Japh. It is even so.- 

Enter Noah and Shem. 

Noah. Japhet! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom? 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earth-born being ; and behold. 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah. These are they, then. 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 

Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Wo, wo, wo to such communion ! 

Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind? 

Sam Was not man made in high Jehovah's 
image ? 
Did God not love what he had made? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
I Has deign'd to commune with mo, and reveal 



■> [In the original MS. •' Michael." — " I return you," says 
Loid Bvi^n to Mr. Murray, "the revise. I have softened 
the pari I j which Gifford objected, and changed the name of 



32 



//i!S judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing. 
Even on the very eve o( perishing, world, 
Cannot be good 

Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh. Oh, father ! say it not. 

Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouk-St avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist: they soon shall cease to be ; 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new vi^orld, 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them .' 

Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
not ; he 
Who can redeems thee. 

Satn. And why him and thee, 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both? 

Noah. Ask him who made tliee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo 1 his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 



Enter Raphael,' the Archangel. 

Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye hero ? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
Now that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven," 
Your place is heaven. 
Sa?n. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod! 
The world he loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequent mission with delighted pinions : 

Adoring him in his least works display'd ; 

Watching this youngest star of his dominions ; 

And as the latest birtfe of his great word, 

Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 

Why is thy brow severe ? 

And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction near? 

Raph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir, 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 
Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maker's breath of me: 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 



Michael to Raphael, who was an angel of gentler sympa- 
thies."— Byron Letters, July 6, 1822.] 



250 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the firsl-born of Excess. 

Wlien all good angels left the world, ye stay'd, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
But ye are pardon'd thus far, and replaced 
With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay, 
And lose eternity by that delay. 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That whiqh I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 

Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die ! 
Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
And much which she inherits: but oh ! why 
Cannot this earth bo made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks? immortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone ! 
And think if tempting man can compeiisate 
For heaven desired too late ? 
Long have I warr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst the cherubim 
Mad3 him as suns to a dependent star, 
Lca%'ing the archangels at his right hand dim. 
I loved him — beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 

In which he fell could ever be forgiven! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice : 
Ho hath not tempted you : he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt : 

But man hath lis'en'd to his voice, 
And ye to woman's — beautiful she is. 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven;" to bre^ak heaven's law, 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they 
Shall pass away. 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay. 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
Think how your essence diiforeth from theirs 
In all but suflering ! why partake 
The agony to which they must be heirs — 
Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with cares ; 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
Still they are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 



Aho. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice which says that all must die 

Sooner than our white-bearded patriarchs died ; 

And that on high 

An ocean is prepared, 

While from below 

The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister ! since it is so. 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of wo, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall. 

And, when the fatal waters are ai-ay'ii. 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die. 
And yours to live forever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine of clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Nor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For all the mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! ' 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep— 
Farewell ! Now rise, inexorable Deep ! 
Anah. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 
Azaziel ! 
Oh my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new : 
But yet depart ! 
Ah! why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for me. 
Too much already hast thou deigu'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been hurl'd 
From his once archangelic tlirono 
Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — ■ 
Thou shalt not suffer wo 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
Mayst suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling Deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly I fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difiicult to die. 
Japh. Oh say not so ! 

Father ! and thou, archangel, thou ! 



Scene hi. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



251 



Surely celestial Mercy lurks below 
Tliat pure severe serenity of brow : 

Let them not meet this sea without a shore, 
Save in our ark, or let me bo no more! 

Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 

Do God no wrong I 
Live as he wills it — die, when ho ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Bo a man I 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
Japk. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast. 
Who, who, our tears, oiu- shrieks, shall then com- 
mand ? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest? 
Oh God I be thou a God, and spare 

Yet while 'tis time ! 
Renew not Adam's fall: 
Mankind were then but twain. 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain. 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their 
graves, 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
Noah. Silence, vaiu boy . each word of thino's a 
crime. 
Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 

Raph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : 
Ye! 
Wlio are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be : 

We have chosen, and will endiu-e. 
Raph. Say'st thou? 

Aza. He hath said it, and I say. Amen ! 

Raph. Again ! 
Then from this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God, 
r arewell ! 
Japh. Alas! where sJiall they dwell? 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and Qt#3per still, 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky. 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar. 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave 
Soon it shall be their only shore, 
And then, no more ! 
Japh. The sun ! the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone, 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around. 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone , 
The clouds return into the h:ies of night, 



Save where their brazen-color'd edges streak 

The verge where brighter morns were wont to 'oreak. 

Noah. And lo ' yon flash of light. 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears! 

It cometli ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
Hence to where our all-hallow'd urk uprears 
Its safe and wrcckless sides ! 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallownig tides! 

Noah. Must wo not leava all life to such ? Begone ! 
Japh. Not I. 

Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophe^ c sky, 
And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jshovah's wrath ! 
Jnph. Can rage and justice join in the same path? 
Noah. Blasphemer ! darest thou murmvir oven now? 
Raph. Patriarch, be still a father I smooth thy brow • 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink: 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt fot_n of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when Passion passeth, good as thou. 

Nor perish like Heaven's children with Man's 

daughters. 
Aho. The tempest cometh ; Heaven and Earth 
unite* 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sa7n. But ours is with thee : we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star. 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 

Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth ! 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not. 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 

Aza. Thy Spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
Yet much is ours, whence we can not be driven. 

Raph. Rebel I thy words are wicked as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth bo but weak : the flaming sword, 
Which chased the first-bom out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes? 

Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
And lestfu at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
Chorus of Mortals. 

The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God! 

What have we done? Yet spare ! 

Hark ! even the forest beasts how) forth their prayer! 
The dragon crawls from out his den. 
To herd, in terror, innocent with men ; 

And the birds scream their agony through air 

Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 

Of wrath, and pity thine own worid's despair ! 

Hear not Man only but all Nature plead I 

Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! yo wretched sons of 
clay, 



•^53 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part 



I cannot, must not, aid you. 'Tis decreed ! 

[Exit Raphael. 

Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 
prey, 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await tlie word 
At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
N'c:' spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen : 
In the Smi's place a pale and ghastly glare 
Hath womid itself around the dying air.' 

Aza. Come, Auah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
To which the elements again repair. 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
The shelter of these wings thou slialt be safe, 
As was the eagle's nestling once within 
Its mother's — Let the coming chaos chafe 
With all its elements ! Heed not their din ! 
A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore : 
Theise darkeu'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[AzAziEL and Samiasa fly off, and disappear 
loith Anah and Ahombamah. 

Japh. They are gone I They have disappear'd 
amidst the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life. 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyos.^ 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What ! v/ilt thou leave us all— all— aZZ behind ? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark? 

A Mother, {offering her infant to Japhet ) Oh let 
this child embark ! 
I brought him forth in wo. 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why was he born 1 
What hath he done — 
My unwean'd son — 
To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that Death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy, 
And roll the waters o'er his placid breath '? 
Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be — v/ith him who made 
Thee and thy race, for which we are betray'd ! 

Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but for prayer. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
For prayer ! ! I 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend, 
When the swohi clouds unto the mountains >end 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend. 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accursed 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
Wo deem our curses vain ; v/e must expire 



1 [In his description of the deluge, which is a varied and 
recurring master-piece, — (wt; near it foretold, and we see 
it come,)— Lord Byron appears to us to have had an eye to 
loujism's celebrated picture, with the sky hanging like a 
w ei^ht of lead upon the waters, the sun quenched and lurid, 
tiic rcicks and trees ipon them gloomily watcliing their fate, 



But as we know the worst. 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees bo bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Since wo must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame, 

To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
The loatirsome waters, in their rage I 
Ana Afitii their roar make wholesome Nature dumb ! 

The forest's trees, (coeval with the hour 
When Paiia.dise unsprung. 

Ere Eve gave Aaam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung,) 
So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopp'd. 
Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd. 
Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
Vainly we look up to the lowering skiee — 

They meet the seas, 
And shut out God from our besGoching eyes. 

Fly, son of Noah, fly ! and take thine ease 
In thine allotted ocean-tenl , 
Aiid view, all floating o'er the element. 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread. 
Yet, as his word. 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life — he taketh but 
The breath which is his own : 
And though these eyes should be fcrcver shut. 
Nor longer this weak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone. 

Still blessed be the Lord, 
For what is past. 
For that which is : 
For all are his, 
From first to last — 
Time — space — eternity — life — death — 

The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
He made, and can mimake ; 
And shall /, for a little gasp of breath. 

Blaspheme and groan ? 
No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith. 

Nor auiver, though the universe may quake ! 

Chorus of Mortals. 

Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 
To meet the ocean, which, advancing Btill, 
Already grasps each drowning hill, 
Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 

Woman. Oh, save me, save I 
Otu- valley is no more : 

My father .uid my father's tent. 
My brethren and my brethren's herds. 

The nleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 



and a few figures struggling vainly with the overwhtlnoig 
waves. — Jeffrey ^ 

2 [The despair of the mortal lovers for the loss of their 
mortal mistresses is well and pathetically expressed. — i%V' 

FREY.] 



Scene hi. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



253 



And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet which fresheu'd all 
Our pastures green, 
No more are to be seen. 
When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this morn, 

I turn'd to bless the spot, 
And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 

And now they are not ! — 
Why was I bom ? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die ! 

And happier in that doom, 

' [This poem carries with it rne peculiar impress of the 
writer's genius. It displays great vigor, and even a severity 
of style, throughout; which is another proof, if proof were 
needed, that elevation of writing is to be obtained only by a 
rigid regard to simplicity. It may be perused without shock- 
ing the feelings of the sensitive, or furnishing an object for' 
'hs discriminating morality of the Lord Chancellor. Lord 
Byron has evidently endeavored to sustain the interest of 
this poem, by depicting natural but deep-drawn thoughts, in 
all their freshness and intensity, with as little fictitious aid as 
possible. Nothing is circumlocutory : there is no going 
about and about to enter at length upon his object, but he 
impetuously rushes into it at once. All over the poem 
there is a gloom cast suitable to the subject : an ominous 
fearful hue, like that which Poussin has flung over his in- 
imitable picture of the Deluge. We see much evil, but we 
dread more. All is out of earthly keeping, as the events of 
the time are out of the course of nature. Man's wicked- 
ness, the perturbed creation, fear-struck mortals, demons 
passing, .3 and fro in the earth, an overshadowing solemni- 
ty, and unearthly loves, form together the materials. That 
It has faults is obvious : prosaic passages, and too much 
tedious soliloquizing : but there is the vigor and force of 
Byron to fling into the scale against these : there is much 
of the sublime in description, and the beautiful in poetry. 
Prejudice, or ignorance, or both, may condemn it ; but, 
while true poetical feeling exists amongst us, it will be 
pronounced not unworthy of its distinguished author. — 
Campbell. 

It appears that this is but the first part of a poem ; but it 
is likewise a poem, and a fine one too, within itself. We 
confess that we see little or nothing objectionable in it, 
either as to theological orthodoxy, or general human feel- 
ing. It is solemn, lofty, fearful, wild, tumultuous, and 
shadowed all over with the darkness of a dreadful disaster. 
Of the angels who love the daughters of men we see little, 
and know less— and not too much of the love and passion 
of the fair lost mortals. The inconsolable despair pre- 
ceding and accompanying an incomprehensible catastrophe 
pervades the whole composition ; and its expression is 
made sublime by the noble strain of poetry in which it is 
said or sung.— Wilson. 

This " Mystery" has more poetry and music in it than 
any of Lord By "Jn's dramatic writings since " Manfred ;" 
and has also the peculiar merit of throwing us back, in a 
great degree, to tlie strange and preternatural time of which 
it professes to treat. It is truly, and in every sense of the 
word, a meeting of " Heaven and Earth :" angels are seen 
'!S sending and descending, and the windows of the sky are 
opo.ied to deluge the face of nature. We have \n impas- 
sioned picture of the strong and devoted attachment in- 
spired into the daughters of men by angel forms, and have 
placed before us the empliatic picture of "woman wailing 
for her demon lover." There is a like conflict of the pas- 
sions as of the elements — all wild, chaotic, uncontrollable, 
fatal ; but there is a discordant harmony in all this— a keep- 
ing in the coloring and the lime. In handling the un- 
polished page, we look upon the world before the Flood, 
and gaze upon a doubtful blank, with only a few straggling 
figures, part human and part divine ; while, in the ex- 
pression )' the former, we 'ead the fancier ethereal and 



Than to behold the universal tomb 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to weep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain?* 

[The ivaters rise; Men fly in every direction : 
many are overtaken by the waves ; the Chorus 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up 
the mountains ; Japhet remains upon a rock, 
while the Ark floats towards him in the dis- 
tance. 



lawless, that lifted the eye of beauty to the skies, and, in 
the latter, the human passions that "drew angels down to 
earth." — Jeffrey. 

Among all the wonderful excellences of Milton, nothing 
sui^-vioes the pure and undisturbed idealism with which he 
has drawn our first parents, so completely human as to ex- 
cite our most aixlent sympathies, yet so'far distinct from 
tlje common race of men as manifestly to belong to a 
higher and uncorrupted state of being. In like manner, 
his Paradise is formed of the universal productions of na- 
ture—the flowers, the fruits, the trees, the waters, the cool 
breezes, the soft and sunny slopes, the majestic hills that 
skirt the scene , vet the whole is of an earlier, a more pro- 
lific, a more lux»-i ant vegetation : it fully comes up to our 
notion of what the earth might have been before it was 
" cursed of its Creator." This is the more remarkable, as 
Milton himself sometimes destroys, or at least mars, the 
general eflfect of his picture, by the introduction of in 
congruous thoughts or images. The poet's passions are, 
on occasions, too strong for his imaginaticn, drag him 
down to earth, and, for the sake of some ill-timed allusion 
to some of those circumstances, which had taken posses- 
sion of his mighty mind, he runs the hazard of breaking 
tlie solemn enchantment with which he has spell-bound 
our captive senses. Perhaps, of later writers. Lord Byron 
alone has caught the true tone, in his short drama called 
" Heaven and Earth." Here, notwithstanding that we 
cannot but admit the great and manifold delinquencies 
against correct taste, parlicularl-y some perfectly ludicrous 
metrical whimsies, yet all is in keeping — all is strange, 
poetic, oriental ; the lyric abruptness, the prodigal ac- 
cumulation of images in one part, and the rude simplicity 
in others— above all, the general tone of description as to 
natural objects, and of language and feeling in the scarcely 
mortal beings which come forth upon the scene, seem to 
throw us upward into the age of men before their lives 
were shortened to the narrow span of threescore years 
and ten, and when all that walked the earth were not born 
of woman.— MiLMAN. 

The Blystery of " Heaven and Earth" is conceived in 
the best style of the greatest masters of poetry and paint- 
ing. It is not unworthy of Dante, and of the mighty artist 
to whom we have alluded. As a picture of the last deluge, 
it is incomparably grand and awful. The characters, too, 
are invested with great dignity and grace. Nothing can bo 
more imposing and fascinating than the haughty, and im- 
perious, and passionate beauty of the daughter of Cam ; 
nor any thing more venerable than the mild but inflexible 
dignity of the patriarch Noah. We trust that no one will 
be found with feelings so obtuse, with taste so perverted, 
or with malignity so undisguised, as to mar the beauties r^l 
pictures like these, by imputing to their author the cool 
profession of those sentiments which he exhibits as ex- 
torted from perishing mortals, in their last instant of despair 
and death. Such a poem as this, if read aright, is calcu- 
lated, by its lofty passion and sublime conceptions, to 
exalt tlie mind and to purify the heart beyond the power of 
many a sober homily. It will remain an imperishable 
monument of the transcendent talents of its author ; whom 
it has raised, in our estimation, to a higher pitch of pre- 
eminence than he ever before attained. — if. Mag- ] 



254 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



SARDANAPALUS: 

A TRAGEDY.* 
TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

OF A LITERARY VASSAL TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY. 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCftlBE TO HIM 
IS ENTITLED 

.SARDANAPALUS.5 



PREFACE. 

In publishing the following Tragedies^ I have only 
to repeat, that they were not composed with the most 
remote view to the stage. On the attempt made by 
the managers in a former instance, the public opinion 
has been already expressed. With regard to my own 
private feelings, as it seems that they are to stand for 
nothing, I shall say nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the following com- 
positions the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The Author has in one instance attempted to pre- 
serve, and in the other to approach, the " unities ;" 
conceiving that with any very distant departure from 



I [On the original MS. Lord Byron has written : — " Mem. 
Ravenna, May 27, 1821. — I began this drama on the 13th of 
January, 1821 ; and continued the two first acts very slowly, 
and by intervals. The three last acts w'cre written since 
the 13th of May, 1821. (tliis present month;) that is to 
say, in a fortnight." Tlie following are extracts from Lord 
Byron's diary and letters : — 

"Janiiary 13, 1821. Sketched the outline and Dram. 
Pers. of an intended tragedy of Sardanapalus, which I 
have for some time meditated. Took the names from 
Diodorus Siculus, (I ki. w the history of Sardanapalus, 
and have known it since I was twelve years old,) and read 
over a passage in the ninth volume of Mitford's Greece, 
where he rai her vindicates the memory of this last of the 
Assyrians. Carrieu Teresa the Italian translation of Grill- 
parzer's Sappho. She quarrelled with me, because I said 
that love was not the hfliest theme for a tragedy ; and, hav- 
ing the advantage of her native language, and natural 
female eloquence, she overcame my fewer arguments. I 
beheve she was right. I must put more love into ' Sarda- 
napalus' than I intended." 

" May 25. I have completed four acts. I have made 
Sardanapalus brave, (though voluptuous, as history repre- 
sents hiin,) and also as amiable as my poor powers could 
lender hiin. I have strictly preserved all the K.iities 
hitherto, and mean to continue them in the fifth, if pos- 
sible ; but NOT for the stage." 

" JMay 30. By this post I send you the tragedy. You 
will remark that the unities are all strictly preserved. The 
scene passes in the same hall always: the time, a sum- 
mer's night, about nine hours or less; though it begins 
before sunset, and ends after sunrise. It is not for the 
stage, any more than the other was intended for it ; and I 
shall take better care this time that they don't get hold 
on't." 

"July 14. I trust thnt ' Sardanapalus' will not be mis- 
tnkea for a pohtical play ; which was so far from my in- 



them, there may be poetry, but can be no drama. He 
is aware of the unpopularity of this notion in pietent 
English literature ; but it is not a system of his own, 
being merely an opinion, which, not very long ago, 
was the law of literature throughout the world, and 
is still so in the more civilized part of it. But " nous 
avons change tout cela," and are reaping the ad- 
vantages of the change. The writer is far from con- 
ceiving that any thing he can adduce by personal 
precept or example can at all approach his regular, or 
even irregular predecessors; he is mei ;ly giving a 
reason why he preferred the more reguivir formation 
of a structure, however feeble, to an entire abandon- 
ment of all rules whatsoever. Where he has failed, 
the failure is in the architect, — and not hi the art.* 



tention, that 1 thought of nothing but Asiatic history. My 
object has been to dramatize, like the Gieeks, (a modest 
phrase,) striking passages of history and mythology. You 
will find all this very unlike Shakspeare ; and so much the 
better in one sense, for I look upon him to be the worst of 
models, though the most extraordinary of writers. It has 
been my object to be as simple and severe as Alfieri, and 
I have broken down the poetry as nearly as I could to 
common language. The hardship is that, in these times, 
one can neither speak of kings nor queens without suspi- 
cion of politics or personalities. I intended neither." 

"July 22. Print away, and publish. I think they must 
own that I have more styles than one. ' Sardanapalus' is, 
however, almost a comic character : but, for that matter, 
so is Richard the Third. Mind the unities, which are my 
great object of research. I am glad GifTord likes it : as for 
the million, you see I have carefully consulted any thing 
but the taste of the day for extravagant ' coups de theatre.' " 

Sardanapalus was published in December, 1821, and was 
received with very great approbation.] 

2 [" Well knowing myself and my labors, in my old age, 
I could not but reflect with gratitude and diffidence on the 
expressions contained in this dedication, nor interpret 
them but as the generous tribute of a superior genius, no 
less original in the choice than inexhaustible in the ma- 
terials of his subjects." — Goethe ] ' 

s [" Sardanapalus" originally appealed in the same vol- j 
ume with " The Two Foscari."] 

i [" In this preface," (says Mr. Jeffrey,) " Lord Byron re- \ 
news his protest against looking upon any of his plays as • 
liaving been composed 'with the most remole view to the | 
stage ;' and, at the same time, te.stifies in behalf of the uni i 
ties, as essential to the existence of the drama- according to | 
what ' was till lately, tlie law of literature throughout the i 
world, and is still so in the more civihzed parts of it.' We ilo 
not think these opinions very consistent • and we think tliat 



Act I. Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



255 



DRAMATIS PERSONS' 



MEN. 
Sabdanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria, §-c. 
Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
Bpleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salemenes, the King's Brother-in-lavj. 
Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
Pania. 
Zames. 
Sfero 
Balea. 

WOMEN. 
Zarina, the Queen. 
Myrrha, an Ionian female Slave, and the Favorite 

of Sardanapalus. 
Wo?n.cn composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 

Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, 

^c. ^c. 

Scene — a Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



neither of them could possibly find favor with a person 
whose genius had a truly draipatic character. We should 
as soon expect an orator to compose a speech altogether un- 
fit to be spoken. A drama is not merely a dialogue, but an 
action ; and necessarily supposes that something is to pass 
before the eyes of assembled spectators. Whatever is pecu- 
liar to its written part, should derive its peculiarity from 
this consideration. Its style should be an accompaniment 
to action, and should be calculated to exoite the emotions, 
and keep alive the attention, of gazing multitudes. If an 
author does not bear this continually in his mind, and does 
not write in the ideal presence of an eager and diversified 
assemblage, he may be a poet perhaps, but assuredly he will 
never be a dramatist. If Lord Byron really does not wish 
to impregnate his elaborate scenes with the living part of 
the drama — if he has no hankering after stage-effect— if he 
is not haunted with the visible presentiment of the persons 
he has created— if, in setting down a vehement invective, 
he does not fancy the tone in which Mr. Kean would deliver 
it, and anticipate the long applauses of the pit, then he may 
be sure that neither his feelings nor his genius are in unison 
with the stage at all. Why, then, should he affect the form, 
without the power of tragedy ? Didactic reasoning and 
eloquent description will not compensate, in a play, for a 
dearth of dramatic spirit and invention : and, besides, ster- 
ling sense and poetry, as such, ought to stand by themselves, 
without the unmeaning mockery of a dramatis personal. As 
to Lord Byron pretending to set up the unities at this time 
of day, as ' the law of literature throughout the world,' it is 
mere caprice and contradiction. He, if ever man was, is a 
law to himself—^ a chartered libertine ;' — and now, when he 
is tired of this unbridled license, he wants to do penance 
wilhm the unities 1 English dramatic poetry soars above the 
unities, just as the imagination does. The only pretence for 
insisting on them is, that we suppose the stage itself to be, 
actually and really, the very spot on which a given action 
is performed ; and, if so, this space cannot be removed to 
another. But the supposition is manifestly quite contrary 
to truth and experience."— f^iira. Rev. vol. xxxvi. 

The reader may be pleaseu to compare the above with the 
following passage from Dr. Johnson ; — 

" Whether Shakspeare knew the unities, and rejected 
them by design, or deviated from them by happy ignorance, 
it is, I think, impossible to decide and useless to inquire. 
We may reasonably suppose, that when he rose to notice, 
he did not want the coun<; =ls and admonitions of scholars 
and critics ; and that he ai, last deliberately persisted in a 
practice which he might have begun by chance. As noth- 
ing is essential to the fable but unity of action, and as the 
unities of time and place arise < v iently from false assump- 
tions, and, by circumscribing the extent of the drama, lessen 
its variety, I cannot think it much to be lamented that they 
were not known by him, or not observed : nor, if sucb 
another poet could arise, should I very vehemently reproach 
r.im that his first act passed at Venice, and his next in Cyprus. 
Si;h violations of rules merely positive become the com- 
pTchcnsive genius of Shakspeare, and such censures are 
o'J table to the minute and slender criticism of Voltaire : — 

' Non usque adeo permiscuit imis 

Longus summa dies, ut non, si voce Metelli 
Serventur leges, malint a Cuisare tolli.' 



SARDANAPALUS.^ 



ACT I. 

SCENE I . 
A Hall in the Palace. 
Salemenes, (solus.) He hath wroug'd hit queer., Dut 
still he is her lord ; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother ; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is their sovereign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench'd, and latent energies, 
Repress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd — 

Yet, when I speak thus slightly of dramatic rules, I cannot 
but recollect how much wit and learning may be produced 
against me ; before such authorities I am afraid to stand, not 
that I think the present question one of those that are to be 
decided by mere authority, but because it is to be suspected, 
that these precepts have not been so easily received, but for 
far better reasons than I have yet been able to find. The re- 
sult of my inquiries, in which it would be ludicrous to boast 
of impartiality, is, that the unities of time and place are not 
essential to a just drama ; that though they may sometimes 
conduce to pleasure, they are always to be sacrificed to the 
nobler beauties of variety and instruction ; and that a play 
written v.'ith nice observation of critical rules, is to be con- 
templated as an elaborate curiosity, as the product of super- 
fluous and ostentations art, by which is shown rather what 
is possible than what is necessary. He that without dimi- 
nution of any other excellence shall preserve all the unities 
unbroken, deserves the like applause with the architect, 
who shall display all the orders of architecture in a citadel, 
without any deduction from its strength : but the principal 
beauty of a citadel is to exclude the enemy ; and the greatest 
graces cf a play are to copy nature and instruct life."— 
Preface to Shakspeare.'^ 

> In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to such 
dramatic regularity as I best could, and trying to approach 
the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion to explode 
and succeed in one day by a sudden conspiracy, instead of 
the long war of the history. 

2 [Sardanapalus is, beyond all doubt, a work of great 
beauty and power ; and though the heroine has many traits 
in common with the Medoras and Gulnares of Lo'd Byron's 
undramatic poetry, the hero must be allowed to be a new 
character in his hands. He has, indeed, the scoj r of war, 
and glory, and priestcraft, and regular morality, wlich dis- 
tinguishes the rest of his lordship's favorites ; but he has 
no misanthropy, and very little pride— and may be regarded, 
on the whole, as one of the most truly good-humored, amia- 
ble, anu respectable voluptuaries to whom we have ever 
been presented. In this conception of his character, the 
author has very wisely followed nature and fancy rather 
than history. His Sardanapalus is not an effeminate, worn- 
out debauchee, with shattered nerves and exhausted senses, 
tlie slave of indolence and vicious habits; but a sanguine 
votary of pleasure, a princely epicure, indulging, revelling 
in boundless luxury while he can, but with a soul so inured 
to voluptuousness, so saturated with delights, that pain and 
danger, when they come uncalled lor, give him neither con- 
cern nor dread ; and he goes forth from the banquet to the 
battle, as to a dance or measure, attired by the Graces, and 
with youth, joy, and love for his guides. He dallies with 
Bellona as bridegroom— for his sport and pastime ; and the 
spear or fan, the shield or shining mirror, become his hands 
equally well. He enjoys life, in short, and triumphs m 
death : and whether in prosperous or adverse circumstances, 
his soul smiles out superior to evil.— Jeffrey 

The Sardanapalus of Lord Byron is pretty nearly such a 
person as the Sardanapalus of history may be supjiosed to 
have been. Young, thoughtless, spoiled bv flattery and un- 
bounded self-indulgence, but with a temper naturally amia- 
ble, and abilities of a superior order, he alTects to under- 



25G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act ». 



Steep'd, but not drown'd, in deep voluptuousness. 

If bom a peasant, he had been a man 

To have reach'd an empire ; to an empire bom, 

He vi^Wl bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 

Which his sons will not prize in heritage : — 

Yet, not ?i[. .est, even yet he may redeem 

His sloth and shame by only being that 

Which he should be, as easily as the thing 

He should not be and is. Were it less toil 

To sway his nations than consume his life? 

To head an army than to rule a harem ? 

He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul,* 

And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yl^d 

not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute. 
The lyre, the timbrel ; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel. 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the perfumed trains, 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls,' 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels. 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female. 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen. — 
He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front him. 
And tell him what all good men tell each other. 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves, 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves.^ 



value the sanguinary renown of his ancestors as an excuse 
foi inattention to the most necessary duties of his rank ; and 
flatters himself, while he is indulging his own sloth, that he 
is making his people happy. Yet, even in liis fondness for 
pleasure, there lurks a love of contradiction. Of the whole 
picture, selfishness is the prevailing feature— selfishness 
admirably drawn indeed ; apologized for by every palliating 
circumstance of education and h;ibit, and clothed in the 
brightest colors of which it is susceptible from youth, 
talents, and placability. But it is selfishness still ; and we 
should have been tempted to quarrel with the art which 
made vice and frivolity thus amiable, if Lord Byron had 
not at the same time pointed out with much skill tlie bitter- 
ness and weariness of spirit which inevitably wait on such 
a character ; and if he had not given a fine contrast to the 
picture in the accompanying portraits of Salemenes and of 
Myrrha.— Bishop Hebeb.] 

1 [" He sweats in dreary, duU'd efTeminacy."— MS.] 

2 [" And see the gewgaws of the glittering girls."— MS.] 

3 [Salemenes is the direct opposite to selfishness ; and the 
character, though slightly sketched, displays little less ability 
than that of Sardanapalus. He is a stern, loyal, plain- 
spoken soldier and subject ; clear-sighted, just and honor- 
able in his ultimate views, though not more punctilious 
about the means of obtaining them than might be expected 
from a respectable satrap of ancient Nineveh, or a respect- 
able vizier of the modern Turkish empire. To his Icing, in 
spite of personal neglect and family injuries, he is, through- 
out, pertinaciously attached and punctiliously faithful. To 
the king's rebels he is inclined to be severe, bloody, and 
even treacherous ; an imperfection, however, in his char- 
acter, to want which would, in his situation, be almost un- 
natural, and which is skilfully introduced as a contrast to 
the instinctive perception of virtue and honor which flashes 
out from the indolence of his master. Of the satrap, how- 
ever, the faults as well as the virtues are alike the off- 
spring of disinterested loyalty and patriotism. It is for his 
caiT.try and king that he is patient of injury ; for them he is 
valiant , for them cruel. He has no ambition of personal 
power, r.o thirst of individual fame. In battle and in 
victory, " Assyria I" is his only war-cry. When he sends off 
the lueec and princes, he is less anxious for his nephews 



SCENE II. 
Enter SAnDAN.\PALus effeminately dressed, his Head 
crowned with Flowers, and his Kobe negligently 
flowing, attended hy a Train of Womeii and young 
Slaves. 

Sar (spealdng to some of his attendants ) Lei tho 
pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there : see naught wanting, 
And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river: 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Suidanapalus, 
We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour. 
When we shall gather like the stars above us. 
And you will fonn a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time, 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,' c, cose, 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 

Myr. My lord— — 

Sar. My lord, my life! why answerest thou so 
coldly ? 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd [thou 

Rule thy own hours, thou rulest mine — say, wouldst 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

Myr. The king's choice is mine.' 

Sar. I pray thee say i ot so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire. 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others.* 

Myr. I would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar. Yet I what yet ? 



and sister than for the preservation of the line of Nimrod ; 
and, in his last moments, it Is the supposed flight of his 
sovereign which alone distresses and overcomes him. — 
Heber.J 

* " The Ionian name had been still more comprehensive, 
having included the Achaians and the Breotians, who, to- 
gether with those to whom it was afterwards confined, would 
make nearly the whole-of the Greek nation ; and among the 
orientals it was always the general name for the Greeks." — 
Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 199. 

6 [The chief charm and vivifying angel of the piece is Myr- 
rha, the Greek slave of Sardanapalus— a beautiful heroic, 
devoted, and ethereal being— in love with the generous and 
infatuated monarch— ashamed of loving a barbarian— and 
using all her influence over him to ennoble as well as to 
adorn his existence, and to arm him against the terrors of 
his close. Her voluptuousness is that of the heart— her 
heroism of the affections. If the part she takes in Uie 
dialogue be sometimes too subdued and submissive for the 
lofty daring of her character, it is still such as miglit become 
a Greek slave— a lovely Ionian girl, in whom the love of 
liberty and the scorn of death were tempered by the con- 
sciousness of what she regarded as a degrading passion, and 
an inward sense of fitness and decorum with reference to 
her condition.— Jej'frey.] 

6 [Myrrha is a female Salemenes, in whom, with admirable 
skill, attachment to the individual Sardanapalus is sub- 
stituted for the gallant soUher's loyalty to the descendant of 
kings ; and whose energy of expostulation, no less than the 
natural high tone of her talents, her courage, and her 
Grecian pride, is softened into a subdued and winning 
tenderness by the constant and painful recollection of her 
abasement as a slave in the royal harem ; and still more by 
the lowliness of perfect womanly love in the presence of 
and towards the object of her passion. No character can 
be drawn more natural than hers ; few ever have boea 
drawn more touching and amiable. Of course she is not, 
nor could be, a Jewish or a Christian heroine ; but she is a 
model of Grecian piety and nobility of spirit, and she is ono 
whom a purer faith would have raised to the level of a Re- 
becca or a Miriam.— Hebkb.] 



Scene ii. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



257 



Thy own sweet will shall be the ouly barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and mo. 

Myr I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal (comes forward and says.) The Ionian slave 
says well : let her retire. 

Sar Who answers? How now, brother? 

Sal. The queen's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

St.). {addressing his train.) As I have said, let 
all dispose their hours 
Tdl midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[The court retiring. 
(To Myrriia,' who is going) Myrrh a ! I thought 
thou wouldst remain. 

Myr. Great king. 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it: 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes," 
Which said thou wouldst not leave mo. 

Myr. Sire I your brother 

Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia ! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush ! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her 

crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows. 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blind- 
ness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha? 

Sal. Let Uiem flow on ; she weeps for more than 
me, 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Gursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 

Sar. Thou dost forget thee : make mo not re- 
member 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr. My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou, too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwith meet : I had rather lose 
An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. It may be, 

Thou wilt lose both, and both forever ! 

Sar. Brother, 

I can at least command myself, who listen 
To language such as this : yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'Tis beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature. 
Which I would urge thee. O that I could rouse thee ! 
Though 'twere against myself. 

Sar. Py the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal So thou art. 

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice^ 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — 
The negligence — the apathy — the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants. 
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 



' [In the original draught, " Byblis."i 



However harsh and hard in his own bearing, 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it ; so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer ; 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why, what makes thee the mouth-piece of 
the people? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen, my sister's wrongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly. 
In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line ; 
Also, another thing thou kuowest not. 

Sar. What's that ? 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it ? 

I love to leani. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word ! 

Never was word yet rung so in my ears — 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet 
I've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of 
vice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice.- 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, pa- 
tient, 
As thou hast often pfoved — speak out, what moves 
thee? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on. 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritage, are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me I What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 

Sar. And what 

Am I then? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might bo something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards ! why, what would they 
have? 
Have they not peace and plentv 

Sal. ' Of the first 

More than is glorious ; of the last, far less 
Than the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps, who provide no better? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 'tis but to some mountain palace. 
Till summer heats wear down. O glorious Baal ! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the le^st shinest like a god 
Through the lun^ centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril ! 
For what? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. 1 understand thee — thou wouldst have me go 



2 [" I know each glance of those deep Greek soul'd eyes " 
-MS.l 



33 



258 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



\CT I. 



Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
'*^Vhidi the Chaldeans read I the restless slaves' 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not? 

Semiramis — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges. 

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how return'd? 

Sal. Why, like a man — a hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I will say for them — 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens, 
And wolves, and men — the fiercer of the three, 
Her myriads of fond subjects. Is this glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway'd — and thou mighVst sway. 

Sar. I sway them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your 
sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not? 
I've heard my Greek girls speak of such — they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god, 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship. 
Who conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Tliou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal I have heard of such a man ; and thou per- 
ceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godsiiip I will honor him — 
Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbearer ! 

Sal. What means the king? 

Sar. To worship your new god 

And anc ent conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 

Sar. (addressing the Cupbearer.) Bring me the 
golden goblet thick with gems. 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-ofF revel? ? 

Re-enter Cupbearer, witih wine. 

Sar. {taking the cup from him.) Noble Ifinsman, 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far snores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity.'' 
Sar Not so : — of all his conquests a few columns, 



* I " I have a mind 

To curse ;he ro&tiess slaves with their own wishes."— MS. J 

5 [" He d)d, ami thence was deem'd a god in story."— IMS. J 

3 [In many pa'-ts of this lilay, it strikes me that Lord Byron 



Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 

Thought them worth purchase and conveyance, ai8 

The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed, 

The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke 

But here, here in this goblet is his title 

To immortality — the immortal grape 

From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 

To gladden that of man, as some atonement 

For the victorious mischiefs he had done. 

Had it not been for this, he would have been 

A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 

And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 

A sort of semi-glorious human monster. 

Here's that which deified him — let it now 

Humanize thee ; my surly, chiding brother, 

Pledge me to the Greek god .' 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. That is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god, 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
The young, makes weariness forget his toil, 
And fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then / pledge- 

thee 
And him as a true man, who did his utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a trophy, 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : since thou wilt not. pledge me, 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
{To the Cupbearer.) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer 

Sal. I would but have recall'd thee from thy dream: 
Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what cau.se ? 
pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
What have I done to thee, or to the people. 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me? 

Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

Sar. But 

Thou think'st that I have wrong'd the queen : is't not 
so? 

Sal. Think .' Thou hast Wicng'd he ,' 

Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me 

She has all power and splendor of her station. 
Respect, the tutelage of Assj'ria's heirs. 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
I married her as monarchs wed — for state. 
And loved her as most husbands Jove their wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate. 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarchs, nor mankind. 

Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my blood 
disdains 
Complaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from Assyria's lord ! 
Nor would she deign to accept divided passion 
With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 



has more in his eye the case of a sinful Chrirtian that has 
but one wife, and a sly business or so which she antl her km 
do not approve of, than a bearded Oriental, like Sardanjpa- 
lus, with three hundred wives and seven hunc'red coikcu- 
bines. — iloco.] 



Scene it. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



259 



Sar, And why not her brother ? 

Snl. I only echo thee the voice of empires, 
Wliich lie who long neglects not long will govern. 

Sar The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they 
murmur 
Because I have not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry in the desert's dust by myriads, 
Or whiten Vv^ith their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
Nor decimated them with savage laws, 
Nor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Thau songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines, 
And lavish'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I have founded cities: 
There's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame. 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them? 

Sal. 'Tis most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities. 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse 
Which shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

Sar. Shame me ! by Baal, the cities, though well 
built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human: hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest's not worth a fillip."' 

Sal A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
" Obey the king — contribute to his treasure — 
Recruit his phalanx — spill your blood at bidding — 
Fall down and worship, or get up and toil." 
Or thus — " Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
Ongroaning t: the tomb: I take no license 
Which I deu • to them. We all are men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods — 

Sar. In dust 

And death, where they are neither gods nor men. 



' " For this expedition he took only a small chosen body 
of the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first day's 
march he reached Anchialus, a town said to have been 
founded by the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. The fortifi- 
catiors, in their magnitude and extent, still in Arrian's 
time, bore the character of greatnes^s, which the Assyrians 
appear singularly to have effected in works of the kind. A 
monument representing Sardanapalus was found there, 
warranted by an inscription in Assyrian characters, of 
course in the old Assyrian language, which the Greeks, 
whether well or ill, interpreted thus : ' Sardanapalus, son 
of Anacyndaraxes, in one day founded Anchialu" ^nd Tar- 
sus. Eat, drink, play : all other human joys are not worth 
a fillip.' Supposing this version nearly exact, (for Arrian 
says it was not quite so,) whether the purpose has not been 
to invite to civil order a people disposed to turbulence, 
rather than to recommend immoderate luxury, may per- 
haps reasonably be questioned. What, indeed, could be 
the object of a king of Assyria in founding such towns in a 
country so distant from his capital, and so divided from it 
by an immense extent of sandy deserts and lofty mountains. 



Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 

At least they banqueted upon your gods, 

And died for lack of farther nutriment. 

Those gods were merely men : look to their issue — 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 

But nothing godlike, — unless it may bo 

The thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to pardon 

The follies of my species, and (that's human) 

To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of Nineveh is seal'd. — Wo — wo 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar. Wliat dost dread? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thoe, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we cad ? 

Sal. Ambitiou? eacherj 

Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads u'i thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sar. The heads — how many ? 

Sal. Must I stay to number 

When even thine own's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

Sar. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
When we take those from others, we nor knjw 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

Sal. Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek for 
thine ? 

Sar. That's a hard question — But I answer, Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without? Who are they 
Whom thou suspectost? — Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next 
moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all. — 
Trust me. 

Sar. Thou knowest I have done so ever ; 

Take thou the signet. [Gives the signet 

Sal. I have one more request. — 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 

In the pavilion ovor the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet ! Not for all the plotters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come, 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 



and, still more, how the inhabitants could be at once In cir- 
cuniStances to abandon themselves to the intemperate joys 
which their prince has been supposed to have recommend- 
ed, is not obvious : but it may deserve observation that, in 
that line of coast, the southern of Lesser Asia, rums ot' 
cities, evidently of an age after Alexander, yet barely named 
in history, at this day astonish the adventurous traveller by 
their magnificence and elegance. Amid the desolation 
which, under a singularly barbarian government, has for so 
many centuries been daily spreading in the finest countries 
of the globe, whether more from soil and climate, or from 
opportunities for commerce, extraordinary means must have 
been found for communities to flourish there ; whence it 
may seem that the measures of Sardanapalus were directed 
by juster views than have been commonly ast ibed to liim : 
but that monarch having been the last of a dynasty, ended 
by a revolution, obloquy on his memory would fouow of 
course from the policy of his successors and their partisans. 
The inconsistency of traditions concerning Sardanapalus 
is striking in Diodorus's account of him." — MiTf .ird's 0'- eccs, 
vol. X. p. 311. 



2G0 



BYRON^S WORKS. 



Act I. 



Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour. — I fear them not. 

Sal. But thou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou not, 

if needful ? 
Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, and 
A Bword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth: 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on't, 'tis long since I've used them, 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother? 

Sal. Is this -- time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wiL thou wear them? 

Sar. Will I not? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I'll use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

Sal. They say thy sceptre's turn'd to that already. 
Sar. That's false ! but let them say so : the old 
Greelcs, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each cakxmny they can to sink their sovereigns. 
Sal. Tlioy did not ipeak thus of thy fathers. 
Sar. No: 

They dared not. Thcv were kept to toil and combat ; 
And never changed the. chains but for their armor : 
Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 
To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 
I would not give the smile of one fair girl 
For all the popular breath that e'er divided 
A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 
Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding. 
That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 
Their noisome clamor? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ;' 

And better, as more faithful : — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet : — since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. I hate all pain. 
Given or received ; we have enough within us, 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burden 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen. 
By mild reciprocal alleviation. 
The ^'••".tal penalties imposed on life : 
But tnis they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them: 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them. 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st 

Short of the duties of a king ; and therefore 
They say thou art luifit to be a monarch. 
Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me, 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least, who seeks to be so. 
Sar. What meau'st thou? — 'tis thy secret; thou 
desirest 
Few questions, and I'm not of curious nature. 



1 [See MiscELLAMES, " Inscription on the Monument of a 
Newfoundlind Dog."] 

f [The epicurean pliilosopby of Sardanapalus gives him a 



Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 

Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne er 

Was man who more desired to rule in peace 

The peaceful only : if they rouse me, better 

They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashts. 

" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 

To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were, 

But would no more, by their own choice, be hum'iu. 

What they have found me, they belie ; that vahich 

They yet may find me — shall defy their wish 

To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselvea. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

Sar. Feel I who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With v/ords, but deeds. Ke«p thou awake that energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee. 
And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign, 
As powerful in thy realm. Farev/ell ! 

[Exit Salemeneo. 

Sar. (solus.) Farewell ! 

He's gone ; and on his finger bears my sign .it, 
Which is to him a sceotre. He it; stem 
As I am heedless ; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger 
I know not: — ho hath found it, It', him qudll ic. 
Must I consume my life — th's little life — 
In guarding against all may make it les.ss'' 
It is not worth so much I It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of deati; 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
Because they are near; and all wlio a/j reuiote, 
Because they are far. But if it should be so — 
If they should sweep me off from muih and empire, 
Why, what is earth or empire of ths earth? 
I have loved, and lived, and multiplied my image ; 
To die is no less natural than those — 
Acts of this clay ! 'Tis true I have not shed 
Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 
My name became the synonyme of death — 
A terror and a trophy. But for this 
I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 
If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 
Till now, no drop from an Assyrian veui 
Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 
Of Nineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavish'd 
On objects which could cost her sons a tear . 
If then they hate me, 'tis because I hato not ; 
If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 
Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 
And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 
Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 
Of discontents infecting the fair soil. 
Making a desert of fertility.— 
I'll think no more. Within there, ho I 

Enter an Attendant. 
Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presenco. 
Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrriia enters 

Sar. (apart to Attendant ) Away . 
(Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being ! 



fine opportunity, in his conferences with his stcrr. tnd con 
fidential adviser, Salemencs, to contrast his own imp uti'C 
and fatal ■'ices of ease and love of pleasure with the boasted 
virtues of liis predecessors, war and conquest. — Jeffeei ] 



Scene ii. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



261 



Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 

It throbb'd for thee, and here thou comest: let me 

Deem that some unknown influence, some sweet 

oracle, 
Communicates Ijetween us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, bat not its name : 

What is it? 

Myr. In my native land a God, 

And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — ' 

That is, it would be happy ; but 

[Myrrha pauses. 

Strr There comes 

Forever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness: let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine isseal'd. 

Myr. My lord !— 

Sar. My lord — my king — sire — sovereign ! thus it 
is — 
Forever thus, address'd with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality. 
Or I have quaff 'd me down to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names. 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was, I prized 

them ; 
That is, I suffer'd them — from slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love. 
The lips vi^hich have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara. 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

Myr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why? 

Myr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
never know. 

Sar. And that is 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand — 

A thousand, and a thousand. 

Myr Hearts ? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. Not one ! the time may come thou mayst. 

Si' Itwih. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I — 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

Myr. He did well. 

Sar. And say'st thou so? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared^ 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me . 



* t " and even dared 

Profane our presence with his savage jeers."— MS.] 
» [To speak of " the tragic song" as the favorite pastime 
Of Greece, two hundred years before Thespis, is an ana- 



Back to my duty. But thou spak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more oi t — ■ 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions? 

Sar. "What ? — and dost thou fear ? 

Myr. Fear ! — I'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
death ? 
A slave, and where'cre should I dread my freedom? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou turi; so pale ? 

Myr. I k)ve. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm. 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest not thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself, 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost! — why, u ho is the aspiring chief whc 
dared 
Assume to win them ? 

Myr. Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him? 

Sar. Myrrha! 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur. — King, I am your subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness. 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating feltcrs — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature. 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair, 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

Myr And without love where dwells security ? 

Sar. I speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips, 
Your first tears queuch'd by her, and your last sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
Of watching the last hour of him who led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou speak'st music, 
The very chorus of the tragic song^ 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime 
Of thy far father-land. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

Myr. I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 



chronism. Nor could Myrrha, at so early a period of her 
country's history, have spoken of their national hatred of 
kings, or of that which was equally the growth of a latei 
age, — their contempt for " barbarians."— Hebeb.] 



262 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 

But when another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

Sar. Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as 
thou saidst? 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself aTone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren ! 

Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure: what can man 
Do more? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
There needs too oft the show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrha? 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love, sc//-love. 
Which means that men are kept in awe and .law. 
Yet not oppress' d — at least they must not think so ; 
Or ii they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward ofF worse oppression, tlicir own passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
for them, 
*Tis for some small addition to the temple. 

My7: Look to the annals of thine empire's founders. 

Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But what wouldst have ? the empire has been founded. 
I cannot go on multiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own 

Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates: 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared. 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet. 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. No, like ppvereigns, 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times. 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreatlis,* 
And none but tearless triumphs. L»l us on. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. May the king live forever ! 

Sar. Not an hour 

Longer than h«^ can love. How my soul hates 
This language -hich makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity.^ Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Reiterate his prayer unto the king. 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : when the general returns. 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What! am I then coop'd? 

Already captive? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
^^''ere all Assyria raging round the walls 



I." Who loved no gems so well as those of nature "—MS.] 



In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, an/1 yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen — 

How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 
Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 
And never shown thee to thy people's longing ; 
Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, 
The satraps uncontroH'd, the gods unworshipp'dj 
And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 
Till all, save rvil, slumber'd throHg-h the realm ! 
And wilt thou not now tarry for a day, — 
A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 
Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 
For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race, 
And for thy sons' inheritance ? 

Pan. 'Tis true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Dispatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to that 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. Noj it mast not be 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pa7i. For tliac 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine ! 

Sar. These are mere fantasies; 

There is no peril : — 'tis a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal, 
And show himself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that's good and glorious take this 
counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly 
'Midst joy and gentleness, and mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose ! — far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield. 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel ? 

Sar. No. 

Myr. Then yield for mine ; 

For my sake ! 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'Tis the first 

Boon which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That's true, and wer't my kingdom, must be 
granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence I 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey. [Exit Pania 

Sar. I man/el at thee. 

What is thy motive, Myrrha, thus to urge me? 

Myr. Thy safety ; and the certainty that nauglat 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why shouldst thou? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou wilt smile at these vain 
fancies. 

Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where noue 
jveep. 
And that is better than the power to emile. 
And thou? 

Sar I shall be king, as heretofore. 



1 [" Wishing eternity to dost." — MS.] 



Scene ii. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



263 



Myr. "Where? 

Sar. With Baal, Nimrod, and Semiramis, 

Sole in Assyria^ or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But eitlier that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst tliou felt 

Thus always, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now ? 

Myr Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect I — that's a spy's office. Oh ! we lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 
And vainer fears. Within there ! — Ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Nimrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we'll wear our fetters jocundly : 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The Summer dwelling on its beauteous border. 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 

[Exit Sardanapalus. 

Myr. {sola.) Why do I love this man? My 
country's daughters 
Love none but heroes. But I have no country' ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. I love him ; 
And that's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love, 
Aud find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Tlian to have stabb'd him on his throne when highest 
Would have been noble in my country's creed : 
I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love Am better, but myself; 
And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger : 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is hated of his own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 
'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart. 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I lovo him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free him from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still. 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign. 
May show him how alone a king can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 

[Exit.^ 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
The Portal of the same Hall of the Palace. 

Beleses, (solus.) The smi goes down : methinks he 
sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 



' [There are two of Lord Byron's characteristic excel- 
lences, which he never leaves behind in his most fantastic 
expeditions, and which he has accordingly brought into his 
new domain of classic tragedy. One of these is his intense 
leeling of the loveliness of woman — his power, not only of 
picturing individual forms, but of infusing into the very at- 
mosphere whicii surrounds them the spirit of beauty and of 
lOve A soft roseate light is spread over them, which seems 
to sink into the soul. The other faculty to which we allude 
is his corap:ehensive sympathy with the vastest objects in 



How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 

Like the blood he predicts I If not in vain, 

Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 

I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 

The edicts of your orbs, which make Time tremble 

For what he brings the nations, 'tis the furthest 

Hour of Assyria's years. And yet how calm ! 

Au earthquake should announce so great a fall — 

A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk. 

To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 

Its everlasting page the end of what 

Seem'd everlasting ; but oh ! thou true sun I 

The burning oracle of all that live. 

As fountain of all life, and symbol of 

Him who bestows it. wherefore dost thou limit 

Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 

Unfold the rise of days more worthy thine 

All-glorious burst from ocean ? why not dart 

A beam of hope athwart the future years. 

As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, hear me ! 

I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant — 

I have gazed on thee at thy rise and fall. 

And bow'd my head beneath thy mid-day beams, 

When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 

For thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee. 

And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee. 

And ask'd of thee, and thou hast auswer'd — but 

Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 

Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 

1o the delighted west, which revels in 

Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 

Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; 

And mortals may be happy to resemble 

The gods but in decay. 



Enter Arbaces, by an inner door. 

Arb. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day? 
Our business is with night — 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. I 

Arb. Let it roll on — we are ready. 

Bel. Yes. 

Would it were over ! 

Arb. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor 

Arb. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will outsparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king, 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
The waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quaff'd by the liue of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 



the material universe. There is scarcely any puie descrip- 
tion of individual scenes in all his works ; but the noblest 
allusions to the grandeurs of earth and heaven. He pays 
"no allegiance but to the elements." The moon, the stars, 
the ocean, the mountain desert, are endowed by him with 
new " speech and lang lage," and send to the heart their 
mighty voices. He car interpret between us and tlie firma- 
ment, or give us all t'; e sentiment of an everlasting soj- 
tude. — Anon.'i 



264 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act n. 



Arh And is a woak ono — 'tis worn out — we'W 

mend it. 
Bel. Alt sure of that? 

Arb. Its founder was a hunter — 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear? 
Bel. The soldier. 

Arb And the priest, it may be : but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines? why stir me up? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
No less t'lan mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky . 

Arb I look. 

Bel. Wliat seest thou ? 

Arb. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bd. And midst them, mark 

Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 
Arb. Well? 

Bel. 'Tis thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arb. {touching his scabbard.) My star is in this 
scabbard : when it shines, 
It shall outdazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 

niy planets and their portents. When wo conquer, 
They shall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiff of — what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just, 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave — thou hast 
not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

Arb. No ; I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babylonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's worship : now. 
Will it but please thee to forget the priest. 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both ? 

Arb. The better ; 

And yet it almost shames me, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueroi; To have pluck'd 
A bold and bloody despot from his throne. 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm. 

And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it ; 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
And were he all you think, his guards are hardy, 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 
Arb. They'll not resi it. 

Bel. Why not? they are soldiers. 

Arb. True, 

And therofore need a soloicr to command them, 
Bel. That Salemenes is. 
Arb. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the quee 's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels? 

Bel. But 

Not from the council — there he is ever constant 
Arb. And ever thwarted ; what would you have 
more 
To make a rebel out of? A fool reigning, 
His blood di§honor'd, and himself disdain'd : 
Why, it if his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 



Arb. What if we sound him ? 



Bel. 



Yes — if the time Sfn'ei 



Enter Balea 



Bal. Satraps ! The king commands your presence at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. To hear is to obey. 

In the pavilion? 

Bal. No ; here in the palace. 

Arb. How ! in the palace ? it was not thus order'A 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arb. And why ? 

Bal. I know not 

May I retire ? 

Arb Stay. 

Bel. (u" Arb. aside.) Hush ! let him go his way. 
(Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch, 

kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crums he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was't midnight? 

Bal. It was: the place, the hall of Nimrod Lords, 
I humble mo before you, and depart. [Exit B\iex. 

Arb. I like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery : wherefore should he cJiange 
it? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents / 
Than generals in their marches, when they seek 
To leave their foe at fault. — Why dost thou muse ? 

Arb. He loved that gay pavilion, — it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides — 
And he has loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arb. Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bovver. 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers : 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 
To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arb. When the hour comes, 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gayly play'd 

for ; 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already — thou wilt win it • 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arb. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey'd — I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who's here ? 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Satraps ! 
Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met — I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arb. W^herefore so? 

Sal. 'Tis not the hour. 

Arb. The hour! — what hour? 

Sal. Of raiduighl I 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



265 



Sal. Whatj are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oil ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

TIius to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

Arb. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Then why here ? 

Arb. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty? 

Bel On the state's. 

We have tlie privilege to approach the presence ; 
But found the monarch absent' 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arb May we crave its purport? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within there ! 



Enter Guards 



Satraps, 



Sal. (continuing.) 
Yonr swords. 

Bel. (delivering his.) My lord, behold my cimeter. 

Arb. (drawing his sword.) Take mine. 

Sal. (advancing.) I will. 

Ai-b But in your heart the blade — 

The hilt quits not this hand.'* 

Sal. (drawing.) Httw ! dost thou brave me ? 

'Tis well — this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arb Soldiers ! Ay — 

Alone you dare not 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee that a prince should shrink from 
Of open force? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength : thy tooth is naught without its venom — 
The serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 

Bel. (interposing.) Arbaces ! are you mad ? Have 
I not render'd 
My sword ? Then trust like mo our sovereign's jus- 
tice. 

Arb No — I will sooner trust the stars thou prat'st of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of rny own breath and body — so far that 
None else shall chain them. 

Sal. (to the Guards.) You hear him, and jrc. 

Take him not, — kill. 

[The Guards attack Arbaces, 7cho defends 
himself valiantly and dexterously till they 
waver. 

Sal. Is it even so ; and must 

1 do the hangmaai's office ? Recreants! see 
How you should '3II a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arbaces. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 
Sar. Hold your hands — 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken? 
My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword: here, fellow, 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
soldiers and rushes between the combatants — 
they separate. 
Sar. In my very palace ! 

What hinders me from cleaving you in twain. 
Audacious brawlers? 

Bel. Sire, your justice. 

So.'. Or— 

Your weakness 



1 1" Sut found the mr.narch claim'd his privacy." — MS.. 



Sar. (raising the sword.) How? 

Sal. Strike ! so the blow's repeated 

Upon yon traitor — whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I'm content. 

Sar. What- -him! 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 

Sal. I ! 

Sar. Indeed ! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 

Sal. (shouting the signet.) Thine. 

Arb. (confused.) The king's ! 

Sal. Yes ! and let the 'King confirm it 

Sar. I parted not from tliis for such a purpose. 

<S'i7Z. You parted with it for your safety — I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I ai.i but your slave — a moment past 
I was your I'cpresentative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arbaces and Salemenes return their swords 
to the scabbardf. 

Sal. Mine's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not yours 
'Tis the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one ; the hilt, too, hurts my hand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take thy weapon back. 

Well, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 

Bel. The prince must answer that 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 

Sar. Treason — Arbaces ! treachery and Beleses ! 
That were a union I will not believe. 

Bel. Where is the proof? 

Sal. I'll answer that, if once 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 

Arb. (to Sal.) A sword which hath been drawn 
as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

Sal. And now against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 

Sar. That is not possible : he dared not ; no — 
No — I'll not hear of such things. These vain bicker- 
ings 
Are spawn'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I will answer all. 

Sar Why, if I thought so — 

But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces — 
Tho trusty, rough, true soldier — the best captain 

Of all who discipline our nations No, 

I'll not insult him tlius, to bid him render 

The cimeter to mo he never yielded 

Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 

Sal. (delivering back the signet.) Monarch, take 
back your signet. 

Sar. . No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation. 

Sal. Sire, 

I used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should. 

He never ask'd it. 



2 [ "not else 

It quits this living hand." — MS.] 



34 



266 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 

Without that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, than whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

Sal Peace, factious priest, and faithless soldier! 
thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Clialdea. 

Bel. Hear him, 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

liet him have absolution. I dispense with 
The worship of dead men ; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them — ashes. 

Bel. King ! do not deem so : they are with the stars, 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise. 
If you preach farther — Why, tliis is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the vi^orship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brother, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes, and be sermonized. 

And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 

Bel Monarch ! respect them. 

Sar Oh ! for that — I love them I 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault. 
And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' wave. 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Which fringe his banks : but whether they may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods. 
As others hold, or simply lamps of night. 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I would not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it — nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — ' 
When they shine on my grave I shall know neither 

Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 
. Sar. I will wait, 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sword, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry — not loving either. 

Sal. (aside.) His lusts have made him mad 
Then must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me. Satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 



1 ' snow them beautiful, and see them briHiant." — 



M3 



» [Tne second Act is, we think, a failure. The conspira- 
tors have a tedious dialogue, whiih is interrupted by Sale- 



More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all 

Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 

In peace — I'll not say pardon — which must be 

Earn'd by the guilty : this I'll not pronounce ye, 

Although upon this breath of mine depends 

Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 

But fear not — for that I am soft, not fearful — 

And so live on. Were I the thing some think me, 

Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 

Of their attainted gore from the high gates 

Of this our palace, into the dry dusf. 

Their only portion of the coveted kmgdom 

They would be crown'd to reign o'er — let that pass 

As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty. 

Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 

Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 

And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 

And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 

Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are ivere 

Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arh. Sire, this clemency 

Bel. {interrupting Jam.) Is worthy of yourself; 
and, although innocent, 
We thank 

Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel. But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent — Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not gratefuL 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her riglit as a mere favor. 

Sur. That's a good sentence for a homily, 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers : — if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note. 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare him 
Were they once masters — but that's doubtful. Sa- 
traps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Follow me * 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and the 
Train, ^c. leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 

Arh. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now, what think you? 

Arh. That we are lost. 

Bel. That we have won the kingdom 

Arh. What? thus suspected — with the sword slung 
o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering, 
To be blown down by his imperious breath, 
Which spared us — why, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 



menes with a guard. Salemenes is followed by the king, 
who reverses all his measures, pardons Arbaces, because 
he will not beheve him guilty, and Beleses, in order to 
escape from his long speeclies about the national religion. 
This incident only is well managed. — Heber.j 



SCENF, 



SARDANAPALUS. 



2G7 



But let us profit by the interval. 

The hour is still our own — our power the same — 

The night the same we destined. He hath changed 

Nothing except our ignorance of all 

Suspicion into such a certainty 

As must make madness of delay 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. He spared our lives, nay, more, 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he eo spare ? till ,ho first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly ; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 

Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose any thing excent my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs ! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I should blush far more to take the grantor's ! 

Bel. Thou mayst endure whate'er thou wilt — the 
stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down, 

And marshall'd me the way in all their brightness, 
I would not follow. 

Bel. Tliis is weakness — worse 

Than a scared beldam's dreaming of the dead, 
And waking ia the dark. — Go to — go to. 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it. 
And sways, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much despised 
him, 
And that there was some royalty within him — 
What then? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner : — Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So— 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

A 'b. No — but it had been better to have died 
Than iive ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery — and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Beeausf. for something or for nothing, thii 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into — what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus I 
I know no name more igucminious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the king- 
dom, 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly 

Bel. And humbly ? 

Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so haughty, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming — you have codes, 



And mysteries, and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
And now you know me. 

^cZ. Have you finish'd ? 

Arb. Yes — 

With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 

As quit me 1 

Arb. That's a sacerdotal thought, 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wranglings, and but hear me. 

Arb. No — 

There is more peril in your s^:tle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If rt must be so — 

I'll on alone 

Arb. Alone " 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fill' a. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces: 
I have still aided, cherish'd, loved, and urged you ; 
Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly. 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant. 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one ; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arb. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better than be slave, 

The pardon'd slave of she Sardanapal-js ! 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arb. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. With our troops ? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arb. But 

Bel. It must be obey'd : 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. (aside.) Ay ! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will tetire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor which befits your rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania. 

Bel. Now then obey i 

Arb. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison- 
No further. 

Arb. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension, 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves! 

Arb. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 



208 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 1. 



One more Caan mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let mo hope better than thou augurest ; 
At present, let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence ? 

Ark Why, what other 

Interpretation should it bear? it is 
The very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword — 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in his father's time — 
For he I own is, or at least was, bloodless — 

Bel. But will not, can not bo so now. 

Arb. I doubt it 

How many satraps have I "sen set out 
In his sire's day i^" mighty vice-royalties. 
Whose tombs are on tiisLr path ! I know not ho-v 
But they all sicken'd ly the way, it was 
So long t..id heavy 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we'll shorten 
The journey 

Arb. 'Twill bo shorten'd at the gates, 

It may bo. 

Bel. No ; they hardly will risk that. 

They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known, and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arb. If I but thought he did not mean my life 

Bel. Fool ! hence — what else should despotism 
alarm'd 
Mean 1 Let us but rejoin our troops, and march. 

Arb. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No ; towards your kingdom. 

There's time, there's heart, and hope, and power, and 

means, 
Which their half measures leave us in full scope. — 
Away ! 

Arb. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self-defence is a virtue. 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
Let 's leave this place, the air grows thick and choking, 
And the walls have a scent of night-shade — hence ! 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
DuT quick departure proves our civic zeal ; 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, fnoi anticipating 



' [Arbaccs is a mere commoTi-place warrior ; and Beleses, 
on whom, we suspect, Lord Byron has bestowed more than 
usual pains, is a very ordinary and uninteresting villain. 
Sardanapalus, indeed, and Salemenes, are Hth made to 
speak of the wily Chaldean as the master-mover of the 
plot, as a politician in whose hands Arbaces is but a •' war- 
like puppet ;" and Diodorus Siculus has represented him, 
in fact, as the first instigator of Arbaces to his treason, and 
as making use of his priestly character, and his supposed 
power of foretelling future events, to inflame the ambition, 
to direct the measures, to sustain the hopes, and to reprove 
the despondency, of his comrade. But of all this nothing 
appears m the tragedy. Lord Byron has been so anxious 
to show his own contempt for the priest, that he has not 
even allowed him that share of cunning and evil influence 
wiiich was necessary for the part which he had to fill. Instead 
of being the original, the restless and unceasing prompter to 
bold and wicked measures, we find him, on liis first ap- 
pearance, hanging back from the enterprise, and chilling 
the energy of Arbaces by an enumeration of the real or 
possible difficulties which might yet impede its execution. 



The orders of some parasangs from hence : 

Nay, there's no other choice, but hence, I say 

\Exit with Arbaces, who follows reluctantly.^ 

4 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes 

Sar. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshedj 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
We are now secure by these men's e.xile. 

Sal. Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst nave .oie do? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon? 

Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your 
temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. Wo are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontiei " 

Sal. They are not there yet — never shoula they 
Were I well listen'd to. [be so, 

Sar. Nay, I have listen'd 

Impartially to thee — why not to them? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet i 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's 

Sar. Nay, but 'tis fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those who 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? [revel 

Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenoe, 

My brother, my best subject, better prince • 

Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 

And I — I know not what, and care not ; but 

Think not I am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough yet kind. 

Though oft-reproving, suiferance of my follies. 

If I have spared these men against thy counsel. 

That is, their lives — it is not that I doubt 

The advice was sound ; but, let them live : we will not 

Cavil about their lives — so let them mend them 

Their banishmer.t will leave me still sound sleep. 

Which their death had not left mo 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to slt> 3 forever, to save traitors — 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
Still let them be made quiet 



Instead of exercising that power over the mind of his com 
rade which a religious impostor may well possess over 
better and more magnanimous souls than his own, Beleses 
is ma le to pour his predictions into incredulous ears ; ana 
Arbaces is as mere an epicurean in his creed as Sardana- 
palus. When we might have expected to find him gazing 
with hope and reverence on the star which the Chaldean 
points out as his natal planet, the Median warrior speaks, 
in the language of Mezentius, of the sword on which his 
confidence depends, and instead of being a tool in the liand 
of the pontiff, lie says almost every thing which is likely to 
affront him. Though Beleses is introduced to us as engaged 
in devotion, and as a fervent worshipper of the iSun, he is 
nowhere made either to feel or to counterfeit that pro- 
fessional zeal against Sardanapalus which his open con 
tempt of the gods would natura.ly call for ; and no reason 
appears, throughout the play, why Arbaces should follow, 
against his own conscience and opinion, the counsels of a 
man of whom he speaks with dislike and disgust, and whose 
pretences to inspiration and sanctity ne treats with >m 
mingled ridicule —Bishop Hebeb ] 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



269 



Sar. Tempt me not : 

My word is pass'd. 

Sal. But it may be recall'd. 

Sar. 'Tis rcyal. 

Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile sei-ves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd Ihem, or at least 
Only dismiss'd them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

Sal True ; that I had forgotten ; that is, sire, 
^<" they e'er reaoh'd their satrapies — why, then, 
Reprove me more for my advice? 

Sar. And if 

They do not reach them — look to it ! — in safety. 
In safety, mark me — and security — 
Look to thine own. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then ; 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 

Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (aolus.) That man is of a temper too se- 
vere ; 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
Frorfi all the taints of common earth — while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers : 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleasure ; 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To count its throbs, not quicken them, and aik 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity — ' 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts, I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr. King ! the sky 

Is overcast, Rwd musteip muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest.^ 
Will 3'ou then quit the palace ? 

Sar. Tempest, say'st thou? 

Myr Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene. 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As auguries of Jove.^ 

Sar. Jove ! — ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder, 



C" Nor silent Baal, our imaged deity, 

Although his marble face looks frowningly 
As the dull shadows," &c.— MS.] 

C« In distant flashes | Th'^V^^-S" 1 tempest.-MS ) 



And ever and anon some falling bolt 
Proves his divinity, — and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Myr. That were a dread omen. 

Sar. Yes — for the priests. Well, we will not gc 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. Tlie 

gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself. 
And flash this storm between thee and thy fot>£, 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same with : these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so ; these alls 

Are high, and strong, and guarded. Treason ha.s 
To penetrate through many a winding way. 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace. 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king. 
The steel will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Banish'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary? Thou! 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : wer't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The prmcely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gentle and the austere are both against mo. 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'Tis a Greek virtue 

Sar. But not a kingly one — I'll none ou't • cr 
If ever I indulge in't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought (o be to 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and spiiugs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 'tis fear 

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath. 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I wcruld not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women.' 

Myr. ]My lord, I am no boaster of my love, 
Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendor, 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads : 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel. 
Rather than prove it to you in your griefs,' 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists. 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 



3 [" As from the gods to augur."— MS.] 

* [" The weaker merit of our Asian women."— MS.] 

8 [" Rather than prove that love to you in griefs "—MS ' 



270 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act III. 



That which it could not scare away. Let's in — 
The liour upproaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

[Exeunt.^ 



ACT III. 



SCENE I. 



The Hall of the Palace illuminated. — Sardanapalus 

and his Guests at Table. — A Storm without, and 

Thunder occasionally heard during the Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 

Zam. Nor elsewhere — where the king is, pleasure 
sparkles. 

Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's huntings. 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Alt. Mighty ihough 

They were, as all thy royal line have been, 
Yet none of those who went before have reach'd 
The acme of Sardanapalus, who 
Has placed his joy in peace — the sole true glory. 

Sar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
The king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that? I have heard otherwise! 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so ! — 'Tis impossible. 
What cause? 

Sar. What cause? true, — fill the goblet up; 

We will not think o." them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — the monarch, say I? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zames and the Guests kneel, and exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

[It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in 
confusion. 

Zam. Why do you rise, my friends? in that strong 
peal 
His father gods consented. 

Myr. Menaced, rather. 

Kin^, wilt thou bcai' this mad impiety? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I'll not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends ; 
Hoard j'our devotion for the thunderer there : 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 



^The second Act, which contains the details of the con- 
spiracy of Arbaces, its detection by the vigilance of Sale- 
menes, and the too rash and hasty forgiveness of the rebels 
cy the king, is, on the whole, heavy and uninteresting — 
.Ibfkkkv." 



And your gods, then. 
Do not speak of that, 



Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it if 
An awful night. 

Myr. Oh yes, for those who have 

No palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
My realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I'd do it. 

Myr. Thou'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general, 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. 
Who can, and do not? 

Myr. 
Lest we provoke them. 

Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better tha:: mortals. Friends, a thought has strucb 

me: 
Were there no temples, would there, think j'e, oe 
Air worshippers? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

Myr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

Myr. And I would ask, if this your palace were 
Unroof'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low? 

Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon ! sire ; 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that ? 

Zam. That ! nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 

Alt. It sounded like the clash of — Hark again ! 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more. 

Myrrha, my love, ha^t thou thy shell in order? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st, 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter Pania, with his sword and garments Moody, 
and disordered. The Guests ^ise in confusion.^ 

Pan (to the Guards.) Look to the portals ; 

And with your best speed to ike walls withouft' 
Your arms ! To arms ! The king's in danger. Mon- 
arch ! 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salemenes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded — give some wine Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis nothing — a mere flesh wound. I am worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign. 
Than hurt in his defence. 

Myr. Well, sir, the rebels? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach'd 
Their stations in the city, they refused 
To march ; and on my atten. ot to use the power 



2 [Early in the third Act, the royal banquet is disturbed 
by sudden tidings of treason and revolt ; and then tlie rev 
eller blazes out into the hero, and the Greek blood of 
Myrrha mounts to its proper office !— Jeffrey.] 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



271 



Which I yas delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

Myr. All? 

Pail. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful — and what's left of it is still so. 

Myr And are these all the force still faithful ? — 

Pan. No— 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs, 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, wliere they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 
(He hesitates.) I am charged to 

Mi/r. 'Tis no time for hesitation 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armor there. 

Myr. And wilt thou? 

Sar. Will I not? 

Ho, there ! — But seek not for the buckler ; 'tis 
Too heavy : — a light cuiras and my sword. 
Where are the rebels? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

From the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 

Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate, 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

[Exit Sfero /or the armor. 

Myr. How I do love thee I 

Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

Myr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. (to his Attendant.) Bring down my spear, too — 
Where's Salemenes? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx? 

Pan. 'Twas 

When I late left him, and I have no fear: 
Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own — and say, 
I come. 

Pan. There's victory in the very wora. 

[Exit Pania. 

Sar. Altada — Zames — forth, and arm ye ! There 
Is all in readiness in the armory. 
See that the women are bestow'd in safety 
In the remote apartments : let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict charge to quit 



1 [" In the third Act, where Sardanapalus calls for a 
mirror to look at himself in his armor, recollect to quote 
the Latin passage from Juvenal ujion Otho, (a similar char- 
acter, who did the same thing.) Uifford will help you to it. 
The trait i', perhaps, too familiar, but it is historical, (of 
Otho, at least,) and natural in an efleminate character." — 
Lord B to Mr. J/.j 

' I ' lie tenet speculum pathici gestamen Othonis, 
Actoris Arunci spolium, quo se ille videbat 



The post but with their lives — command it, Zames. 
Altada, arm yourself and return here ; 
Your post is near our :)erson. 

[Exeiait Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others loith the King''s Arms, ^c. 

Sfe. King ! your armor. 

Sar. {arming himself.) Give me the cuiras — so: 
my baldric ; now 
My sword : I had forgot the helm — where is it? 
That's well — no, 'tis too heavy : you mistake, too — 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 

Sfe. Sire, I deem'd 

That too conspicuous from the precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trust mo. 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd ! Are you too i .uii'd a rebel ? 
Fellow ! 
Your part is to obey: return, and — no — 
It is too late — I will go forth without it. 

Sfe. At least, wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 'tis 

A mountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier g.oes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognise you — for the storm 
Has ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
ness. 

Sar. I go forth to be recognised .uid thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to Sfero. 
Sfero — I had forgotten — bring the mirror.' 

Sfe. The mirror, sire? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish'd brass. 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy." 

[Exit Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Why went you not forth with the other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And when I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. You .' to battle ? 

Myr. If it were so, 

'Twere not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. . The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and, if it be so, 
And I return not 

Myr. Still, we meet again, 

Sar. How? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last — 
In Hades ! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Styx : and if tljere be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much ? 

Myr. I dare all things, 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty : forth, and do your bravest. 



Armatum, cum jam tolli vexilla juberet. 

Res memoranda novis annalibus, atque recenti 

Historia, speculum civilis farcina belli." — Juv. Sat. J. 

This grasps a mirror— pathic Otho's boast, 

(Auruncan Actor's spoil,) wliere, while his host. 

With shouts, the signal of the fight required, 

He view'd his mailed form ; view'd, and admired ! 

Lo, a new subject for the historic page, 

A MIRROR, midst the arms of civil rage!" — Giffoed.] 



272 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act hi. 



Re-enter Sfeuo with the mirror. 

Sar. {looking at himself.) This cuiras fits me well, 
the baldric better, 
And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada! Where's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waitinfj, sire, 

\^'ithout: he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot ho is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
Myrrha, embrace me ; — yet once more — once more — 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Myr. Go forth, and conquer ! 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus and Sfero.' 
Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return. Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. lie has wounc 
About my heart, 1 know not how nor why. 
Not for that ho is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the eartli yawns 
To yield him no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty^ Jove ! 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who kno'vs not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 

Now, now, far more than Hark — to tha war 

shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
Thiscimning Colchian poison, which my father 
Leara'd to compound on Euxine shores, and taught 

me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed mo 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude. 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles w:ni like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Agam that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — end now — and now — 

Enter Altada. 

Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho ! 

Myr. He is not hero ! what wouldst thou with him ? 
How 
Goes on the conflict? 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr And the king? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He fights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light, 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods. 

Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king 



J [In the third Act, the king and his courtiers are disturb- 
ed at their banquet by the breaking out of the conspiracy. 
Tlie battle which follows, if we overlook the absurdity, 
ivliich occurs during one part of it, of hostile armies drawn 



Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero, I will seek the armory — 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonor — no — 

'Tis no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wish'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff', surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood. 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle. 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
That a Greek girl should be his paramour. 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir? 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Lost, 

Lost almost past recovery. Zames ! Where 
Is Zames? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 
To watch before the apartment of the women 

[Exit Officer 

Myr. (sola.) He's gone ; and told no more than thai 
all's lost ! 
What need have I to know more? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A lino of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great, 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
Which bore it, shall be nothing. At the least, 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count mo with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that's left us now. 

Myr. The king ? 

Pan. Sent mo here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Myr. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life, 

And beg you to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does whate'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disjiutes 
The very palace. 

Myr. They are here, then: — ay. 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls 
Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me — away ! 

Myr. No : I'll die here ! — Away, and tell your 
king 
I loved him to the last. 



up against each other in a dining-room, is extremely weJ 
told ; and Sardanapalus displays the precise mixture of ef- 
feminacy and courage, levity and talent, which belongs to 
his character.— Hebek.] 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



273 



Enter f/p.PANAPALUs and Salemenes with Sol- 
diers Pania quits MviirvHA, and rmiges himself 
with them. 

Sar. Since it is thus, 

We'll die where we were born — in our own halls. 
Serry your ranks — stand firm. I have dispatch'd 
A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 
All fresh and faithful ; they'll be here anon. 
All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns towards Myrrha. 

Sal. We have breathing time : yet once more 
charge, ray friends — 
One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bnctrlans, I will henceforth be 
King of your nation, and we'll hold together 
This realm as province. 

Sal. Hark ! they come — they come. 

Enter Peleses and Arbaces with the Rebels. 

Alb. G.^t on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

charge I 
Bi I Ou ! on ! — Heaven fights for us, and with us. 
—On! 
I They charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
arrival of Zames, icith the Guard before 
mentioned. The Rebels are then driven off, 
and pursued by Salemenes, ^-c. As the 
King is going to join the pursuit, Beleses 
crosses him. 
Pel. Ho ! tyrant — / will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

IVfy warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom. 
Rather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No, thine. — I've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 

Bel. But not by thee. 

{They fight ; Beleses is wounded and disanned. 
Sar. {raising his sword to dispatch him, exclaims) — 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 

\^A Party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses 
They assail the King, ivho, in turn, is rescued 
by a Party of his SolJL'rs, who drive the 
Rebe.s off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. 
Upon them — ho ! there — victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. {to Pan.) Pursue ! AVhy stand'st thou here, 
and leav'st the ranks 
Of fellow-soldiers conquering without thee ? 

Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
Myr. Me ! 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard: what, with a world at stake, 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say. 
Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, / will go forth. 



' [The king, by his daring valor, restores the fortune of 
the figUt, and returns, with all his tram, to the palace. The 



35 



A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 

And bid thee guard me there — where thou ehouldst 

shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha- 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel ! — She is gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
Who never flash'd a cimeter till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha ! 

What, gone ? yet she was here when the fight raged, 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make . 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must. 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them ; 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it : he defies 
AH augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twiliglft tempest, bursts forth hi such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance : away — 
Let's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 
Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemn'd without a crime. [Exeunt. 

Enter Salemenes and Soldiers, ^-c. 

Sal. The triumph is 

Flattering : they are beaten backward from the palace, 
And we have open'd regular access 
To the troops station'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be. 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where's the king ? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis, ^c. and Myrrha. 

Sar. ' Here, brother* 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We've clear'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city 

Our numbers gather ; and I've order'd onward 
A cloud of Parthians, hitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a scat 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 



scene that ensues is very masterly sjbd aLiracteristic- 
Jeffrey.] 



274 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act in. 



Sar. 'Tis no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body: let me have a couch, 

I They place a seat. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what: so — now 
I broathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where's my cupbearer? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. {smiling.) 'Tis the first time he 

Ever had such an order: even I, 
Yonr most austere of counsellors, would now 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

Sar. Blood — doubtless. 

But there's enough of that shed ; as for wine, 
I have leani'd to-night the price of the pure element: 
Thrice have I drank of it, and thrice renevv'd, 
With greater strength than the grape ever gave me, 
My charge upon the rebels. Where's the soldier 
Who gave nie water in his helmet? 

One of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. Slain ! imrewarded ! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that's hard, poor slave ! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught ; for I was parch'd 
As I am now. [ They bring water — he drinks. 

I live again — from henceforth 
Tlie goblet I reserve for hours of love, 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh ! he is wounded ! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
Now I am cooler. 

Myr. You have bound it with 

iSa- The fillet of my diadem: the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me. 
Save an incumbrance. 

Myr. {to the Attendants.) Summon speed) y 
A leech of tiio most skilful : pray, retire ; 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 

Sar. Do so. 

For now it throbs sufficiently: but what 
Know'st thou of jirounds? yet wherefore do 1 Qsk? 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion? 

Sal. • Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar. No : like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging, 
(And femininely meanetli furiously. 
Because all passions in excess are female,) 
Against tlie hunter flying with her cub. 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers, 
In the pursuit. 

Sal. Indeed ! 

"Sar You see, this night 



» [The -ebels are at length repulsed. The king re-enters 
woundiid, and retires to rest, after a short and very charac- 
teristic conversation between Saleinenes and Myrrha, in 
winch the tu'o kindred spirits show their mutual under- 
6tandui{{ of each o'her, and the loyal warrior, postponing 



Made warriors of more than me. I paused 

To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 

Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair 

As it streamed o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 

Along her most transparent brow ; her nostril 

Dilated from its symmetry ; her lips 

Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 

As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash, 

Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling ; her 

Waved arms, more dazzling with their own bora 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp ; — all these things made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of victory, or Victory herself, 
Come down to hail us hers. 

Sal. {aside.) This is too much. 

Again the love-fit's on him, and all's lost," 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

{Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound — you said even now 'twas 
painful. 

Sar. That's true, too ; but I must net think of it. 

Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so 

Sal. {in retiring.) Myrrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time ; thou lovest the king? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. ^ 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still ? 

Myr. I would not have him less than what he 
should be. 

Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, aiid all 
He should, or should not be ; to have him live. 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. , Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his : 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes 

Sar. Myrrha ! what, at whispers 

With my stern brother? I shall soon be jealous.' 

Myr. {smiling.) You have cause, sire ; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more worthy of a woman's love — 
A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 
A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sa; Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in aught 
That throws me into shade : yet you speak truth. 

Myr. And now retire, to have your wound look'd to. 
Fray, lean on me. 

Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



all the selfish domestic feelings which led him to dislike the . 
fair Ionian, exhorts her to use her utmost power to ketf 
her lover from relaxing into luxury. The transient elFeri 
which their whispers produce on Sardanapalus is well im- 
agined. — Bishop Uebeb.] 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



275 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I. 



Sapdanapalus discovered sleeping upon a Couch, 
and occasionally disturbed in his Slumbers, with 
Myhrhv watching. 

Myr. {sola, gazing) I have stolen upon his rest; if 

rest it be, 
^Vh;ch thus convulses slumber: shall I wake him? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet 1 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be uufuthom'd, 
Look Kke thy brother. Death — so still — so stirless — 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all within the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakening twin. 
Again he moves — again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm' 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and 

shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let Nature use her own maternal means, — 
And I await to second, not disturb her.'^ 

Sar. {awakening.) Not so — although ye multiplied 

the stars. 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence — hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow-creatures as if brutes ! 
Once bloody mortals — and now bloodier idols, 
If your priests lie not! And thou, ghastly beldame ! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Inde — away ! away ! 
Where am I? Where the spectres? Where 

No— that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 



> [" Crisps the unswelling wave," &c. — MS.] 

2 [The fourth Act opens with Myrrha watching over the 
bhimbers of Sardanapalus. He wakens and tells a horrid 
cireimi, which we do not much admire, except that part of it 
which describes the form of his warlike ancestress Semi- 
ramis, with whom, and he rest of his regal predecessors, he 
had fancied himself at a ghostly banquet.— Heber.] 

3 [The general tone of Myrrha's character (in perfect con- 
sistency with the manners of her age and nation, and with 
her own elevated but pure and feminine spirit) is that of a 
devout worshipper of her country's gods. She reproves, 
with dignity, the impious flattery of the Assyrian courtiers 
and the libertine scoft's of the king. She does not forget, 
while preparing for death, that libation which was the latest 
and most solemn act of Grecian piety ; and she, more par- 
ticularly, expresses her belief in a future state of existence. 
Yet this very Myrrha, when Sardanapalus is agitated by his 
evil drearn, and by the natural doubt as to what worse vis- 
ions death m.ay bring, is made to console him, in the strain 
of his own Epicurean philosophy, with the doctrine that 
death is really nothing, except 

" Unto the timid who anticipate 
That which may never be ;" 

and with the insinuation that all which remains of " the dead 
is the dust we tread upon." We do not wish to ask, we do not 



All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 

From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha! 

Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the 
drops 
Gather like night-dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world, 
And thou art lord of this. Be of good cheer ; 
All will go well. 

Sar. Thy hand — so — 'tis thy hand ; 

'Tis flesh ; grasp — clasp — yet closer, till I feel 
Myself that which I was. 

Myr. At least know me 

For what I ain, and ever must be — thine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha ! I have been where we shall bo. 

Myr. My lord ! 

Sar. I've been i' the grave — vhoro 

worms are lords. 

And kings are But 1 did not de.em it so ; 

I thought 'twas nothing. 

Myr. So .t Is ; except * 

Unto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never be.' 

Sar. Oh, Myrrha ! if 

Sleep shows such things, what may not death disclose . 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shown to those who live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore where mind su -vives, 'twill be as mind, 
All unincorporate : or it there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay, 
Which stalks, niethinks, between our soids and heaven, 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Whate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not ; but I have felt — have seen — 
A legion of the dead. 

Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive. 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen? 
Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. Methought — 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — exhaust- 
ed ; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit : seek 
Rather to sleep again. 

Sar. Not now — I would not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 



hke to conjecture, xohnse sentiments tifese are, but they are 
certainly not the sentiments of an ancient Grecian heroine. 
They are not the sentiments which Myrrha might have learn- 
ed from the heroes of her native land, or from the poems 
whence those heroes derived their heroism, their contempt 
of death, " and their love of virtue." Myrrha would rather 
have told her lover of those happy islands where the benevo- 
lent and the brave repose after the toils of their mortal ex- 
istence ; of that venerable society of departed warriors and 
sages, to which, if he renounced his sloth and lived for his 
people and for glory, he might yet expect admission. She 
would have .told him of that joy with which his warlike an- 
cestors would move along their meads of asphodel, when 
the news reached them of their descendant's prowess ; she 
would have anticipated those songs which denied that " Ilar- 
modius was dead," however he might be removed from the 
sphere of mortality ; which told her countrymen of the 
"roses and the golden-fruiled bowers, where, beneath the 
light of a lower sun, departed warriors reined their shadowy 
cars, or struck their harps amid altars steaming with frank- 
incense."— (Hom. Odyss. \. 539. Cailistratus ap. Athenaeum, 
1. XV. Pindar. Fragm. Heyne, vol. iii. p. 31.) Such were 
the doctrines which naturally led men to a contempt for 
life and a thirst for glory : but the opposite opinions were 
the doubts of a later day ; and of those sophists uc.dor 
whose influence Greece soon ceased to be free, or valiaa^ 
or virtuous. — Hezek.J 



276 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



What I have dreamt: — and canst thou bear to 
hear it ? 

M^T. I can boar all things, dreams of life or death, 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar And this look'd real, 

I tell you after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — for then they fled 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar I saw, that is, I dream'd myself 

Here — here — even where we are, guests as we were, 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our custom'd meeting 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark, 
And deadly face — I could not recognise it, 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where : 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vaSt bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing,' 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he answer'd not — I fill'd it — 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye : 
I frown'd upon him as a king should frown — 
He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Because it changed not : and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right, 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

[He pauses. 

Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thy own chair — thy own place in the 
banquet — 
I sought ihy sweet face in the circle — but 
Instead — a gray-hair'd, wither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 
Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Furrow'd with years, yet sneering with the passion 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate : — my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all? 

Sar. Upon 

Her right hand — her lank, bird-hke, right hand — 

stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, fill'd with — what I saw not, 
But tuni'd from it and her. But all along 
The tabl? sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects, but of one expression. 

Myr. And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. No : 

It was so palpable, I could have touch'd them. 
1 turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs : but no — all turn'd upon me. 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but rared, 
Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be, 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt lifie in them. 
And life in me : there was a horrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
Wo were in an existence all apart 



I :» With arrows peeping through his falling hair."— MS.] 



From heaven or earth And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being 1 

Myr. And the er.d ? 

Sar. At last I sate, marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter and the crone ; and smiling on me— 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not — and the woman's 
Thin lips relax'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each h£i.d 
Rose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death — but I sa*9 still : 
A desperate courage crept through every limb. 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine : I took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own ; 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the woman, 

The female who remain'd, she flew upon me. 
And burnt my lips up with her noisome kissei ; 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought their poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her^ as if, 
In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the soirwho slev/ hrr for her incest 
Then — then — a chaos of all loathsome thingf. 
Throng'd thick and shapeless: I was dead, yet, 

feeling — 
Buried and raised again — consumed by worms. 
Purged by the flames, and wither'd in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'd for thee, and sought for thee. 
In all these agonies, — and woke and found thee. 

Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mero creations 
Of late events, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 

Enter Sale.iienes. 

Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 

Sar. Yes, brother, and I wou'd I had not slept , 
For all the predecessors of our Vvie 
Rose up, methought, to drag mc down to them 
My father was amongst them, too ; but he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you al«9. 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By daybreak I propose that we set forth, 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite quell'd 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal, There yet remains some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your further rest 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone : methought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



277 



Myr Scarcely one ; 

I watcli'd by you : it was a heavy hour, 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council ; 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time, 

I had a j^race to seek. 

Sar 'Tis gramted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 'tis 
For your eai only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

{Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only ! 

Tliat slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safetyj 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paplilagonia, wliere our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secur3 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with them 
Their just pretensions to tlie crown in case • 

Sar. I perish — as is probable : well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ;' but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I reply to comfort them, 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ; 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Requests to see you ere you part — forever. 

Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
Auglit — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of 
women. 
Since you have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, thaa the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 'twas her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband — will yo i g rant it ? 

Sar. 'Twill be useless : 

But le' her come. 

Sal. I go. [Exit Salemenes 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again — and now to meet ! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love ? 

Re-enter Salemenes and Zarina. 

Sal. My sister ! Courage : 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 



' [We hardly know why Lord Byron, who'has not in other 
respects shown a slavish defei-ence for Diodorus Siculus, 
should thus follow him in the manifest geographical blunder 
of placing Nineveh on the EuphraUs instead of the Tigris, 



Zar. I pray thee, bi other, leave me. 

"'>'''• Since you ask it. 

[Exit Salemenes. 

Zar. Alone with him I How many a year has pass'd, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met, 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart. 
He loved me not : yet he seems little chancred — 
Changed to me only — would the chano-e were 

mutual I 
He speaks not — scarce regards me — not a word — 
Nor look — yet he was soft of voice and aspect, 
Indifferent, not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina — dc not say Zarina. 
That tone — tliat word — annihilate long years, 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'Tis too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let's not reproach- 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. And first. I ne'er reproach'd you. 

Sar. 'Tis most true ; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own powei 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with {He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that's left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you, 
And look upon me as you look'd upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice : rather make them 
Resemble your own line, than their own sire. 
I trust them with you — to you : fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten 

And could have welcomed any grief, save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear- -but 'tis 
In peril ; they perhaps may never mount it! 
But let them not for this lose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and, won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honor 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling world- 
If they be in adversity, they'll learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so — do not poison all 



in opposition not only to the uniform tradition of the East, 
but to the express assertions of Herodotus, Pliny, and 
Ptolemy.— Hebek.] 



278 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



My pfeace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honor him wlio saved the realm for them, 
So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'Tis lost, all earth will cry out, thank your 
father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar That they shall never do ; but rather honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king, 
Ju his last hours did more for his own memorj 
Than many monarchs in a length of days. 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

•Sflr. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash — be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they? 
A slave, who loves from passion — I'll not say 
Ambition — she has seen thrones shake, and loves ; 
A few friends who have revell'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar Who loves. 

Sar. And pardons? 

Zar. I have never thought of this. 

And cannot pardon till I have condemn'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more — from thee. 

Sar. Oh ! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. Yes — 
Tliese slaves, whom I have nurtured, pamper'd, fed, 
And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
They reign themselves — all monarchs in their man- 
sions — 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. 'Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee, 
Whfch hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sa.' My life insures me that. How long, bethink 
you. 
Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal ; 
That is, where mortals &re, not where they must be ? 

Zar. I know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, vrrong'd Zarina !* 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse — borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should bo — let it end. 



I ("We are not sure, whether there is not a considerable 
violation of costume in the sense of degradation, with which 
Myirlia seems to regard her situation In the harem, no less 
than in the resentment of Salemenes. and the remorse of 
Sardanapalus on the score of his infidelity to Zarina. Little 
as we know of the domestic habits of Assyria, we have 
reason to conclude, from the habits of contemporary na- 
tions, and from the manners of the East in every age, that 
pojygaray was neither accounted a crime in itself, nor as 



But take this with thee : if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for mo or others, 
(This even rebellion must avouch ;) yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last — that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them — as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails him nothing: he hath found it 
But 'tis not his — but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 
Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more — but let us hence together. 
And / — let me say we — shall yet be happy. 
Assyria is not all the earth — we'll find 
A world out of our own — and be more bless'd 
Thau I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemknes. 

Sal. I must part ye — 

The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high ajid blest ? 

Sal. Blest ! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So — this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
My better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be ? 

Sal. Remain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar Alas I 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
My sister: — all's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes ; 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much — but 'tis a point of state : 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of tlieir sovereign, and so crush 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark mo : when 

They are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could not I remain, alone ? 

Sal. What! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet orphaiM — 



a measure of wliich the principal wife was justified m torn- 
plaining. And even in Greece, in those times when Alyr- 
rha's character must have been formed,— to be a captive, 
and subject to the captor's pleasure, was at-counted a mis- 
fortune indeed, but could hardly be regarded as an infamy. 
But vrhere is the critic who would object to an inaccuracy 
which has given. occasion to such sentiments and such 
poetry?— Heber.] 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



279 



In a strange land — so young, so distant ? 

Zar No— 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now yoti know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and we 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all ; departing, 
You save the better part of what is left, 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses. 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perhaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not. 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for. 
Are ended. Yet, I dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
Been of the softer order — hide thy tears — 
I do not bid thee not to shed them — 'twere 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart — 
Put let me not behold them ; they unrnan me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. {striving to conduct her.) Nay, sister, 1 7nust 
be obey'd. 

Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone ? — / live alone ? 

Sal. He shall not die alone ; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That's false ! I knew he lived, 

And lived upon his image — let me go ! 

Sal. {conducting her off the st-agc.) Nay, then, I 
must use some fraternal force. 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from ih ?e ? 

SaL Nay — then all is lost again. 

If that this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns — 

My eyes fail — where is he ? > [She faints. 

Sar. {advancing.) No — set her down — 

She's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sa .. 'Tis the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Pray, keep back. — [ilsicZe.] I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where her children are embark'd, 
r the royal galley on the river. 

[Salemenes bears her off.^ 

Sar. {solus.) This, too — • 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! But that is false — 
She loved me, and I loved her. — Fatal passion ! 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once? Zarina ! 



1 [This scene has been, by the Edinburgh Reviewers, we 
know not wliy, called " useless," " unnatural," and " tedi- 
ously written." For ourselves, we are not ashamed to 
own that we have read it with emotion. It is an interview 
between Sardanapalus and his neglected wife, whom, with 
her children, he is about to send to a place of safety. 
Here, too, however, he is represented, with much poetical 
iiit aai justi.;e o( delineation, as, in the midst of hjs deepest 



I must pay dearly for the desolation 

Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 

But thee, I should lu^ve been an unojyposed 

Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 

A single deviation from the track 

Of human duties leads even those who claim 

The homage of mankind as their born due 

And find it, till they forfeit it themselves! 

Enter Mvrrha. 

Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one — but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It foi-ms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till souglit for. 

Myr. Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours, 
(Although they too were chiding,) which reproved 

me. 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach you 
Uncall'd for: — I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay — being here. 

I pray you pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I wax peevish — heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

Myr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start? 

Myr. Did I do so 7 

Sar. 'Twas well you enter'd by another portal. 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her I 

Myr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much, 

And beyond nature — 'tis nor mutual,* 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her, 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 
As you are like to lose the one you sway'd — 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though yt)u were a peasant — 
Nay, more, if that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Myr. And truly. 

Sar. In tho hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite fall T. nor now disposed to bear repro.aches. 
Perhaps because I merit them too often. 
Let us then part while peace is still between us. 



regrets for Zarina, chiefly engrossed with himself and i.is 
own sorrows, and inclined, immediately afterwards, lo 
visit on poor Myrrha the painful feelings which his owa 
reproaches of himself have occasioned. — Hebeu.] 

a [For mutual, the MS. in our hands has nntural ; but we 
are not quite sure that there has been merely a misprint in 
the foregoing editions.] 



280 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Myr. Part! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 

And must not all the present one day part ? 

Myr Why? 

Sar For your safety, which I will have look'd to. 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 

Myr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sa^. The queen is gone : 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it — 

It soon may be too late 

Myr. So let it be ; 

For then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. And will not , but I thought you wish'd it. 

Myr. I ! 

Sar. You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply — more deeply than all things but Ioto. 

Sar. Then fly from it. 

Myr. 'Twill not recall the past — 

'Twill not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No— here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
Your lot be different, I'll not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till now ; 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 

Bo in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This verv night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are borne by fate. 

Sar. I am content ; and, trusting in my cause. 
Think we may yet bo victors and return 
To peace — the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory — conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, 

never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries, 
On which the future would turn back and smile. 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
I thought to have made my realm a paradise, 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love — the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon — so they are, my Myrrha : 

{He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life : 
They shall have both, but never thee ! 

Myr. No, never ! 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall — hosts 

yield — 
rrier.ij fail — slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted — but a heart 
That loveb without self-love ! 'Tis here — now prove 
it 



Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How ! she here again ? 

Sar. Return not 

Noio to reproof: methiuks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports mo 
At such a moment now is safe in absence — 
The queen's eir Nark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fir'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the star- 
light ; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'Tis now too late to feel ! 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks. 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been join'd by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebels ? 

Let us be first, then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack. 
Ay, and pursuit too : but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting : though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm ; but when I set on them, 
Though they were piled on mountains, I would have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge ! 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sai: I am no soldier, but a man ; opeak not 
Of soldiership, I loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must speire 

To expose your life too hastily ; 'tis not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath : 
The whole war turns upon it — with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it — 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'Twere better thus, perhaps, than prolong either ; 
I'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sounds wiiJiout 

Sal. Hark ! 

Sar. . Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound \ 

Sar. 'Tis bound — 

'Tis heal'd — I had forgotten it. Away ! 
A leech's lancet would have scratch'd me deeper ;' 

1 1" A leech's lancet would have done as mucli."— MS.3 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



281 



The slavo that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. Now, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 
A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
them! [Trurnpet sounds again. 

Sal. I am with you. 

Sar Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

Exeunt. 



ACT V. 



SCENE I. 



The same Hall in the Palace. 
Myrrha and Balea. 

Myr. (at a window.) The day at last has broken. 
What a night 
Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm. 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous npon earth ! where peace and hope, 
And love and revel, in an hoiu' were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos. 
Not yet resolved to separate elements. — 
'Tis warring still I And can the sun so rise. 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky. 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains, 
And billows pnrpler than the ocean's, making 
lu heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
Scatter'd along the eternal vault :' and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul. 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love ; which they who mark not, 
Know not the realms where those twin genii^ 
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts. 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe 
Briefly ; — but iu that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, hiunan hours. 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks' 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling, 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would vary in the souud, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly : and can you so watch 
The sunrise which may be our last? 



> [This description of the sun rolling back the vapors is 
apparently imitated from a magnificent scene in the second 
book of Wordsworth's Excursion : — 

" Round them and above, 

Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
Casement, and coituge-roof, and stems of trees 
Hidf-veii'd in vaporing cloud, the silver steam 



Mijr. It 10 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproach 
Those eyes, which never may behold it moro. 
For having look'd upon it oft," too oft. 
Without the reverence and the rapture due 
To that which keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upon it. 
The Chaldee's god, which, when I gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns iu heaven, so onee on earth 
He sway'd. 

Mm: Ho sways ' row far mo'-e, then ; never 

Had earthly monarch half the po"^ver and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of h.s 

Bal. Surely he is a gO'\ ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Now he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and filK' my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 

Bal. Hark I heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. No, 'twas mere fancy ; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here, within 
The very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions. 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived. 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor: now at once we have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
The dread of more : it is an anxious hour ; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly ! 

Bal. It is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than astonish'd his true subjects. 

Myr. 'Tis easy to astonish or appal 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of sla-^es; 
But he did bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

Myr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one who vanqnish'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril ; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal. Hark! 

Myr. You are right : some steps approach, but 
slowly. 

Enter Soldiers, hearing in Salemenes wounded, with 
a broken Javelin in his Side : they seat him upon 
one of the Couches which furnish the Apartment. 



Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten "] 

2 [" Sunrise and sunset form the epoch of 

Sorrow and love ; and they who mark them not 
Can ne'er hold converse with," &c.— MS.1 

6 [" Of labormg wretches in allotted tasks."— MS ] 



36 



282 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



Myr Oh, Jove ! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier. 

Myr Spare him — he's none : a mere court but- 
terfly. 
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then. 

Myr So wilt thou, I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me here ? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
you, 
You fell and fainted : 'twas his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sai. 'Twas not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake oiu* soldiers — but — 'tis vaic. 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I am not quite skilless : in my native land 
'Tis part of our instruction. War being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things.' 

Sol. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Myr. Hold I no, no, it cannot bo. 

Sal. \ dm sped, then ! 

Myr. With the blood that fast must follow 

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was the king when 
you 
Convey'd mo from the spot where I was stricken ? 

Sol. Upon the same ground, and encouraging 
With voice and gesture the dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 

Sol. * I did not heaj. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'twas my last request 
That Zames take my post until the junction. 
So hoped for, yet delay'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! Here's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I'll have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 
[Exeunt the Soldiers. 

Myr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentlj 3I)Trha, 'tis 

The end I would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 

Myr. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; t»us broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful: I would draw it forth, 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The fight goes. 



Sar. 

Sal 

1:1 lest 1 



Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 
My best brother ! 



And the battle 



i [' \7e are used to such inflictions."— MS.] 



Sar. (despondingly.) You see me here 

Sal. I'd rather see you thus ! 

[He dram out the weapon from the woiind, 
and dies. 

Sar. AwAthus I will be seen : unless the succor, 
The last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Myr. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief 

Sar. I did. 

M7jr. Where's Zam«?& 

Sar. Dead. 

Myr. And Altada? ^ 

Sar Dying. 

Myr. Pania? SferoT 

Sar Pania yet lives ; but Sfero's fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

Myr. And is all lost I 

Sar. Our walls. 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Fheir present force, or aught save treachery: 
But i' the field 

Myr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemenes i<ot to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succors. 

Sar. I overruled him. 

Myr. Well, the fault's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament. 
The sword and shield, the sole-redeeming honor. 

To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 

Thou shalt be mourn'd for as thou wouldst be moum'd. 

It grieves me most that thou couldst quit this life 

Believing that I could survive what thou 

Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 

If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 

Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement, 

(The tears of all the good are thine already.) 

If not, wo meet again soon, — if the spirit 

Within us lives beyond : — thou readest mine. 

And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 

That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart 

[Embraces the body. 
To this which beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Soldier. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemenks. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania ! have you placed the guards, 
and issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up? 

Pan. Sire? 

Sar. I'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, and 
has 
A question as an answer to his question, 
It is a portent. What ! they are dishearten'd? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall. 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 

We'll find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 



Scene i. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



283 



Mig^ht sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel? but yet, [and wo 

Tliougli coop'd within these walls, they are strong, 
Have those witjiout will break their way through hosts, 
To make their sovereign's dwelling wliat it was — 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter an Officer, hastily 

Sar. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 

Offi I dare not. 

Sar. Dare not? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand .' 
That's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to sliock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou Itast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
T-5 thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, wliich now rolling, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of tliat tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy'd the bulwark 

Pan. Tiiat's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew Tts foe." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadii." 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

Offi. For the present 

The river's fury must impede the assault ; 
But when ho shrinks into his wonted channel, 
And. may be cross'd by the accustom'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omeng, 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them, 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction, 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
For the assurance of tiie vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight ; 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit. 
Report of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myr. ^Thus the very waves rise up 
Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl. 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be punish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell me 
Nothing I have not told myself since midnight : 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Myr. Despair ! 

Sar. No ; not despair precisely. When wo know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
Resolves, if firm, may merit a more uoble 



' About two miles and a half. 

* [" Complexions, cUmes, eras, and intellects." — MS.] 
2 [" Athen.-Bus makes these treasrres amount to a thou- 
sand myriads of talents of gold, anl ten times as many 
talents of silver, which is a sum that exceeds all credibility. 
A man is lost if he attempts to sum up the whole value ; 



Word than this is to give it utterance. 

But what are words to us? we have well-nigh done 

.With them and all things. 

Myr. ' Save one deed — the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was — or is — or is to be — 
The only thing connnon to all mankind. 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures, 
Hue.s, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects,* 
Without one point of union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mysterj', call'd life. [cheerful. 

Sar. Our clew being well-nigh wound out, let's be 
They who have nothing more to fear may well 
Indulge a smile at that which once appall'd , 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

Re-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawitg from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition 
To watch the breach occasion'd by the waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania I further ties between us 
Draw near a close. I pray you take this key : 

[Gives a key. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the couch in my own chamber. (Now 
Press'd by a nobler weight than o'er it bore — 
Though a long line of sovereign.s have lain down 
Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
A time what late was Salemenes.) Search 
The secret covert to which this will lead you ; 
'Tis full of treasure f take it for yourself 
And your companions : there's enough to load ye 
Though ye be many.* Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an Jiour. [wre. 

Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for pleas- 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river 's broad and swoln, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
JFly ! and be happy! 

Pan. Under your protection ! 

So you accompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania ! that must not be ; get thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'Tis the first time 
I ever disobey'd : but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insolence within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further ; 
'Tis my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it ? thou ! 

Pan. But yet — not yet. 

^ar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall givo 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 
I promise. 

Sar. 'Tis enough. Now order here 
Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 



wliich induces me to believe, that Athenaeus must have 
very much exaggerated ; however, we may be assured, from 
his account, that the treasures were immensely great."-— 

ROLLIN.] 

* [ " Ye will find the crevice 

To which the key fits, with a httle care."— MS.] 



284 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



Tilings as catch fire aud blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre ! 
Aaid heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. I have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow [Exit Pania. 

Myr. What mean you? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces 

Sar. What, crown'd already? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god, or demon ? 

With new kings rise new altars. .. But, proceed : 
You are sent to prate your master's wiil, and not 
Reply to i/inio. 

Her And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

Her. (showing a ring.) Be sure that he is now 
In tlie camp of the conquerors : behold 
His signet ring. 

Sar. 'Tis his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less: this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces, 
Guarded and watch'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Condition that the three young princes are 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. (ironically.) The generous victors ! 

Htr. 1 wait the answer. 

Sar. Answer, slave ! How long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings? 

Her. Since thej were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt leani the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head bo thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obey'd 

Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this haU 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what's mine ? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

Her. I but obey'd my orders.^ 

At the same peril if refused, as now 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 



Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood I 

Her. My life waits your breath 

Yours (I speak humbly) — but it may be — youra 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent • 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod, to destroy 
A peaceful herald, iniarm'd, in his office ! 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man — but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods? [act 

Sar. He's right. — Let him go free. — My lifo'a last 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives him a golden cup from a table near 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine. 
And think oime; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious 
But must I bear no answer? 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters bear no further from me. 
They are to deem that I reject their terms. 
And act befittingly. 

Her. I shall not fail 

To be a faithfid legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And hark ! a word mora 

Her. I shall not forget it. 

Whate'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses ; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where ? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey j^ou to the letter. [Exit Herald. 

Sar. Pania ! — 

Now, my good Pania ! — quick ! with what I order'd. 

Pan. My lord, — the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see I they enter. 

[Soldiers enter, and form a Pile about the 
Throne, ^c. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers, 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its own too subtle flame ; nor yet be quench'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'Twere to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
How say you, Pania, wiil this pile snffice 
For a king's obsequies? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar. And blame me ? 

Pan. No — 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

Myr. That duty's mine. 

Pan. A woman's ! 

Myr. 'Tis the soIdie^a 

Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's with her lover ? 

Pan. 'Tis most strange . 



Scene 



SARDANAPALUS. 



285 



Myr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think'st it. 
In tlie mean time, live thou. — Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Van. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
Hi8 death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 
Me to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched ! 

Sar Think upon 

Thy vow : — 'tis sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar Search well my chamber, 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew mo : and when you have borne away 
All safe off to your boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream 
Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back ; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if you reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say what you saia at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at ono 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand I 

Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you ! 

\_The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his rohe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let's not unman each other — part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when forever. 
Else they make an eternity of moments, 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy : trust me, I am not 
Now to be pitied ; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

Myr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
Til at our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my bcPAitiful ! — but hear me ! 
I ' at this moment, — for we now aj? on 
The brink, — thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
Tliis leap through flame into the future, say it: 
I shall not love theo less ; nay, perhaps more. 
For yielding to thy nature : and there's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

Myr. Shall I light 

One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 

Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sar {solus.) She's firm. My fathers I whom I will 
rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
Aa ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it. 



Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 

Of arms, and records, monuments, and spoils, 

In which thev would have revell'd, I bear with my 

To you in that absorbing element. 

Which most personifies the soul as leaving 

The least of matter unconsumed before 

Its fiery workings : — and the light of this 

Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 

Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 

A beacon in the horizon for a day. 

And then a mount of ashes, but a light 

To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 

Voluptuous princes. Time shall quonch full many 

A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 

Sweep empire after empire, like this first 

Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 

Shall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 

A problem few dare imitate, and none 

Despise — but, it may be, avc.id the life 

Which led to such a consummation. 

MvRRiiA returns loith a lighted TortJi in one Hand, 
and a Cup in the other. 

Myr. liO ! 

I've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 

Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'Tis my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations amongst men. I've not 
Forgot the custom ; and although alone. 
Will drain one draught in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cup, and after drink- 
ing and tinkling the reversed cup, as a drop 
falls, cxclaitns — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dwells thy mind rather upon that man's name 
Than on his mate's in villany? 

Sar. The ono 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand ; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pauso, 
My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow mo, 
Freely and fearlessly? 

Myr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ?' 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar. Now, farewell ; one last embraco. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last ; there is ono nioio 

Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they, 
Purged from the dross df earth, and earthly passion, 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irlis mo. 

Sar. Say it. 

Myr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better: 



' [ " And what is there 

An Indian widow dares for cnslom, which 
A Greek girl dare not do for love ?"— MS.] 



286 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. Scene i. 



Rather let them be bome abroad upon 

The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 

Than be polhited more by human hands 

Of slaves and traitors. In this blazing palace, 

And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 

We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 

Hath piled in her brick mountains, o'er dead kings,' 

Or kine, for none know whether those proud piles 

Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis: 

So much for monuments that have forgotten 

Their very record I^ 

Myr. Tlien farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth I farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughte, save one, were of thee ! 

Sar. And that ? 



1 [These hnes are in bad taste enough, from the jingle be- 
tween kings and kine, down to the absurdity of believing 
.hat Sardanapalus at such a moment would be likely to 
discuss a point of antiquarian curiosity. But they involve 
fiiso an anachronism, inasmuch as, whateve>- date be as- 
signed to the emotion of the earlier pyramids, there can 
be no reason for apprehending that, at the fall of Nineveh, 
and while the kingdom and hierarchy of Egypt subsisted in 
their full splendor, the destination of those immense fabrics 
could have been a matter of doubt to any wl;o might in- 
quire concerning them. Herodotus, three hundred years 
later, may have been misinformed of these points ; but, 
when Sardanapalus lived, the erection of pyramids must, in 
all probability, have not been still of unfrequent occur- 
rence, and the nature of their contents no subject of mistake 
or mystery. — Heber.] 

2 [Here an anonymous critic suspects Lord Byron of hav- 
ing read old Fuller, who says, in his quaint way, " the 
pyramids, doting with age, have forgotten the names of 

their founders."] 

3 [In " Sardanapalus" Lord Byron has been far more for- 
tunate than in the '• Doge of Venice." inasmuch as his sub- 
ject is one eminently adapted not only to tragedy in general, 
but to that peculiar kind of tragedy which Lord Byron is 
anxious to recommend. The history of the last of the 
Assyrian kings is at once sufficiently well known to awaken 
that previous interest which belongs to illustrious names 
and early associations ; and sufficiently remote and obscure 
to admit'of any modification of incident or character which 
a poet may find convenient. All that we know of Nineveh 
and its sovereigns is majestic, indistinct, and mysterious. 
We read of an e.'^tensive and civilized monarchy erected in 
the ages immediately succeeding the deluge, and existing in 
full might and majesty while the shores of Greece and Italy 
were unoccupied, except by roving savages. We read of 
an empire whose influence extended from Samarcand to 
Troy, and from the mountains of J udah to those of Caucasus, 
subverted, after a continuance of thirteen hundred years, 
an \ dynasty of thirty generations, in an almost incredibly 
short :?'^ace of time, less by the revolt of two provinces 
than by ihe anger of Heaven and the predicted fury of nat- 
ural and inanimate agents. And the influence which both 
the conquests and the misfortunes of Assyria appear to have 
exerted over the fates of the people for whom, of all others 
in ancient history, our strongest feelings are (from religious 
motives) interested, throws a sort of sacred pomp over the 
greatness and the crimes of the descendants of Nimrod, 
and a reverence which no other equally remote portion of 
profane history is likely to obtain with us. At the same 
time, all which we know is so brief, so general, and so dis- 
jointed, that we have few of those preconceived notions of 
the per.sonsand facts represented'which in classical dramas, 
if servilely followed, destroy the interest, and if rashly de- 
parted from offend the prejudices, of the reader or the au- 
ditor. An outline is given of the most majestic kind ; but 
i' is an oii'.line only, which the prst may fill up at pleasure ; 



Myr. Is yours. 

^The trumpet oj Pania sounds without, 
Sar ' Hark! 

3fyr. Now ! 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria . 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 
And better as my country than my kingdom. 
I sated thee with peace and joys ; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing. 
Not even a grave. {He mounts ihe pile. 

Now, Myrrha I 
Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[MvRRHA fires the pile. 
Myr. 'Tis fired I I come. 

{As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 
into the flames, the Curtain falls? 



and in ascribing, as Lord Byron has done for the sake of his 
favorite unities, the destruction of the j^ssyrian empire to 
the treason of one night, instead of the war of severaj 
years, he has neither shocked our better knowledge, nor in- 
curred any conspicuous improbability — Still, however, 
the development of Sardanapalus's character is incidental 
only to the plot of Lord Byron's drama, and though the 
unities have confined his picture within far narrower limits 
than he might otherwise have thought advisable, the 
character is admirably sketched ; nor is there any one 
of the portraits of this great master which gives us a more 
favorable opinion of his talents, his force of conception, 
his delicacy and vigor of touch, or the richness and har- 
mony of his coloring. He had, indeed, no unfavorable 
groundwork, even in the few hints supplied by the ancient 
historians, as to the conduct and history of the last and 
most unfortunate of the line of Belus. Though accused, 
(whether truly or falsely,) by his triumpham eremies, of 
the most revolting vices, and an effeminacy even .eyond 
what might be expected from the last dregs of Asiatic des- 
potism, we find Sardanapalus, when roused by the approach 
of danger, conducting liis armies with a courage, a skill, 
and, for some time at least, with a success not inferior to 
those of his most warlike ancestors. We find him retaining 
to the last the fidelity of his most trusted servants, his 
nearest kindred, and no small proportion of his hardiest 
subjects. We see him providing for the safety of his wife, 
his cluldren, and his capital city, with all the calmness and 
prudence of an experienced captain. We see him at length 
subdued, not by man, but by Heaven and the elements, and 
seeking his death with a mixture of heroism and ferocity 
which little accords with our notions of a weak or utterly 
degraded character. And even the strange story, variously 
told, and without further explanation scarcely intelligible, 
which represents him as building (or fortifying) two cities 
in a single day, and then deforming his exploits with an in- 
decent image'and inscription, would seem to imply a mix- 
ture of energy with his folly not impossible, perliaps, to the 
madness of absolute power, and which may lead us to im- 
pute his fall less to weakness than to an injudicious and 
ostentatious contempt of the opinions and prejudices of 
mankind. Such a character,— luxurious, energetic, mis- 
anthropical,— aflfords, beyond a doubt, no common advan- 
tages to the work of poetic delineation ; and it is precisely 
the character which Lord Byron most delights to draw, 
and which he has succeeded best in drawing —Heber. 

I remember Lord Byron's mentioning, that the -story of 
Sardanapalus had been working in his brain for seven years 
before he commenced it. — Tkelawney. 

The following is an extract from The Life of Dr. Parr : — 
" In the course of the evening the Doctor i:ried out — ' Have 
you read Sardanapalus 7'—' Yes, Sir?'— ' Right ; and you 
couldn't sleep a wink after it?' — ' No.'— 'Itipht, right — now 
don't say a word more about >t to-night." The memory of 
that fine poem seemed to act hke a spell of '.orrible fasci 
nation upon him."] 



Act 1. Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



287 



THE TWO FOSCARI: 



AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY.* 



The father softens, but the governor's resolved.— Critic. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



MEN. 
Francis Foscari, Doge of Venice. 
jACoro Foscari, Son of the Dog:. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 

Other Senators, the Council of Ten, 
Guards, Attendants, ^-c. ^c. 

WOMAN. 
Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 

Scene — the Ducal Palace, Venice. 



THE TWO FOSCARI.^ 



ACT I. 

SCENE 1. 

A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano' and Barbarigo, meeting. 



Lor. Where is the prisoner? 
Bar. 
The Question. 



Reposing from 



1 [" Begun June the 12th, completea July the 9th, Raven- 
na, 1821.— Byron."— MS. 

" The Two Foscari" was composed at Ravenna, between 
the 11th of June and the 10th of July, 1821, and published 
with " Sardanapalus" in the followinf? December. " The Ve- 
netian story," writes Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, " is strictly 
historical. I am much mortified that Gilford don't take to 
my new dramas. T be sure, they are as opposite to the 
English drama as one ihing can be to another ; but I have a 
notion that, if understood, they will, in time, find favor 
(though not on the stage) with the reader. The simplicity of 
plot is intentional, and the avoidance of rant also, as also the 
compression of the speeches in the more severe situations. 
What I seek to show in ' the Foscaris' is the suppressed pas- 
sions rather than the rant of the present day. For that 
matter — 

' Nay, if thou'lt mouth, 
ril rant as well as thou — ' 

would not be difficult, as I think I have shown in my young- 
er productions— 7io( dramatic ones, to be sure." — An account 
of tl-.e incidents on which this play is founded, is given in 
the Appendix.*] 

' [The disadvantage, and. in truth absurdity, of sacrificing 
higher objects to a formal auherence to the unities, (see ante, 
p. 254,) is strikingly displayed in this drama. The whole in- 
terest here \urns upon the Younger Foscari having returned 
from banishment, in defiance of the law and its conse- 



* [See Appendix : The Two Foscari, Note A.] 



Lor. The hour's past — fix'd yestorduy 

For the resumption of his trial. — Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday. 
And may die under it if now repeated 

Lor. Well? 

Bar. I yield not to you in love cf justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor wretch has suffer'd beyond imture'H 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime. 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duko 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor. Wo shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. When they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let's in to council. 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleuguGS 
is not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge? 



quences, from an unconquerable longing after his own coun- 
try. Now, the only way to have made this sentiment palat- 
able, the practicable foundation of stupendous sulferings, 
would have been, to have presented him to the audience, 
wearing out his heart in exile, and forming his resolution to 
return, at a distance from his country, or hovering, in excru- 
ciating suspense, within sight of its borders. We might then 
have caught some glimpse of the nature of his motives, and 
of so extraordinary a character. But as this would have 
been contrary to one of the unities, we first meet with him 
led from "the Question," and afterwards taken back to it in 
the Ducal Palace, or clinging to the dungeon-walls of his 
native city, and expiring from his dread of leaving them; 
and therefore feel more wonder than sympathy, vvhen we 
are told, that these agonizing consequences have resulted, 
not from guilt or disaster, but merely from the intensity of 
his love for his country. — Jeffrey.] 

3 [The character of Loredano is well conceived and truly 
tragic. The deep and settled principle of hatred which ani- 
mates him, and which impels him to the commission of the 
most atrocious cruelties, mav seem, at first, unnatural and 
overstrained. But not only i.s' it historically true ; but, when 
the cause of that hatred, (the supposed murder of his father 
and uncles,) and when the atrocious maxims of Italian re- 
venge, and that habitual contempt of all the milder feelings 
are taken into consideration which constituted the glory of 
a Venetian patriot, we may conceive how such a principle 
might be not only avowed but exulted in by a Venetian who 
regarded the house of Foscari as, at once, the enemies of 
his family and his country.— Hebeb J 



2S8 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



Bar No — he, 

With more than Roman fortitude, Is ever 
First at the bo?fd in this unhappy process 
Against liia last and only son. 

Lor. ' True — true — 

His last. 

Bar Will nothing move you ? 

Lnr Feels he, think you ? 

Bar He shows it not. 

Lor I have marked that — the wretch ! 

Bar. But yesterday, I hear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold. 
The old man fainted. 

Lor. It begins to work, then. 

Bar. The work is half your own. 

Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I liave read their epitaph, which says they died 
By poison.' 

Lor. When the Doge declared that ho 

Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken'd shortly : — he is sovereign. 

Bar A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they be who make 

Orphans ? 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs? 

Loi: When princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

Bar. But you will move by law? 

Lor. By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than 'mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have %vritten in your books of commerce, 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles,) 
" Doge Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle ?" 

Lor. It is written thus. 

Bar. And will you leave t unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar And how? 

[Two Sertators pa9s over the stage, as in their 
way to " the Hall of the Council of Ten." 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me [Exit Loredano. 

Bar. {solus.) Follow thee .' I have foUow'd long- 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them — Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, where he comes ! — Be still, my heart ! they are 



1 [" Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the church of Santa 
Elena.] 

» 'Loredino is accompanied, upon all emergencies, by a 
senator called Barbarigo— a sort of confidant or chorus — 
who comes for no end that we can discover, but to twit 
Liinwith conscientious cavils and objections, and then to 



Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ?' 

Enter Guards, with young Foscari as prisoner, <^c. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signer, take thne. 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I'm feeble ; 

But thou mayst stand reproved. 

Guard. I'll stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That's kind : — I meet some pity, but no 
mercy ; 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might bo last, did they 

Who rule behold us. [does : 

Bar. {advancing to the Guard.) There is one who 
Yet fear not ; I will r either be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser : though the hour is past, 

Wait their last summons 1 am of " the Ten," 

And waiting for that summons, sanctioji you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds. 
We'll in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! [Ah ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that? — 'Tis Barbarigo's! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Tiiy father sits amongst thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. True, 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint , 

Let me approach^ I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, you window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Enter an Officer, who whispers Barbarigo. 

Bar. {to the Guard) Let him approach. I musi 
not speak with him 
Further than thus : I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbarigo 

[Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the loindow. 

Guard. There, sir, 'tis 

Open — How feel you? 

Jac. Fos. Like a boy — Oh Venice ! 

Guard. And your limbs? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne mo 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I. have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, mask'd as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors, noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength ; 
While the fair populace of crowding beauties, 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 
With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible. 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! — How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all rough en'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench'd hair. 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine. 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 



second him by his personal countenance and authority.— 
Jeffrey.] 

3 [Loredano is the only personage above mediocrity. The 
remaining characters are all unnatural, or feeble. Barbarigo 
is as tame and insignificant a confidant as ever swept alter 
the train of his principal over the Parisian stage. — IlEBEn.J 



Scene i 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



289 



The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft, 
In wanton ness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen, 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful ; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search'd the deep : exulting, 
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn'd 
The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird. — I was a boy then.' 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. [my own, 

Jac. Fos. (looking from the lattice.) My beautiful, 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze. 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face ! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins. 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick. 

Guard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to : ear 
What more may be imposed I — I dread to think on't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again? — No — no. 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will bo spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confess'd 

Once — twice before : both times they exiled me 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fos. Let them do so. 

So I be buried in my birthplace : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
hates,you 1 [soil 

Jac. Fos. The soil ! — Oli no, it is the seed of the 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what fchey will, so it be here.* 

Enter an Officer. 

Offi. Bring in the prisoner ! 

Guard. Signer, you hoar the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons ; 'tis 
The third time they have tortured me : — then lend me 
Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

Offi Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 

Be neare"*: to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You ! — you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away ! — I' ! walk aloiie. 

Offi As you pleeise, signor ; 



1 [This speech of Jacopo from the window, while describing 
the amusements of his youth, is written with a full feeling 
of the objects which it paints. — Heber.] 

' I And the hero himself, what is he 1 If there ever ex- 
isted in nature a case so extraordinafy as that of a man who 
gravely preferred tortures and a dungeon at home, to a tem- 
porary residence in a beautiful island and a fine climate, at 
the distance of three days' sail, it is what few can be made 
to believe, and still fewer to sympathize with ; and which is, 
therefore, no very promising subject for dramatic representa- 
tion. For ourselves, we have little doubt that Foscari wrote 
the fatal letter with the view, which was imputed to him by 
his accusers, of obtaining an honorable recall from banish- 
ment, through foreign influence ; and that the color which, 
when detected, he endeavored to give to the transaction, 



37 



The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the Council when 

They 

■ Jac. Fas. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid 

engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order. 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching. 

And the cold drops sliain through my brow, as if ~ 

But onward — I have borne it — I can bear it. — 
How looks my father? ' 

Offi. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
ocean. 
The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
Who govern, and the unknown and the unnumber'd 
Judged and destroy 'd in silence, — all thmgs wear 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire I 
Nothmg can sympathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Foscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt jAcoro Foscari, Officer, ^c. 

Enter Memmo and another Senator. 

Mejn. -He's gone — we are too late : — think you " the 
Ten" 
Vv''ill sit for any length of time to-day? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate. 
Persisting in his first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is much ; the secrets 

Of yon terrific chamber are as hidden 
From us, the premier nobles of the state, 
As from the people. 

Sen. Save the wonted rumors, 

Which — like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
Near ruin'd buildings — never have been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved : men know as little 
Of the state's real acts as cf the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

Mem. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge ? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen. 'Tis the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfidly desired, and lawfully 
Attain'd by noble asphants. 

Mem. To such 

1 leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I'd rather be an unit 



was the evasion of a drowning man, who is reduced to catch 
at straws and shadows. But, if Lord Byron chose to assume 
this alleged motive of his conduct as the real one, it be- 
hooved him, at least, to set before our eyes the intolerable 
separation from a beloved country, the Imgering home-sick- 
ness, the gradual alienation of intellect, and the fruitless 
hope that his enemies had at length relented, vv'hich were 
necessary to produce a conduct so contrary to all usual 
principles of action as that which again consigned him to 
the racks and dungeons of his ow7i country. He should 
have shown him to us, first, taking leave of Venice, a con- 
demned and banished man ; next pining in Candia ; next 
tampering with the agents of government ; by which lime, 
and not till then, we should have been prepared to listen 
with patience to his complaints, and to witness his sulTer- 
ings witi interest as weli as liorror.— Heber.] 



290 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I, 



Of an united and imperial " Ten," 

Than shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 

Whom have we here ? the wife of Foscari ? 

Enter Marina, with a female Attendant. 

Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they are senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady, 

Command us. 

Mar. I command ! — Alas ! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 

^em. I understand thee, but I must not answer. 

Mar. {fiercely.) True — none dare answer here 
save on the rack, 
Or question save those ■ 

Mem. {interrupting her.) High-born dame !' be- 
think thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Where I now am ! — It was 

My husband's father's palace. 

Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's prison ! — true, I have not forgot 
it; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
For pointing out the pleasures of the place. 

Mem. Be calm ! 

Mar. (looking up towards heaven.) I arn^ but oh, 
thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world? 

Mem. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is. 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
Speak not of that ; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a son at stake. 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
Will he condemn him? 

Mem. I trust not. 

Mar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

Mem. They can. 

Ma?-. And with them power and will are one 

In wickedness : — my husband's lost ! 

Mem. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Tanice. 

Mar. If it were so. 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's" is quicker, 
And we must wait ou't. All ! a voice of wail ! 

\^A faint cry within. 

Sen. Hark ! 

Mem. 'Twas a cry of— 

Mar. No, no ; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

Mem. The voice was — 

Mar. Not his : no. 

He shriek ! No ; that should be his father's part, 
Not his — not his — he'll die in silence. 



[Ste was a Cor.tarini— 

' A daughtt r of the house that now among 

Its ancestors in monumental brass 

Is umbers eight Doges."— Rogers. 

On tne occas.on of her marriage with the younger Foscari. 

the Bucentaiir came out in its splendor ; and a bridge of 

boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for the bride- 



[A faint groan again teithiiu 

Mem. What ! 

Again ? 

3Iar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To iove ; but — no — no — no — it must have been 
A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, wouldst 
thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence? 

Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though tlvey sweep both the Doge and son from life ; 
I have endured as much in giv'ng life 
To those who will succeed then, as they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful ^angs : 
And yet they wrung nva till I could have shriek'd, 
But did not ; for my hope was to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears.'* 

Mem. All's silent now. • 

Mar. Perhaps all's over ; bu 

I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek youi 

Offi. A leech. The prisoner has fainted. 

{Exit Officer. 

Mem. Lady, 

'Twere better to retire. 

Sen. {offering to assist her.) I pray thee do so. 

Mar. Off! / will tend him. 

Me7n. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers, 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 

Mar. • Well, 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have cnter'd — many never ; but 
They shall not balk my entrance. 

Mein. Alas! this 

Is but to expose yourself to harsh repulse. 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 

Mem. They 

Whose duty 'tig to do so. 

Mar. 'Tis their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet I'll pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With levell'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way ; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the. Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son, 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem. It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. . What 



groom, and his retinue of three hundred horse. According 
to Sanuto, the tournaments in the place of St. JIark lasted 
three days, and were attended by thirty thousand people.] 

2 [There is great dignity and beauty in the language of 
Marina, when she will not' believe thut her lord can be so 
far overcome by the rack as to utter an unseemly cry — 
Hebeb.] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



291 



Are judges who give way to anger? they 
Who do 60 are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 
Sen. Poor lady ! 

Mem. 'Tis mere desperauon . she 

Will not bo admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 
[ The Officer passes over the stage with another person. 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that " the Ten" had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death. 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Resource against the tyranny of pain ? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn him not at once. 

Sen. That's not their policy : they'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mern. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. None, save the Letter,' which he says was 
written, 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands, 
And thus he should be recouvey'd to Venice. 

Me/n. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 

And that was all he sought, — so he avouches. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed coufessiou 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of " the Ten."^ 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 

Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
That Almoro Donate, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. [than 

Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here coi J3 two of " the Ten ;" let us retire. 

[Exeunt Meimjio a7id Senator. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 
Bar. {addressing luov.) That were too much; be- 
lieve me, 'twas not meet 
Tiio trial should go further at this moment. 

> [" Night and day, 

Brooding on what he had been, wliat he was 
'Twas more than he could bear. His longing fits 
Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home 
Became a madness ; and, resolved to go. 
If but to die, in his despair, he writes 
A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan, 
fTo him whose name, among the greatest now,* 
Had perish'd, blotted out at once and rased. 
But for the rugged limb of an old oak,) 

* Francesco Sforza. His father, when at work iii the field, 
was accosted by some soldiers, and asked if he would enlist. 
" Let me throw my mattock on that oak," he replied, " and 
if il remains there, I will." It remained there ; and the 
peasant, regarding it as a sign, enlisted. He became 
soldier, general, prince ; and his grandson, in the palace at 
Rtilan, said to Paulus Jovius, " You behold these guards 
and this grandeur : I owe every thing to the branch of an 
oak, the branch that held my grandfather's mattock."— 

KOOSRS. 



Lor And so the Council must break up, and Jostioe 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

That's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd ? 

^ar. To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'Twas not tried 

Bar. 'Tis vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o'erruled my own. 

Bar. I am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, which prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction, 
M^es me wish 

Lor. What? 

Bar. That you would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as'of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so. 

Even with the crown of glory in his eye, 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not crj' 
For pity; not a word nor groan escaped him. 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication. 
But wrung from pangs, and follow'd by no prayers. 

Lor. He mutter'd many times between his teeth, 
Buf^ inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not ; 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Meth ought, 

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy. 
And were the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing 

Lor I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish 1 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavow'd, he'll be lamented. 

Bar What, wouldst thou slay his memory ? 



Soliciting his influence with the state, 
And drops it to be found." — Rogers.] 

2 [The extraordinary sentence pronounced against him, 
still existing among the archives of Venice, runs thus : — 
" Giacopo Eoscari, accused of the murder of Hermolao 
Donato, has been arrested and examined ; and, from the 
testimony, evidence, and documents exhibited, it distinctly 
appears that he is guilty of the aforesaid crime ; nevertlie- 
less, on account of his obstinacy, and of enchantments and 
spells, in his possession, of which there are manifest proofs, 
it has not been possible to extract from him the truth, 
which is clear from parole and written evidence ; for, 
while he was on the cord, he uttered nt ither word nor 
groan, but only murmured something to himself indis- 
tinctly and under his breath; therefore, as the honor of the 
state requires, he is condemned to a more distant banish- 
ment in Candia." Will it be credited, that a distini-,t proof 
of his innocence, obtained by the discovery of the leal as- 
sassin, wrouglit no change in his unjust and cruel sen- 
tence !— See Venetian Sketches, vol. ii. p. 97.] 



292 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



Lor. Wouldst thou have 

His state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted? 

Bar. War with them too ? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar And the deep agony of his pale wife. 
And the repress'd convulsion of the high 
And princely brow of his old father, which 
Broke forth in a slight shuddering, though rarely. 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; these moved you not? 

[Exit LOREDANO. 

He's silent in his hate, as Foscari 

Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 

More by his silence than a thousand outcries 

Could have effected. 'Twas a dreadful sight 

When his distracted wife broke through into 

The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

What we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this. 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our foes, their former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution than he thirsts for. 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the elders of the Council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sufferings. — Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity : 

I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

[Exit Barb.4RIG0. 



ACT n. 



SCENE I. 



A Hall in the Doge's Palace. 
The Doge and a Senator. 
Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 

Doge. Now ; 

I oveicok'd it yesterday: it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen — 

{The Doge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signoi 

Sen. {looking at the paper.) You have forgot ; it is 

not sign'd. 
Doge, Not sign'd ? Ah, I perceive my eyes begin 
To wax more weak with age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen without effect.- 

Scn. (dipping the pen into the ink, and placing the 
paper before the Doge.) Your hand, too, 
shakes, my lord : allow me, thus — 
Doge. 'Tis done, I thank you. 
Sen. Thus the act confirm'd 

By you and by " the Ten" gives peace to Venice. 
Doge. 'Tis long since she enjoy 'd it: may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'Tis almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 



> f " That I had dipp'd the pen too heedlessly."— MS.] 



With the Turk, or the powers of Italy ; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Doge. No doubt: 

I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leavo her 
Lady of Lombardy : it is a comfort" 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna ; CrcTia 
And Bergamo no less are licrs ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in rry reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'Tis most Irae, 

And merits all our counti-y's gratitude. 

Doge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. Wliich should be made manifest. 

Doge. I have not complain'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Doge. For what? 

Seji. My heart bleeds for you. 

Doge. For mo, signor ? 

Sen. And for your 

Doge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must have way, my lord : 

I have too many duties towards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for yoiu" son. 

Doge. Was this 

In your commission ? 

Sen. What, my k d? 

Doge. This prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty's sign'd : 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen I 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 

Doge. Say, when they will — now, even at this 
moment, 
If it so please them : I am the state's servant. 

Sen. They would accord some time for your re- 
pose. 

Doge. I have no repose ; that is, none which shall 
cause 
The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 

[Exit Senator 
[The Doge remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. Prince ! 
Doge. Say on. 

Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Doge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! [Exit Attendant. 

[The Doge remains in silence as before 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Doge. I have none from you, my child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Doge. Your husband? 

Mar. And your son 

Doge. Proceed, my daughtar I 



2 [" Mistress of Lombardy— it is some comfcrt.' — MS.] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



293 



Mar. I had obtaiu'd permission from " the Ten" 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Doge. You had so. 

Mar. ' 'Tis revoked. 

Doge. By whom ? 

Mar. "The Ten." — Wlien we had reach'd "the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Winch I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
" The Ten ;" but as the court no longer sate, 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
Until that liigh tribunal reassembled, 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

The form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
'Tis dubious. 

Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets. 

They'll torture him again ; and he and / 
Must purchase, by renewal of the rack, 
The interview of husband and of wife. 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens I — Oh God ! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge. Child— child 

Mar. (ahruftly.) Call me not " child .'" 

You soon will have no children — j^ou deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
Strctch'd forth a hand to save them? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — I would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
For him. 

Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not 
Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself. 
In all her mystery. Hear mt^ — they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his *3.ther ; 
Tii>3 sire's destruction woula no. save the sonj 
They work by different means to the same end. 
And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 

Mar. But they have crush'd. 

Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 

Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 

Doge. I trust, 

For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy. 
With womanish impatience to return. 
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter ; 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quencli'd 

them — 
He must return. 

Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have said it. 

Mar. Ani can I not go with him? 

poge You well know 

Tliig prayer of yours was twice denied before 



By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request. 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more austere. 

Mar. Austere ? Atrocious ! The old human fiends. 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council, 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not 

Mar I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suc*kIod — 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love — have givea 
Their bands in sacred vows — have danced their babes 
Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them — 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or vi'ere at least in seeming, human, could 
Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, 
Yoit, who abet them? 

Doge. I forgive thin, foi 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well. 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. . Oh, no doubt ! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not : 
And, after that, what are a woman's words? 
No more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell 
thee, 
Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina I 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity ! — 'tis a word 
Strange to thy heart — how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
wrong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

Mar. 'Tis not upon thy brow. 

Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall? 

Doge, {pointing downwards.) There ! 

Mar. In the earth? 

Doge. To which I am tending: when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
Now, you will know me better. 

Mar. Are you, then, 

Indeed, thns to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied ! None 

Shall ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle with my name ; that name shall be^ 
As far as I have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save. 
You were the last to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so I 

Better for him he never had been born ; 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonor'd. 

Mar. That's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier hoart, 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 



294 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
111 story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonor'd ! — he — dishonor'd ! 
I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonor'd ; 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffei-s, not for what he did. 
'Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrants . — ye ! 
Did you biit love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile. 
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me, 
Tlian Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again? 

Doge. Has he not been condemn'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would 
hope so. 

He was my pride, my but 'tis useless now — 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born :' those drops were ominous. 

Mar. I say he's innocent ! And were he not so. 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments? 

Doge. I shrank not from him : 

But I have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those duties j 
Twice I demanded it, but was refused : 
They must then be fulfiU'd.^ 

Enter an Attendant. . 

Ait A message from 

" The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He ! — but admit him. {Exit Attendant. 

Mar. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your husband, and if not Well, signer, 

Your pleasure ! [To Loredano entering. 

Lor. I bear that of " the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen wel'-tbeir envoy. 

Lor. , 'Tis their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy. — Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten" in council. 

Doge. WTiat ! have they met again, and met with- 
out 
Apprizing me? 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 



1 [The interest of this play is founded upon feelings so 
peculiar or overstrained, as to engage no sympathy ; and 
the whole story turns on incidents that are neither pleasing 
nor natural. The younger Foscari undergoes the rack 
twice, (once in the hearing of the audience,) merely because 
he has chosen to feign himself a traitor, that he might be 
brought back from undeserved banishment, z.nd dies at last 
of p'ire lotage on this sentiment ; while the elder Foscari 
suomivS in p -ofound and immoveable silence, to this treat- 
ment 01 his son, lest, by seeming to feel for his unhappy 



No less than age. 

Doge. That's new — when spared they either? 

I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. You know well 

That they have power to act at tlieir discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'Tis some years since I leam'd this, Jcng 
before 
I became Doge, or dream'd of such advancement 
You need not school me, signer : I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, m my father's time ; I have heard hira 
and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them ; they both 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so, better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt : yet most men like to live their days 
out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died. 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange, 

That you repeat the word emphatically? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there 
death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so? 

Doge. What should I tliink of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad ; I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'Tis perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

Lor. Who dares say so ? 

Doge. I ! 'Tis true 

Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in common\ wealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
were I 
That you would have me thought, you long ere now 
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I oaro not. 

Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown. 
That is, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signer, 

Am, or least was, more than a mere duke. 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 



fate, he should be implicated in his guilt— thovgh he is sup- 
posed guiltless. He, the Doge, is afraid to stir hand or foot, 
to look or speak, while these inexplicable horrors ara 
transacting, on account of the hostility of one Loredano, 
who lords it in the council of "the Ten," nobody knows 
why or how : and who at last " enmeshes" both father ar.a 
son in his toils, in spite of their passive obedience and non- 
resistance to lus plans. Theyare silly flies for this spider 
to catch, and " feed fat his ancier t grudge upc n."— Jef- 
frey.] 



Scene t. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



295 



Who dreaded to elect me, and have shice 

Striven all they dare to weigh mo down : be sure, 

Before or since that period, had I held you 

At so much price as to require your absence, 

A word of mine had set such spirits to work 

As would have made you nothing. But in all things 

I have observed the strictest reverence ; 

Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 

(I do not speak of you but as a single 

Voice of the many) somewhat beyond what 

I could enforce for my authority. 

Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 

I have observed with veneration, like 

A priest's for the high altar, even unto 

The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet. 

Safety, and all save honor, the decrees, 

The health, the pride, and welfare of the state 

And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'Tis decreed, 

That, without farther repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial, 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is, 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his,) 
James Foscari return to banishment. 
And sail in the same galley which conveyed him. 

Mar. Thank God ! At least they will iiot drag 
him more 
Before that horrid tribunal. Would he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom. 
Not he alone, but all who dwell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my daughter. 

Mar. No, 'twas too human. May I share his 
exile ? 

Lor. Of this " the Ten" said nothing. 

Mar. So I thought ! 

That were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited ? 

Lor. It was not named. 

Mar. (to the Doge.) Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To LoREDANO. 

And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to bo 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavor. 

Mar And you, signer? 



Lor. 



Lady I 



'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure 
Of the tribunal. 

Mar. ■ Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 

Doge. Daughter, know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things? 

Mar. A prmce's and his subject's 

Lor. Subject ! 

Mar Oh ! 

It galls you :^well, you are his equa , as 
You think • but that you are not, nor would be, 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you're a prince, 
A princely noble ; — and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 



-MS 



[Sto on«e, p. 213.] 



The blackest leaf, his heart, and blankest his brain." 



b.J 



To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 

The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference duo even to the lightest word 
That falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared mechanics, 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens. 
And mask'd nobility, your sbirri, and 
Your spies, your galley and your other slaves. 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drownings. 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions. 
Your " Bridge of Sighs, "^ your strangling chambei, 

and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye ; 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then wliat have I to fear /rom you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not? 

Doge. You heal she speaks wildly. 

Mar. Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady ! words 

Utter'd within these walls I bear no further 
Than to the threshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. Then say 

The Doge will choose his own ambassador, 
Or state in person .what is meet ; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember 7nine. — Farewell ! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady. 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano 

Mar. Are you content ? 

Doge. I am what you behold. 

Mar. ■ And that's a mystery. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, who have studied long 
That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain,'' 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it : all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of'fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'tweie well 
We should remember Fortune can take naught 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness. 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations. 
Where hunger swallows all in one low waut,^ 
And the original ordinance, that man 



3 [" Where hunger swallows all — where ever was 
The monarch who could bear a three clays' fast V 
—MS.] 



296 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act III. 



Mii?t sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! Ail is low, 
And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath,' our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days. 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something wiiich is not us ! — So, we are slaves, 
The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm f 
And when we think we lead, wo are most led. 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as much 
Without our act or choice, as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

Mar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my sou ? I have administer'd 
My country faithfully — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms ; 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, me single. 

Mar. And Foscari ? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so : 

Thus much they cannot well deny. ' 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly? 

Mar. I know not, reck not — 

To Syria, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Anywhere, where we might respire unfetter'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor Uable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
husband. 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best and bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
None rebels except subjects? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st, such laws as nake old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison 

Doge. I found the law ; I dia ji.ct make it. Were I 
A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
Left by our fathers. 

Mar. Did they make it for 

The rum of their children ? 

Doge. Under such laws, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory, (for we have had Roman spirits 



1 [" What's fame ? a fancied life in others' breatli, 

A thing beyond ns, ev'n before our ceath." — PorE.l 



Amongst us,) all that history has bequeath'd 
Of Rome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

Mar. Rather say, 

Groan'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
Without a name, is alike nothing, when 
Tlie policy, irrevocably tending 
To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigor. 

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 
father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If wo had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still such, Venice were no city 

Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all. 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfil her wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be. 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 

Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I'll 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father? 

Doge. That he obey 

The laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 

Doge. The last ! — my boy I — the last time I shall 
see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT III 



SCENE I. 



The Prison of Jacopo Foscari. 

Jac. Fos. (solus.) No light, save yon faint gleam, 
which shows mo walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds. 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair! 
And yet for this I have return'd to Vcuiice, 
Withsome faint hope, 'tis tru^ that time, which wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, and here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 



[ " the will itself dependent 

Upon a storm, a straw, and both alike 
Ijeadlng to death."— MS.] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



297 



The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 

High in the air on her return to greet 

Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approaching the wall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall V 
Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the names 
Of my sad predecessors in this place, 
The dates of tlieir despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph tlieir history ; 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
I recognise some names familiar to me, 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add, 
Fittest for such a chronicle as this, 
Which only can be read, as writ, by wretches." 

[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten."^ 

Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it down ; 

I am past hunger : but my lips are parch'd — 
The water ! 

Fam. There. 

Jac. Fos. {after drinking.) I thank you: I am better. 

Fam. I am commanded to inform you that 
Your further trial is postponed. 

Jac. Fos. Till when? 

Fa7n. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 

Jac. Fos. Ah I they relent, then, — I had ceased 
to hope it : 
'Twas time. 

Enter Marina 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

Jac. Fos. {embracing her.) My true wife, 
And only friend ! What happiness ! 

Mar. * We'll part 

No more. 

Jac. Fos. How I wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all — any thing with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignpiant of each other, yet I will 
Share that — all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
How dost thou? How are those worn limbs? i las! 
Why do I ask ? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos 'Tis the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, asid left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 

Mar. 'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of the familiar's torcli, which seems akin'' 



1 [For Mr. Hobhouse's account of the state dungeons of 
Venie J. see Appendix : Historical Notes to Childe Harold, 
Na. I 

a [•' Whlo.i r.jver can be read but, as 'twas written, 
By wretched beings." — MS.] 

' [Lord Byron, in this tragedy, has not ventured upon fur- 
thrr deviation from historical truth than is fully authorized 
by ihs license of the drama. We may remark, however, that 



38 



To darkness more than light, by lending to 

The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke, 

Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes — 

No, not thine eyes — they sparkle — how they sparkle ! 

Jac. Fos. And thine ! — but I am blinded by tho 
torch. 

Mar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou see 
hero ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
taught me 
Fainiliarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by tho winl.s 
Was kinder to mine eyes than the full sun. 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
Thou earnest hither I was busy writing. 

Mar. What? 

Jac. Fos. My name : look, 'tis there — recorded no.xt 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

Mar. And what of him? 

Jac. Fos. These walls aro silent of men's ends ; 
they only 
Seem to hint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead. 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him ? 
Thou askest. — What of me ? may soon be ask'd. 
With tho like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 

Mar. I speak of thee ! 

Jac. Fos. And wherefore not ? All then shall speak 
of me : 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting. 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's ! 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar. Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. The mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound ; but 'tis a sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death. 
And torture positive, far worse titan death, 
(If death be a deep sleep,) without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woful — such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small ditngeon is all that belongs to thee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

Jac. Fos. That thought wotild scarcely aid me to 
endure it. 
My doom is comm«n, many are in duitgcons, 
But none like mine, so near their father's palaco ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 



after Giacopo had been tortured, he was removed to tho 
Ducal apartments, not to one of the Pozzi ; that his death 
occurred, not at Venice, but at Canea; that fifteen montlis 
elapsed between his last condemnation and his fathei's de- 
position ; and that the death of the Doge took place, aot at 
the palace, but in his own house. — Venet. Sketches, ijol ii. 
p. 105.] 
* [" Of the familiar's torch, which seems to lv\e 
Darkness far more than light." — MS ] 



298 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act hi. 



Our only day; for, save the jailer's torch, 

And a strange firefly, which was quickly caught 

Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 

I no'er saw aught hero like a ray. Alas I 

I know if mind may bear us up, or no, ^ 

For I have such, and shown it before men ; 

It sinks in solitude :' my soul is social. 

Mar. I will bo with thee. 

Jan. Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted — nor will grant, 
And I shall be alone : no men — no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind. 
Which they term annals, history, what you will. 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me, — so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story, 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. I know it — look ! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the 
Question which he had undergone. 

Mar. No — no — no more of that : even they relent 
From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

Mar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms. 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves, 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom. 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Mar. And here 7 

Jac. Fos. At once — by better means, as briefer. 
What I would they even deny me my sires' sepulchre, 
As well as home and heritage 1 

Mar My husband ! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence, 



1 [Persons condemned to solitary confinement generally, 
we are assured, become either madmen or idiots, as mind or 
matter happens to predominate, when the mysterious balance 
between them is destroyed. But they who are subjected to 
such a dreadful punishment are generally, like most per- 
petrators of gross crimes, men of feeble internal resources. 
Men of talents, like Trenck, have been known, in the deep- 
est seclusion, and most severe confinement, to battle the 
foul fiend melancholy, and to come ofT conquerors daring a 
captivity of years. Those who suffer imprisonment for tlie 
sake of their country, or their religion, have yet a stronger 
support, and may exclaim, though in a diflerent sense from 
that of Othello,—" It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul." 
— Sib Walter Scott.] 

2 In Ladj Morgan's fearless and excellent work upon Italy, 
I perceive the expression of " Rome of the Ocean," applied 
to Venice. The same phrase occurs in the '• Two Foscari." 
My publisher can vouch for me, that the tragedy was written 
and sent to England some time before I had seen Lady Mor- 

fan's work, which I only received on the ICth of August, 
hasten, however, to notice the coincidence, and to yield 
the originality of the phrase to her who first placed it be- 
fore the public. I am the more anxiotis to do this, as I am 
uifoimetl (for I have st "^n but few of the specimens, and 
those accidentally) that there have been lately brought 
agauist me charges of p,agiarism. [See^os^, note to the 
description of a shipwreck, Don Juan, c. ii. s. xxiv.] 



And not so hopelessly. This love of thuie 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

Jac. Fos. Well I know how v/retched I 

Mar. And yet you see how from their banish- 
ment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles. 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome f 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone foi\a 

From my own land, like the old f»triarclis, seeking 
Another region, with their floclvs and herds ; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews froiri Zion, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my ate country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards address'd 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wherefore not ? 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay — we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands, 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence of that parting. 
Or after their departure ; of that malady^ 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rough deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrain'd from treading them? 
That melody,^ which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds. 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought. 
And dies. You call this weakness .' It is strength, 



s The calenture.— [A distemper peculiar to sailors in hot 
climates — 

" So by a calenture misled 

The mariner with rapture sees 
On the smooth ocean's azure bed 

Enamell'd fields and verdant trees : 
With eager haste he longs to rove, 

In that fantastic scene, and thinks 
It must be some enchanted grove, 

And in he leaps, and down he sinks."- Swift.] 

■1 Alluding to the Swiss air and its effects.- [The Ranz 
des Vaches, played upon the bagpipe, by the young cow- 
keepers on the mountains : — " An air," says Rousseau, " so 
dear to the Swiss, that it was forbidden, under the pain of 
death, to play it to the troops, as it immediately drew tears 
from them, and made those who heard It desert or die of 
what is called la maladie du pais, so ardent a desire did it ex- 
cite to return to their country. It is in vain to seek in this 
air for energetic accents capable of producing such aston- 
ishing effects, for which strangers are unable to account 
from the music, which is in itself uncouth and wild. But it 
is from habit, recollections, and a thousand circumstances, 
retraced in this tune by those natives who hear it, and re- 
minding them of their country, former pleasures of their 
youth, and all their ways of living, vkhich occasion a bitter 
reflection at having lost them."j 



SCBNE :. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



299 



I gay,_the parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 
Mar Obey her, then : 'tis sne that puts thee forth. 
Jac. Fos. Ay, there it is : 'tis like a mother's curse 
Upon my soul— the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
Theii hands upheld each other by the way, 
Tlieir tents were pitch'd together—I'm alono 

Mar. You shall be so no more— I will go with 

thee. 
Jac Fos. My best Marina !— and our children ? 
Mar. , Tliey, 

I fear, by the prevention of the state s 
Abhorrent policy, (which holds all ties 
As threads, which may be broken at her pleasure,) 
Will not be suffer'd to proceed with us. 
Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them? 
Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But — I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a child. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 
To teach you not to shrink now from a lot. 
Which, as compared with what you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in tlie receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem'd ploughing deep into your heart; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory. 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

Mar. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from this nnich-loved city, 
(Since you must love it, as it seems,) and this 
Chamber of state,, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That's sudden. Shall I not behold my 

father ? 
Mar. You will. 
Jac. Fos. Where? 

Mar. Here, or in the ducal chamber — 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile "5 ho bears it. 

Jac. Fos Blame him Eot. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise. A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from " the Ten," aud upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you? 

Jac Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 'twas 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true, 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor, 
Aud shall be moio so when I see us both 
Floating on the free waves — away — away — 
Bo it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd, 
Unjust, and 



Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent, 

AVho dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. Men and angels ! 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
The groans of slaves in chains, aud men in dungeons, 
Mothers, and wives, and sons, and sires, and sub- 

J€Cts, 

Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee ? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must 
be. 
To our departure. Who comes here? 

Enter Loredano, attended hy Familiars. 

Lor. (to the Familiars.) Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signer. 

I did not deem this pool place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'Tis not the first time 

I have visited these p!aces. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us ? 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's" decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 
Lor. As how ? 

Mar. I have inform'd him, not so gently 

Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues : but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough without you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you : 

What can avail such words? 

jVfa;-. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir. 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do well 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari— you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. Return to Candia ? 

Lor. True— 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 
Lor. I said — for life. 

Jac. Fos. And I 

Repeat — not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea — afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 
Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar. Who obtaiii'd that justice ? 

Lor. One who wars not with women. 
Mar. But opf iossbs 

Men : howsoever let him have my thanks 



300 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act in. 



For tho only boon I would have ask'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are ofFer'd. 

Mar. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 

Because we have brief time for preparation, 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 
Mar. Nobler! 

Lor. How nobler ? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

We say tho " generous steed" to express the purity 
^' f his high blood. Thus much I've learn'd, although 
Venetian, (who see few steeds save of bronze,) 
From those Venetians who have skimm'd the coasts 
Of Egypt, and her neighbor Araby : 
And why not say as soon the " generous man ?" 
If race be aught, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater I 
Jac. Fos. Again, Marina ! 

Mar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let hirn partake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now — 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but ho partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal fire, ere long, 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 
With death, and chains, and exile in his hand 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thin^ks fit: 
They are his weapons, not his armor, for 
I have pierced him to tho core of his cold heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 
Mar. It may be so ; and who hath made us mad ? 
Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 
Mar. That's false ! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold griefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans — to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son — my husband ; 
In short, to trample on tho fallen — a:: office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men irom him ! 
How have you sped? We are wretched, signer, as 
Your plots could make, and vengeance could desire us, 
And how feel you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shrver'd. Come, 



J [If the two Foscari do nothing to defeat the machina- 
tions of theiv remorseless foe, Marina, the wife of the 
younger, at least revenges them, by letting loose the venom 
of her tongue upon their hateful oppressor, which she does 



Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon, 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell, 
Which he has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone ' 

Enter the Dcge. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge, (emhracing him.) Jacopo ! my son — my son i 

Jac. Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard thee name my name — our name ! 

Doge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. I rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. Doge, look there . 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man — 7; hat meau'st thou? 

Mar. Caution ! 

Lor. Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practise, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 'tis no virtue, bu ihe policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice: 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know hira better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 

Jac. Fos. Fatlier, let not tliese 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it. 
Indeed, our last of meetings? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children — to your last child's children 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

Mar. No — not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any 
where. 

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love, 
To freeze their young blood in its natural current- 
They have fed well, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw Well, 
I know his fate may one day be their heritage. 
But let it only be their heritage, 
And not their present fee. Their senses, though 
Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
Which floats above the place where we now stand — 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere. 
However you — and you — and, most of all. 
As worthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. I have not 

Reflected upon this, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 



without stmt or measure , and in a strain of vehemence 
not inferior to that of the c <l queen Margaret in Richard 
the Third.— Jeffrey.] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



301 



Do're. Not so: they shall await you in my chamber. 

Jat Fas. Aud must I leave them— all? 

J You must. 

jIfos. Not one? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

^far. I thought they had been mme. 

Lnr Thev are, in all maternal things. 

Tir ' That IS,- 

Mar. . . , „ n 

In all things painful. If they're sick, they will 
T?e left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn : but if 
Tlfty live, they'll make you soldiers, senators, 
Slaves, exiles— what you will ; or if they are 
Feniales with portions, brides and bribes for nobles . 
Behold the state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. The hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac Fas. How know you that here, where the genial 
wind 
Ne'er blows in all its blustering freedom? 

Lor Twas so 

\VTien I came hero The galley floats within 
A bow -shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! I pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doire. Be firm, my son ! 

Jac Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Mar farewell ! at least to this detested dungeon, 
And him to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

j^gj.^ And present 

Liberation. 

Do're. He speaks truth. 
Jac. Fos. No doubt ! but 'tis 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe him. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change them. 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signer. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step T take, even from this cell, 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 

Even on these dull damp walls, and 

j)gge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
Tliey will relieve his heart— that too kind heart— 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now. 
But would not gratify yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the Wct/. 

Lor. (to the Familiar.) The torch, there ! 

Mar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre, 
"With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doo-e. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 
Jac. Fos. Alas ! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
Who ought to be the prop of yours 1 

j^fyy^ Take mine. 

Mar. Touch it not, Foscari ; 'twill sting you. 
Signer, 
Stand off! be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged, 
No hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the hand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but will support you ever. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 
Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 
Bar. And have you confidence in such a project? 
Lor. I have. 
. Bar. 'Tis hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 
Bar. 'Twill break his heart. 

£,or. Age has no heart to break. 

Ho has see:: rAs son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had naught to envy him within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, w.t]'' 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 
Bar. Bidding farewell. 
X,or. A last. As soon he snail 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son 1 

Lor. Forthwith — when this long leave is taken. 'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

X,gr. Not I, now 

We have h'igher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment. 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. , 

Lor. 'Tis moderate— not even life for hfe, the rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 
Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly? 
j^gj.^ Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 
Lor. , No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in the Council, 
It must be done with all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 
Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 
So that the thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the Council on their knees, 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope,) to beg him 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 
Bar. What, if he will not? 
2^5,.. We'll elect another, 

And make him null. 

Bar. Rut will the laws uphold us ? 

Lor. What- laws?— "The Ten" are laws; and if 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peril ? 

lior. There is none, I tell you, 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

Ijor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time 

Bar. Uuask'd ? 

Lor. ^^ BhoTvB 



302 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



The impression of his former instances : 

If tliey were from his heart, he may be tliankful : 

If not, 'twill punish his hypocrisy. 

Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 

And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 

I have prepared such arguments as will not 

Fail to move them, and to remove him : since 

Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, do 

not 
You, with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support you. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as ho can drag them : 'tis his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Lor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enough, and he 
Lived longer than enough. Hence ! in to council ! 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 



Enter MemiMO and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten !" Why so? 

Mem. " The Ten" 

Alone can answer: they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are suramon'd — 
That is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon, 

If you obey ; and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, but 

Mem. In Venice " lut" 's a traitor. 

But me no " buts," unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. I am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten" have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one, 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honor'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Me/n. As we hope, signer, 

And all may honestly, (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may.) one day hope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates, a school of wisdom, to 
Be thus admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysl erics. 

Sen. Let us view them : they. 

No doubt, are worth it. 



J [" Unnerved, anrl now unsettled in his mind 

Frorr lung and exquisite pam, he sobs and cries, 
Kissing tne old man's cheek, ' Help me, my Father ! 
Let me, 1 pray thee, live once more among ye : 



Mem. Being worth our lives 

If wo divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 
Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfil my office. 

Mc?n. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying " the Ten's" summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let 's in. 

JVfem. The earliest are most welcome > 

In earnest councils — we will not be least so. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marika. 

Jac. Fas. Ah, father! though I must and will depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home,* 
Howe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time, as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex'd they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo 

Go and obey our country's will : 'tis not 
For us to look beyond. 

Jac. Fos But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest o/Tspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth; 
And their desponding shades came flitting round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not sumnion'd yet ; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd: — who knows? 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oar 
Will quickly clear the harbor. 

Jac. Fos. O, ye elements ! 

Where are your storms? 

Mar. In human breasts. Alas ? 

Will nothing calm you? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with more holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves. 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands Avhich skirt 
The land I love, au^- never shall see more ' 

Mar. And wish j m this with me beside you ? 

Jac. Fos. No- 

No — not for thee, too good, too kind ! Mayst thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 



Let me go home.'—' My son,' returns the Doge, 
Mastering his grief, 'if thou art indeed my son, 
Obey. Thy country wills it.' " — Hoqecs.] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



303 



Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 

Of such support ! But for myself alone, 

May all the winds of heaven howl down the Gulf 

And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 

Appall'd, turn their despairin^r eyes on me, 

As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 

Cast me out from amongst them, as an ofFenng 

To appease the waves. The billow which destroys 

me 
Will be more merciful than man, and bear me, 
Dead, but still bear me to a native grave, 
From fishers' hands upon the desolate strand. 
Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
One lacerated like the heart which then 
Will be— But wherefore breaks it not? why live I? 
Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to mas- 
ter 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 
A sufferer, but not a loud one : why. 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence — 
Imprisonment and actual torture ? 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right, 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Do!re. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive > 

Doge. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 

And me for having lived, and you yourself, 
(As I forgive you.) for the gift of life. 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 
Mar. What hast thou done ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow : but 
I have been so beyond the common lot 
Chasteu'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

Mar. Fear not : that 's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar Hope not? 

Jac. Fosi I cannot wish them all they have in- 
flicted. 
Mar. All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand 
fold 
]\Iay the worm which ne'er dieth feed upon them ! 
Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

^ar. And if they do. Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

Offi. Signer ! the boat is at the shore — the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
Your hand ! 

Doo-e. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 

Jac. Fos. No— you mistake ; 'tis yours that shakes, 
my father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell ! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No— nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Ij6nd me your arm, good signer. 

Offi You turn pale — 

Lot me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water I 

Mar Ah, he is dying ! 



Jac. Fos. Now, I'm ready — 

My eyes swim strangely — where's the door 1 

Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him — my best love ! Oh, God ! 
How faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 

Jac. Fos. The light ! 

Is it the light ? — I am faint 

[Officer presents him with water. 
Offi. He will be better, 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father— wife — 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There's death in that damp clammy grasp. 
Oh God !— My Foscari, how fare you? 

Jac. Fos. Well! 

[He dies. 
Offi. He's gone ! 
Doge. He's free. 

][Iar. No — no, he is not dead ; 

There must be life yet m that heart— he could not 
Thus leave me. | 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar. Hold thy peace, old man 1 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no sou. 
Oh, Foscari ! 

Offi. We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants ! your base 
office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder, 
Even by your murderous laws. Leave his remains 
To those who know to honor them. 

Offi. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Doge. Inform the signory from 7ne, the Doge, 
They have no further power upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject- 
Now he is mine — my broken-hearted boy ! 

[Exit Officer. 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Doo-e. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. My children ! true-rthey live, and I must live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ? 

Doge. My unhappy children ! 

Mar. What! 

You feel it then at last— you .'—Where is now 
The stoic of the state ? 

Doge, {throwing himself down hy the body.) Here ! 

Mar. Ay, weep on ! 

I thought you had no tears— you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but weep on ! he never 
Shall weep more — never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

X,„r. What's here ? 

Mar. Ah ! the devil come to insult the dead ! 
Avaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment \ 

Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event, 
But pass'd here merely on our path from counci'. 

Mar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge, 

Mar. {pointing to the Doge, who is still on he 
ground by his son's body.) He's busy, look. 
About the business you provided for hun. 
Arc ye content ? 



304 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Apt iv. 



Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar No, yo only make them, 

Then leave them. 

Doge, (rising) Sirs, I am ready. 

Bar. No — not now. 

Lor. Yet 'twas important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice totter'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you 
bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there : 
If they be good, say on : you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could ! 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
He understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so 

Doge. What mean you? 

Mar. Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Foscari — 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 

[7*0 Loredano. 
Thou cowardly murderer by law, behold 
How death itself bears witness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child ! this is a phantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. [To his attendants.] Signers, 

if it please you, 
Within an hour I'll hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and attendants with the 
body. Manent Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that naught 

Could give him trouble farther. 

Bar. These are words ; 

But gi'ief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. Sorrow preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions -of the other world, 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You would deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing 's decreed. The Giunta and " the 
Ten" 
Have made it law — who shall oppose that law ? 

Bar. Humanity ! 

Lor. Because his sou is dead? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act was passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not — once pas.s'd. 

Bar. Ill not consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that's essential — leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now? 

Lor. The feelings 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 



Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let liim 

Inter his son before we presj? iipon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 

My sire and imcle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be, 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal : he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My siies by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used nc poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons — and he had four — are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sure 

He dealt in such ? 

Lor Most sure. 

Bar. And yet he seems 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he Eeem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor? 

Lor. Even bo : when he, 

After the very night in which " the Ten" 
(Join'd with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at daybre_ak with a jest. 
Demanding whether he should augur him 
"The good day or good night?" his Dogeship an- 

swer'd, 
" That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil, 
In which (he added with a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you."' 
'Twas true ; the question was the death resolved 
Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he diea ; 
And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled oii 

him 
With deadly cozenage, eight long months before- 
hand — 
Eight months of such hypocrisy as is 
Learn'd but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethren — 
I never S7niled on them. 

Bar. Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lor. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but, in his manhood. 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against, not only saved 
Our own, but added others to our sway. 

Lor. The Romans (and we ape them) gave a 
crown 
To him who took a city ; and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle : the rewards are equal. Now, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Foscari, with citizens 
Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow'd 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar, Are you then thus fix'd ? 



1 An historical fact- See Dzru, torn. iL 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



305 



Lor. Why, what should change mo ? 

Jifir. That which changes me : 

But you, I know, are marble to retahi 
A feud. But when all is accomplish'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sous all dead, his family depress'd, 
Ajid you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That's an error, and you'll find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

ior. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 
Till Foscari fills his. Each niglrt I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 

Bar. Fancy's distemperature ! There 3 no passion 
More spectral or fantastical than Hate ; 
Not even its opposite. Love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heex 



Enter an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault has been often open'd of late years. 

Lor. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed forever. 

Offi. May I pass on ? 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. How bears the Doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move now and then ; 
And once or twice I heard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — " My son !" 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. {Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right I 

Wo must be speedy : let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it a', this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I'll take their voices on it ne'ertheless, 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
[hxeunt Barbauigo and Loredano. 



ACTV 



SCENE I. 

The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge and Attendants. 

Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are like. Let them ap- 

. proach. 

{Exit Attendant. 



39 



An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding 

Doge. What command ? 

Offi. A melancholy one — to call the attendance 
Of 

Doge. True — true — trae : I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old — old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but they begin 
To overtake me. 



Enter the Deputation, consisting of six oj the Sig- 
nory, and the Chief of the Ten. 

Noble men, your pleasure ! 
Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the Council 
doth condole 
With the Doge on h'.s 'ate and private grief. 
Doge. No more— no more of that. 
Chief of the Ten. Will net the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect? 

Doge I do 

Accept It as 't^s given — proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 
Of twenty-five of the best born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this moment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
Now to solicit from your wisdom, (which 
Upon reflection must accord in this,) 
The resignation of the ducal ring. 
Which you have worn so long and venerably : 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your j'ears and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 
Doge. Did I hear rightly ? 
Chief of the Ten. Need I say again ? 

Doge. No. — Have you done ? 
Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 
Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 
Chief of the Ten 
Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay ! Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to say. 
Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
And not alone refused, but ye exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I have sworn to die 
In full exertion of the functions, which 
My country call'd me here to exercise, 
According to my honor and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the T'en. Reduce us not 

To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your compliance. 

Doge. Providence 

Prolongs my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the couatry'i 
I am ready to lay down my life for her, 
As I have laid down dearer things than life: 
But for my dignity — I hold it of 



306 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



The whole republic ; when the general will 
Is manifest, then you shall all be answer'd.' 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer; 
but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree — decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Retuni to those who sent us? 

Doge. Yon have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation, ^c. 

Enter an Attendant 
Att, My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude — 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, I 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We will ; and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavor Oh, my husband ! 

Doge. Give it way ; 

I cannot comfort thee. 

Mar. He might have lived. 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life, 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so bless'd and blessing 
As my poor Foscari? Nothing wa^ wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the people whom he loved. 
The prince of whom he was the elder born, 
And 

Doge. Soon may be a prince no longer. 

Mar. How '.' 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now 
a-im 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resmne the gewgaws! 

Mar. Oh, the tyrants ! 

In such an hour too ! 

Doge. 'Tis the fittest time ! 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it? — Oh, for vengeance ! 
But he, who, had he been enough protected. 
Might have repaid protection in this moment, 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 



1 c" Then was thy cup, old man, full to the brim. 
But thou wert yet alive ; and there was one, 
The soul and spring of all that enmity, 
Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy flank. 
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied , 
One of a name illustrious as thine own ! 
One of the Ten ! one of the Invisible Three ! 
'Twas Loredano. When llie whelps were gone. 
He would dislodge the Lion from liis den ; 



Mar. They tortured from him. Thifl 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved hi7n — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through sucli an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from : he is gone, 
And I, who would have given my blood for him, 
Have nauglit to give but tears ! But could I ccmoass 
The retribution of his wrongs I — Well, well ; 
I have sons, who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief dislracts you. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I 
saw him 
Bow'd down by such oppression ; yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Than his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

Doge. I must look on him once morp. 

Mar. Come with me ! 

Doge. Is 1: e 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier 

Doge. And i.e is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man ! 

[Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 



Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. (to an Attendant.) Where is the Doge? 

Att. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where? 

Att. . To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 

Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the Giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they'll be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the Doge 1 

Lor. 'Twas his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and mv.st so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for — what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes: 

He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel me hither? 

Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such different 
thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest fiilse tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating ; 
'Tis thus (although a secondaiy object. 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 



And, leading on the pack he long had led. 
The miserable pack that ever howl'd 
Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscan 
Be Doge no longer; urging his great age; 
Calling the loneliness of grief, neglect 
Of duty, sullenness against the laws. 
— ' I am most willing to retire,' said he . 
♦But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. 
Do with me as ye please.' "— Roqebs ] 



Scene i. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



307 



This undc^ired asaoniation in 

Yonr Giuuta's dutieiS. 

Lor. How ! — 7ny Giunta ! 

Bar. Yours .' 

They speak your lan^age, watch your nod, approve 
Four plans, and do your work. Are they not yours ? 

Lor. You talk unwarily. 'Twere best they hear 
not 
This from you 

Bar. Oh ! they'll hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine • they have gone 

beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most contemn'd and abject 
States, stung humanity will rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 

Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here como our colleagues 

Enter the Deputation as before 

Chief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 

Att. He shall be inform'd. 

[Exit Attendant. 

Bar. The Duke is with his son. 

Chief of the Ten. If it bo so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us returu. 'Tis time enough to-morrow. 

Lor. {aside to Bar.) Now the rich man's hell-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquenchable ! I'll have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this ! Sage signers, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human ! 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

Doge. I have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. Wo come once more to urge our 
past request. 

Doge. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point — • 

To the point ! I know of old the form? of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on ! 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge ; you 
are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign ; 
Your ducal robes must be put off; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence. 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your (iwn private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I am proud to say, would not enrich the treasury. 



' C The act is pass'd— I will obey it."— MS.] 
* [ " He was deposed, 

He, who had reign'd so long and gloriously ; 
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, 
His robes stnpp'd off, his seal and signet- ring 
Broken before him. But now notliing moved 



Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

-^'"■- Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last moments to lier 
But the decree being render'd, I obey.' 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three days 
named extended, 
We willingly will lengthen them to .ight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. Not eight hours, signer, 

Nor even eight minutes — There's the ducal ring, 

[ Taking off his , ing and cap. 
And there the c'-.ical diadem. And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir, 

And oven to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methiuks I see amongst you 
A face I know not — Senator ! your name. 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 

Mem. Signor, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo.^ 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — But sons and fathers ! — 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 

Atten. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince — 

There are the princes of the prince ! [Pointing to 

the Ten^s Deputation.] — Prepare 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly ? 'twill give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; 

[To the Ten 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the Servants 
There is one burden which I beg j'ou bear 
With care, although 'tis past all further harm — 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 

Doge. Get thee ready ; we must mourn 

Elsewhere. 

Mar. And everywhere. 

Doge. True ; but in frecJom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signers, you may depart: what would you more? 
We are going: do your fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I'm very old. 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them not 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 



The meekness of his soul. AV things alike ! 
Among the six that came will he decree, 
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired 
His name. ' I am the son of Marco Memriio ' 
' Ah !' he replied, ' thy father was my fi.end !' " 
-Rogers.] 



308 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



The pillars of stone Dajron's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there mi<jht exist 
In such a cnrso as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; bul J curse not. Adieu, good signers. 
May the next Juke be better than the present. 

Lor. The p\ Rent duke is Paschal Malipicro. • 

Doge. Not til I pass the threshold of these doora. 

Lor. Saint Mt.'-k's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inangurat. m. 

Doge. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this ! — i'le first doge who e'er heard 
Such sound for his successor! Happier he, 
My attainted predecetiscr, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the leasl was spared him. 

Lor. What ! 

Do you regret a traitor? 

Doge. No — I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandoninent 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty — the Giants' Stairs, on whoso 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have called mo up those steps, 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thirty years ago Viras I 
Instaird, and traversed these same halls, from which 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow-citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to his grave, and I to pray for mine. 

Chief of the Ten. What ! thus in public ? 

Doge. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing? 

Mar. Hero's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff : thus propp'd will I go 
forth. 

Chief of the Ten. It must not be — the people will 
perceive it. [know it. 

Doge. The people ! — There's no people, you well 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace, perhaps, whoso looks [you 

May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 
Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of trie Ten. You speak in passion. 

Else 

Doge. You have reason. 1 have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses yon. 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, shs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 



> [The death of the elder Foscari took place nut at the 
palace, but in his own house ; not immediately on his 
descent from the Giants' Stairs, but five days afterwards. 
" En entendant," says M. de Sismondi, " Ic son des cloches, 
qui sonnaient en actions de graces pour I'election de son 
suGcessour, il mourut subitement d'une hemorrhagic causae 
par une veine qui s'6clata dans sa poitrine." — " Before I 



We will accompany, with due respect. 
The Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, will we not? 

Different voices. Ay ! — Ay . 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir — in my train, at least. I onter'd here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more, 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am 7wne ! — That's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

Lor. Hark I 

■" The great hell of St. Mark's tolls. 

Bar. The bell 

Chief of the Ten. St. Mam's, Aliich tolls for the 
election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognise 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
And that is five and thirty years ago ! 
Even then I loas not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord . 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'Tis the knell of my poor boy 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. [now. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till 
Marina ! let us go. 

Mar. Most readily. 

Doge, {walks a few steps, then stops.) I feel athirst — 
will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 



Bar. 

Mar. 
Lor. 



And I 

And I 

[The Doge takes a gohlct from the hand 
0/ Lore DANG. 
Doge. I take yours, Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 

Jjor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'Tis said that our Venetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 
Lor. Well, sir ! 

Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 'tis 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband ! 
Bar. He sinks ! — support him ! — quick — a chair — 

support him ! 
Doge. The bell tolls on ! — let's hence — iny bram 's 

on fire ! 
Bar I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 
Doge. No ! 

A sovereign should die standing My poor boy ! 
Off with your arras ! — That bell . 

[The Doge drops doicn and dies} 
Mar My God ! My God . 



was sixteen years of age," says Lord Byron, " I was witness 
to a melancholy instance of tlie same effect of mixed pas- 
sions upon a young person ; who, however, did not die m 
consequence, at that time, but fell a victim, some years 
afterwards, to a seizure of the same kind, arising from 
causes nitimately connected with agitation of mmd." See 
post, Den Juan, c. iv. St. lix.] 



SlENE 1. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



309 



Bar. (to Lor ) Behold ! your work 's completed ! 

Chief of tht T'n. Is there then 

No aid? Cull 'u 5.si.istanco ! 

Att 'Tis all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it bo so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits liis name and nation, 
His rank and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, v.'hilo his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Bretliren, 
Say, shall it not be so? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject vsrhere 
Ho reign'd : then let his funeral rites be princely.' 

Chief of the Ten. V/e are agreed, then? 

All, except Lnr., answer. Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be with him ! 

Mar. Signors, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with that poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul, 
(A soul by whom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory,) 
You bauish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness ; 
And now, when he can neither know these honors. 
Nor would accept them if he could, you, signors, 
Purpose with idle and superfluous pomp. 
To make a pageant over wliat you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 
Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it. 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the dead had been beyond oven you, 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to powers which 

may 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to mo ; you would have done so for 
His dregs of life, which you have kindly siiorten'd : 
It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 



1 [By a decree of the Council, the trappings of supreme 
power of which the Doge had divested himself while living, 
were restored to him when dead ; and he was interred, with 
ducal magnificence, in the church of the Jlinorites, the new 
Doge attencUng as a mourner. — See Daru.] 

• The Venetians appear to have had a particular turn for 
breaking the hearts of their Doges. The following is another 
instance of tne kind in the Doge Marco Baxbarigo : he was 
succeeded by his brother Agostino Barbarigo, whose chief 
merit is here mentioned. — " Le doge, blesse de trouver con- 
scamment un contradicteur et un censeur si amc>- dans son 
frere, lui dit un jour en plein conseil : ' Messire Augustin, 
vous faites tout votre possible pour hilter ma mort ; vous 
vous flattez de me succeder; mais, si les autres vous con- 
naissent aussi-bien que je vous connais, ils n'auront garde 
de vous lilire.' La-dessus il se leva, 6mu de colere, rentra 
dans son appartement, et mourut quelques jours apres. Ce 
frere, contro lequel il s'etait emportc, fut pr6cis6ment le 
Euccesseur (,u'on lui donna. C'6tait un merite dont on 
aimait d tenir compte ; surtout a un parent, de s'etre mis 
en opposi'i'^n avec le chef do la republique." — Daru, Hist. 
de Venisc, vol. ii. p. 532. 

' " L'ha pagata." An historical fact. See Hist, de Venise, 
par P. Daru, t. ii. p. 411.— [Here the original MS. ends. The 
two lines which follow were added by Mr. Gilford. In the 
margin of the MS. Lord Byron has written, — " If the last 
line should appear obscure to those who do not recollect 
the historical fact, mentioned in the first act, of Loredano's 
mscription in his book of ' Doge Foscari, debtor for the 
deaths of my father and uncle,' you may add the following 
line* to the conclusion of the last act : — 

Chief of the Ten. For what has he repaid thee ? 



Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do vou 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signer. 

Though his possessions have been all consimied 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry. 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites, 
And those of [She stops with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

Mar. Ay, they are fatherless, I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, out simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have interr'd 
Their victims ; but ne'er heard, until this hour. 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew.^ I've heard of widows' tears — 
Alas ! I have shed some — always thanks to you ! 
I've hoard of licirs in sables — you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 
Of such. Well, sirs, your will be done ! as one day 
I trust, Heaven's will be done too ! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former better than yourselves ; 
The latter — like yourselves ; and can face both. 
AVish you more funerals? 

Bar. Heed not her rash words ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 

Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 

Bar. {turning to Lor. loho is writing upon his tahlets.) 
What art thou writing. 
With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets? 

Lor. {pointing to the Doge's body.) That he has 
paid me !^ 

Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe j'ou ? 

Lor. A long and just one ; Nature's debt and mine.* 

[Curtain falls. 



Lor. For my father's 

And father's brother's death— by his son's and own ! 

Ask Gilford about this."— E.] 

4 [Considered as poems, we confess that " Sardanapalus" 
and " The Two Foscari" appear to us to be rather heavy, 
verbose, and inelegant — deficient in the passi3n and energy 
which belongs to Lord Byron's other writings — and still more 
in the richness of imagery, the originality of thought, and 
the sweetness of versification for which he used to be dis- 
tinguished. They arc for the most part solemn, prolix, 
and ostentatious — lengthened out by large preparations for 
catastrophes that never arrive, and tantalizing us with 
slight specimens and glimpses of a higher interest scattered 
thinly up and down many weary pages of pompous decla- 
mation. Along with the concentrated pathos and home- 
struck sentiments of his former poetry, the noble author 
seems also — we cannot imagine why — to have discarded the 
spirited and melodious versification in which they were em- 
bodied, and to have formed to himself a measure equally 
remote from the spring and vigor of his former composi- 
tions, and from the softness and inflexibility of the ancient 
masters of the drama. There are some sweet lines, and 
many of great weight and energy ; but the general march 
of the verse is cumbrous and unmusical. His lines do not 
vibrate like polished lances, at once strong and light, in the 
hands of his persons, but are wielded like clumsy batons in 
a bloodless aflVay. Instead of the graceful familiarity and 
idiomatical melodies of Shakspeare, it is apt, too, to fall into 
clumsy prose, in its approaches to the easy and colloquitJ 
style ; and, in the loftier passages, is occasionally deformed 
by low and common images that harmonize but ill with tlio 
general solemnity of the diction. — Jeffrey 3 



310 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



THE DEFORMED TRMSFORMEDs 

A DRAMA.' 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

This production is founded partly on the story of a 
novel called " The Three Brothers,"^ published many 
years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's " Wood Demon" 
was also taken, and partly on the " Faust" of the great 
Goethe. The present publication contains the two 
first Parts only, and the opening chorus of the third. 
The rest may, perhaps, appear hereafter. 



DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 



Stranger, afterwards Caesar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 

Philibert. 

Cellini. 

Bertha. 
Olimpia. 

Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, Priests, 
Peasants, ^-c. 



» [This drama was begun at Pisa in 1821, but was not pub- 
lished till January, 1824. Mr. Medwin says, — 

" On my calling on Lord Byron one morning, he produced 
the ' Deformed Transformed.' Handing it to Shelley, he 
said—' Shelley, I have been writing a Faustish kind of 
drama : tell me what you think of it.' After reading it atten- 
tively, Shelley returned it. ' Well,' said Lord B., ' how do 
you i-ike if!' ' Least,' replied he, ' of any thing I ever saw 
of yours. It is a bad imitation of " Faust," and besides, 
there are two entire lines of Sonthey's in it.' Lord Byron 
changed color immediately, and asked hastily, ' What 
lines >' Shelley repeated, 

' And water shall see thee. 
And fear thee, and flee thee.' 
They are in the 'Curse of Kehama.' His Lordship instantly 
threw the poem into the fire. He seemed to feel no chagrin at 
seeing it consume — at least his countenance betrayed none, 
and his conversation became more gay and lively than usual. 
Whether it was hatred of Southey, or respect for Shelley's 
opinion, which made him commit the act that I considered a 
sort of suicide, was always doubtful to me. I was never more 
surprised than to see, two years afterwards, ' The Deformed 
Transformed' announced, (supposing it to have perished at 
Pisa ;) but it seems that he must have had another copy of 
the manuscript, or that he had rewritten it perhaps, without 
changing a word, except omitting the Kehama lines. His 
memory was remarkably retentive of his own writings. I 
believe he could have quoted almost every line he ever 
w/ote." 

Mrs. Shelley, whose copy of " The Deformed Transform- 
ed" lies before us, has written as follows on the fly-leaf: — 

" This had long been a favorite subject with Lord Byron. I 
think that he mentioned it also in Switzerland. I copied it — 
he sending a portion of it at a time, as it was finished, to me. 
At this time he had a great horror of its being said that he 
plagiarized, or that he studied for ideas, and wrote with dif- 
ficulty. Thus he gave Shelley Aikin's edition of the British 
Poets, that it might not be found in his house by some English 
lounger, and reported home : thus, too, he always dated when 
he began and when he ended a poem, to prove hereafter how 
quickly it was done. I do not think that he altered a line inthi"^ 
drama after he had once written it down. He composed ana 
corrected in his mind. I do not know how he meant to finish 
it : but he said himself, that the whole conduct of the story 
was already conceived. It was at tliis time that a brutal 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



PART I. 

SCENE I. 

A Forest. 

£nfe*ARNOLD and his mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

Arn. I was born so, mother \* 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sous, 
The sole abortion ! 

Arn. Would that I had been so. 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou hast — hence, hence — ^and do thy best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 'tis 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Arn. It bears its burden ; — but, my heart ! Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 



paragraph alluding 'o his lameness appeared, which he re- 
peated to me ; lest I should hear it first fronl some one else. 
No action of Lord Byron's life — scarce a line he has writ- 
ten — but was influenced by his personal defect."] 

2 [Published in 1803, the work of a Joshua Pickersgill, jun.} 

3 [A clever anonymous critic thus sarcastically opens his 
notice of this poem : — " The reader has no doubt often 
heard of the Devil and Dr. Faustus : this is but a new birth of 
the same unrighteous couple, who are christened, however, 
by the noble hierophant who presides over the infernal cere- 
mony,— Julius Cffisar and Count Arnold. The drama opens 
with a scene between the latter, who is to all appearance a 
well-disposed young man, of a very deformed person, and 
liis mother : this good lady, vvith somewhat less maternal 
piety about her than adorns the mother-ape in the fable, 
turns her dutiful incubus of a son out of doors to gather 
wood. Arnold, upon this, proceeds incontinently to kill him- 
self, by falling, after the manner of Brutus, on his wood- 
knife : he is, however, piously dissuaded from this guilty 
act, by — whom does the reader think? A monk, perhaps, 
or a methodist preacher? no ; — but by ths Devil himself, in 
the shape of a tall black man, who rises, like an African 
water-god, out of a fountain. To this stranger, after the ex- 
change of a few sinister compliments, Arnold, without more 
ado, sells his soul, for the privilege of wearing the beauti- 
ful form of Achilles. In the midst of all this absurdity, we 
still, however, recognise the master-mind of our great poet : 
his bold and beautiful spirit flashes at intervals through the 
surrounding horrors, into which he has chosen to plunge 
after Goethe, his magnus ApoJlo."] 

^ [" One of the few pages of Lord Byron's ' Memoranda,' 
which related to his early days, was where, in speaking of 
his own sensitiveness on the subject of his deformed foot, 
he described the feeling of horror and humiliation that 
came over him, when his mother, in one of her fits of pas- 
sion, called him • alamebrat ." It maybe questioned, whethei 
this drama was not indebted for its origin to this single re 
collection."-— Moore. 

" Lord Byron's own mother, when in ill humor with hiro, 
nscd to make the deformity in his foot the subject o taunt3 
and reproaches. She would (wo quote from a letter written 
by one of her relations in Scotland) pass from passionate 
caresses to the repulsion of actual disgust ; then devour him 
with kisses again, and swear his eyes were as beautiful as 
his father's." — (^uar. iJeu.] 



Scene i. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



311 



Save you, ia nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me — do not kill me ! 

Bert. Yes — I nursed thee, 

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee. 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence, 
And gather wood ! 

Arn. I will : but when I bring it. 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the itee chase they follow, do not spurn me ; 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog's. 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds 
The nipple next day sore and udder dry.' 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
Mother ; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 

[Exit Bertha. 

Arn. (solus.) Oh mother I She is gone, and I 

must do 
Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfil it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood : in doing this he 
iBOunds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now. 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home — What home? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed 

too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have stung 

me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power? Is it because 
I have not his will too? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The wound. 

[Arnold goes to a spring, and stoops to wash 
his hand : he starts hack. 
They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me, 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow— like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. [He pauses. 

And shall I live on, 
A burden to the earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life ! Thou blood 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes forever with thyself 
On earth, to which I will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to her elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — mv 



Vile fonn — from the creation, as it hath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, with 
the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — how joyously they sintr ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The fallen leaves iny monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, 
his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, 
which seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir. 
Not as with air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What's here ? A mist ! No more ? — 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands 
gazing upon it; it is dispelled, and a tall 
black man comes towards him. 

Arn. What would you? Speak! 

Spirit or man 'i 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men are that 

Which is so call'd or thought, that you may add me 
To which you please, without much wrong to either. 
But come : you wish to kill yourself; — pursue 
Your purpose. 

Arn. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. What is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and forever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Arn. I said not 

You tvere the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep company 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look upon the fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Arn. Do you — dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity ? 

Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Thy form is natural : 'twas only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of othei-s upon man. 

Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo's 
foot, 



1 [This is now generally believed to be a vulgar error ; 
the smalhiess of the animal's mouth rendering it incapable 



of the mischief laid to its charge. For ar. amusmg contra 
versy on the subject, see Gent. Mag. vols. Ixxx. and Lcxxi.] 



312 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



When he spurs high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary I — and I'll bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Am. (with surprise.) Thou canst ? 

Stran Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Arn. Thou meekest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking? That's poor sport, me- 

thinks. 
To talk to thee in human language, (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine,) the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
Now / can mock the mightiest. 

Arn. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recall'd to do 
Good service. 

Arn. What wilt thou do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks 

you; 
Or form you to your wish in any shape. 

Arn. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Naught else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I'll show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give 

thee 
Thy choice. 

Am. On what condition? 

Stran. There's a question ; 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

I must not compromise my soul. 

Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

Arn. 'Tis an aspiring one, whate'er tlie tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact ; 
Must it be sigu'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in your own. 

Arn. Whose blood then ? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But I'll be moderate v/ith you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content? 

Am. I take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then ! — 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 

Am. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters, 
And make the charm effective. 

Arn. (holding out his wounded arm) Take it all 



2 This is a well-known German superr^ition— a gigantic 
aliadow prod 'ced by reflection on the Brocken. [The Brock- 
en is the na Tie of the loftiest of the Hartz mountains, a 
liicturesque i ange which Ues in the kingdom of Hanover 



1_- 



Stran. Not now. A few drops will sufBce for 
this. 
[The Stranger takes some 0/ Arnold's blood in 
his hand, and casts it into the fountain. 
Stran. Shadows of beauty ! 
Shadows of power ! 
Rise to your duty — 
This is the hour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.* 
Come as ye were. 

That our eyes may behold 
The modb' in air 

Of the fou.i I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd : — 
Such his desire is, [Pointing ti Arnot* 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
The form of the stoic 

Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman picture 
Who breathed to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty I 

Shadows of power ! 
Up to your duty — 
This is the hour! 
[Various Phantoins arise from the waters, and 
pass in succession before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 
Arn. What do I see ? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'ei 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome became 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 

Arn. The phantom's bald ; my quest is beauty. 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

Stran. His brow was girt v/ith laurels more thaii 
hairs, 
y^ou see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form : his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Arn. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Coesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus's mother. 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age 
When love is not less in tlie eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[ The Phantom of Julius CcEsar disappears. 
Am. And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone, 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 'tis no more than yours. 



From the earliest periods of authentic history, the Brocken 
has been the seat of the marvellous. For a description of 
the phenomenon alluded to by Lord Byron, see Sir David 
Brewster's "Natural Magic," p. 128.] 



Scene i. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



313 



Except a little longer and less crook'd 
I' the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second plianiom passes 

A rn. Who is he ? 

Stran. He was the faii-est and the bravest of 
Athenians.' Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 

Siian. Such was the curled son of Cliniasj — 
wouldst thou 
[nvest thee with his form ? 

Arn. Would that I had 

Been bom with it ! But since I may choose further, 
[ will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 

Stran. Lo ! behold again ! [eyed satyr, 

Am. What ! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round- 
VVith the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature 1^ I had better 
Remain that which I am. 

Stran. And yet ho was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Am. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem'd it — no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Am. No. I was not bora for philosophj^. 
Though I have that about me which has need ou't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[ The shadow of Socrates disappears : another rises. 

Am. What's here ? whose broad brow and whose 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules,' 
Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest, 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lost 

The ancient world for love. 

Am. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features? 

Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir! 

Thy Cleopatra's waiting. 

[The shade of Anthony disappears : another rises. 



' [In one of Lord Byron's MS. Diaries we find the follow- 
ing passage : — " Alcihiades is said to have been ' successful 
in all his battles'— but wAa« battles ? Name them ! If you 
mention Cassar, or Hannibal, or Napoleon, you at once rush 
upon Pharsalia, Slunda, Alesia, Cannas, Thrasymene, Tre- 
bia, Lodi, Marengo, Jena, Austerlitz, Friedland, Wagram, 
Mo3kwa : but it is less easy to pitch upon the victories of 
Alcibiades ; though they may be named too, though not so 
readily as the Leuctra and Mantinaja of Epaminondas, the 
Marathon of Miltiades. the Salamis of Themistocles, and 
the Thermopylae of Leonidas. Yet, upon the whole, it may 
be doubted, whether there be a name of antiquity which 
comes down with such a general cliarm as that of Alcibia- 
des. Why? I cannot answer. Who can ?"J 

* I" The outside c»f Socrates was that of a satyr and buf- 



40 



^rn. Who is this? 

Who truly looketh like a demigod. 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and Gtature, 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
Which he wears as the sun his rays — a something- 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the Sashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still 
Was he e'er human only ?* ■ 

Stran. Let the earth speak, 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that form'd his urn. 

Arn. Who was this glory of mankind? 

Stran. The sham* 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 
Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Arn. '^et one shadow more. 

Stran. (addressing the shadow.) Get thee to La- 
mia's lap ! 
[The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes : 
another rises. 

I'll fit you still, 
Fear not, my hunchback : if the shadows of 
That which existed please not yotu' nice taste, 
I'll animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Arn. Content ! I will fix here. 

Stran. I must commend 

Your choice. Tlie godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Factolus, roH'd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Rippled like flowing waters by tlie wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as they were — behold them ! 
And him — as he stood by Polixena, 
With sanction'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride. 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his v/ho slew her brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Am. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelope mine. 

Stran. You have done Vi^ell. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's true 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Arn. Come ! Be quick ! 

I am impatient. 

Stran. As a youthful beauty 



foon, but his soul was all virtue, and from within him came 
such divine and pathetic things, as pierced the heart, and 
drew tears from the hearers."— Plato.] 

3 L" His face was as the heavens ; and therein stuck 

A sun and moon ; which kept their course, and lighted 

The little O, the eartii. 

His legs bestrid the ocean : his rear'd arm 

Crested the world : his voice was propertied 

As all the tuned spheres," &c. — Shakspeare.] 

4 [" The beauty and mien of Demetrius Poliorcetes were 
so inimitable, that no statuary or painter could hit off & 
likeness. His couii'enance had a mixture of grace and dig- 
nity, and was at oii.^e amiable and i.wf\\\, and the unsubdued 
and eager air of youth was blended with the majesty of tho 
hero and the king." — Plutarch.] 



314 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Pabt I. 



Before her glass. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is wliat must be. 

Am. Must I wait? 

Stran. No; that were a pity. But a word or 
two: 
His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or 
(To talli canonically) wax a son 
Of Anak? 

Am. Why not? 
Stran. Glorious ambition ! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David : 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Rather than hero. Thou shalt bo indulged, 
If such be tl'iy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more ; for all 
Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth ; and their cursed engines, 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armor there, with greater ease 
Than the adulterer's arrow tlirough his heel, 
Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Arn. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 
Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
seest. 

And strong as what it was, and 

Arn. I ask not 

For valor, since deformity is daring.' 
It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — 
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 
A spur in its halt movements, to become 
All that the others cannot, in such things 
As still are free to both, to compensate 
For stcpdame Nature's avarice at first. 
They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune, 
And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them." 
Stran. Well spoken ! And thou doubtless wilt re- 
main 
Form'd as thou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
This daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it. 

Arn. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, I would 
Have done the best which spirit may to make 
Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly. 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain. 
In feelmg, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
A hateful and unsightly molehill, to 
The eyes of happier man. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is the type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, hut despair ; nor sought to win. 



1 [" Whosoever," says Lord Bacon, " hath any thing fixed 
in his person that doth induce contempt, hath also a perpetu- 
al spur in himself to rescue and deliver himself from scorn ; 
therefore, all deformed persons are extreme bold ; first, as in 
their own defence, as being exposed to scorn, but in process 
of time by a general habit : also it stirreth in them industry, 
and especially of this kind, to watch and observe the weak- 
ness of others, that they may have somewhat to repay. 
Again,tT) theirsuperiors, it quencheth jealousy towards them, 
2S persr.'is that they think they may at pleasure despise : and 
itiayelh their competitors and emulators asleep, as never be- 
lievmg they should be in possibility of advancement till they 



Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In tiun, because of this vile crooked clog. 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape was hopeless 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing 
Than what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw mo 
Master of my own life, and quick to quit it ; 
Aird he who is so is the master of 
Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you have been, or will be 

Arn. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes, 
And sweeter to my heart. As I am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! haste ! 

Stran. And what shall / wear ? 

Arn. Surely, he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, that of Paris: or — still higher — 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Slran. Less will content me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Arn. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I choose, 

I might be whiter ; but I have a penchant 
For black — it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear ; 
But I have worn it long enough of late, 
And now I'll take your figure. 

Arn. Mine ! 

Stran. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes : 
You have yours — I mine. 

Arn. Dispatch ! dispatch ! 

Stran. Even so. 

\ The Stranger takes some earth and moulds it 
along the turf, and then addresses the phan- 
tom of Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 

Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 
Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 



see them in possession : so that upon the matter, in a great 
wit, deformity is an advantage to leing."— Essay Iv.] 

a [" Lord Byron's chief incentive, when a boy, to distinc 
tion, was that mark of deformity, by an acute sense of wliich 
he was first stung into the ambition of being great. In one of 
his letters to Mr. Hunt, he declares it to be his own opinion 
that ' an addiction to poetry is very generally the result of an 
uneasy mind in an uneasy body ; disease or deformity,' he 
adds, ' have been the attendants of many of our best : Col- 
lins mad— Chatterton, / think, mad— Cowper mad— Pope 
crooked— Milton blind,' &c. &c."— Mooke ] 



Scene i. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED 



315 



From the red earth, like Adam,' 

Thy hkeness I shape, 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions I apo.' 
Thou clay, be all glowing. 
Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 
Ye violets, I scatter, 

Now turn into eyes ! 
And thou, sunshiny water. 
Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair, 
And wave o'er his brows, 
As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from tlie rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The liiy-root surest. 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 

Which clay can compound. 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me, 
And leap to my word I 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation 
'Tis done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls senseless; his soul passes into 
the shape of Achilles, which rises from the 
ground ; while the phantom has disappeared, 
part by part, as the figure was formed frovi 
the earth. 
Am. {in his new form.) I love, and I shall be be- 
loved ! Oh life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit I 

Stran. Stop ! 

What shaU become of your abandon'd garment. 
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness. 
Which late you wore, or were? 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they will. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you'll say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Arn. Let us but leave it there ; 

No matter what becomes on't. 

Stran. That's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 

Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should bo. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 



' Adam means " red earth," from which the first man was 
formed 



Your interlopers. The devil may take men. 
Not make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship : — and therefore 
Some one i/iust be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 

Ar7i. Who would do so ? 

Stran. That I know not, 

And therefore I must 

Arn. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

I will be as you were, and you shall see 
Yourself forever by you, as your shadow. 
Am. I would be spared this. 
Stran. But it cannot be 

What ! shrink already, being what you are. 
From seeing what you were ? 

Arn. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. (to the late form 0/ Arnold, extended on 
the earth.) 
Clay ! not dead, but soul-less ! 

Though no man would choose thee. 
An immortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Cay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All clay is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which naught can ! ve ; 
Fire ! but in which naught can ji', e, 
Save the fabled salamander. 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water. 

Burning in a quenchless lot: 
Fire ! the only element 

Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor worm, 

Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyself bo blent : 
Fire ! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire ! Creation's first-born daughter. 
And Destruction's threaten'd son. 
When heaven with the world hath done : 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in my view 

Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me and you ! 
One little, marshy spark of flame — 
And he again shall seem the same ; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and 
rests on the brow of the body. The Stran- 
ger disappears : the body rises. 
Am. (in his new form.) Oh ! horrible ! 
Stran. (in Arnold's late shape.) What ! tremblest 

thou? 
Arn. Not so — 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest? 

Stran. To the world of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. Whither wilt 
thou? 
Arn. Must thou be my companion \ 
Stran. Wherefore not f 

Your betters keep worse company. 

Arn. JVfybctterE. 

Stran. Oh ! you wax proud, I Bee, of ycur ncjw 
form: 



310 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



Part I. 



I'm ^lad of tliat. Ungrateful too ! That's well ; 
You improve apace ; — two changes in an instant, 
And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with mo : indeed you'll find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Where shall we now bo errant ? 

Arn Where the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Strai). That's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let's see I 
Spain — Italy — the new Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice: the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

Am. I have heard great things ot Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice — 

And scarce a better to be found on earth, 
Since Sodom was put out. The field .'s wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Hun, and S] anish scion 
Of the old Vandals are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Arn. How 

Shall wo proceed ? 

Slran. Like gallantp, on good coursers. 

What ho ! my chargers ! Never yet were better, 
Sinc» Phaeton was upset into the Fo. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses 

Arn. A noble sight ! 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbarj', 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam, wh'ch volumes high 

From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord : 

They and I are your servitors. 

Arn. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names? 

Stran. You shall baptize them. 

Am. What ! in holy water ? 

Stran. Why not? The deeper sinner, better 
saint. 

Arn. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be 
demons. 

Stran. True ; the devil's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Arn. I'll call him 

Wiio bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
And never found till now. And for the other 
And darker, and more thoughtful, who smiles not. 
But looks as serious though serene as night. 
He shall be Mcmnon, from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear ■ 
A human shape, will take a human name. 

Arn. More human than the shape (though it was 
mine once) 
I trust 



Stran. Then call me Ca?sar. 

Arn. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise — since so you deem me. 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Arn. Well, then, 

Caesar thou shalt be. For myself, my namf> 
Sulil be plain Arnold still. 

Cffis. We'll add a title— 

" Count Arnold :" it hath no ungracious sound, 
And W'U look well upon a billet-doux. 

Arn. Or in an order for a battle-field 

CcBS. (smgs.) To horse ! to horse ! my coal-blncb 
steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air . 

There's not a foal of Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must hear ; 

On the hill he will not tire. 

Swifter as it waxes higher ; 

In the marsh he will not slacken, 

On the plain bo overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink. 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 

In the race he will not pant. 

In the combat he'll not faint I 
■ On the stones he will not stumble, 

Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he will not stiff'eu, 

But be winged as a griffin, 

Only flying with his feet : 

And will not such a voyage be sweet? 

Merrily ! merrily ! never unsound. 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the 
ground I 

From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 

For we'll leave them behind in the glance of an eye. 
[They mount their horses and disappear. 



A Camp before the Walls of Rome. 
Arnold and CiESAH. 

Cas You are well enter'd now. 

Am. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses : mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Cas. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex. 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire — 
Lady of the old world 

Arn. How old? What! are there 

Neiv worlds? 

Go's. To you. You'll find there are such shortly, 
By its rich har^'csts, new disease, and gold ; 
From one-half of the world named a whole new ono, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Arn. I'll trust them. 

C(cs. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth 

Arn Dog ! 

Cas. Man I 

ilrn. Devil . 



Scene ii. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



317 



C<BS. Your obedient humble servant. 

Arn. Say master rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am hero. 

Cas. And where wouldst thou be? 

Arn. Oh, at peace — in peace 

C<BS. And where is that which is so? From the star 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and 
III ifo commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its ways 
Living upon the death of other things. 
But still, like them, must live and die, tho subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
>rou must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix'd necessity : against her edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Arn. And when it prospers 

Cas. 'Tis no rebellion. 

Arn. Will it prosper now ? 

C(ES. Tho Bom-bon hath given orders for the 
assault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Arn. Alas ! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint. 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross. 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy, (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge.) 

C(ES. 'Tis there, and shall be. 

Arn. What? 

CcRS. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon tho walls. 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men, 

Arn. And those scarce mortal arches. 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Romans) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of tho wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed de&ert, brouglit to joust 
In the arena, (as right well they might. 
When they had left no human foe uucouquer'd ;) 
Made even tho forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
To a new gladiator!" — Must it fall? 

Cffis. The city, or the amphitheatre ? 
The church, or one, or all? for you confound 
Both the 'a und me. 

Arn. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cois. Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in tho annals of gr^at sieges ; 
For men must have their prey aflir long toil. 

Arn. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully, than ho did on Rome 



' CSuetonius relates of Julius Ccesar, that his baldness 
gave him much uneasiness, having often found himself, 
upon that account, exposed to the ridicule of his enemies ; 
and that, therefore, of all the honors conferred upon him 



On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

Cas. I saw him. 

Arn. You I 

C(ES. Yes, sir. You forget I am or was 

Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I'm Cassar and a hunchback 
Now. Well ! the first of Ceesars was a bald-head, 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory.' Thud 
The world runs on, but we'll be merry still. 
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quickborn of tho same womb, 
Because he leapt a ditch, ('twas then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be ;) and Rome's earliest cement 
Was brother's blood : and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked 1 iber be as red 
As e'er 'twas yellow, it will never wear 
Tho deep hue of the ocean and tho earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

Arn. But what have these done, their ft^r 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Cas. And what had they done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

Am. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon the eve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cas. And why should they not sing as well as 
swans ? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Arn. So, you are learn'd, 

I see, too? 

Cas. In my grammar, certes. I 
Was educated for a monk of all times. 
And onca I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 

Arn. _ And wherefore do you not? 

Cas. It answers better to resolve tho alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman. 
And prophet, pontiff, doctor, alchymist. 
Philosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammering young ones of the flood's dull oo?2e, 
Who fail'd and fled each other. Why ? why, marry. 
Because no man could understand his neighbor 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood. 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
Cabala ; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more 

Arn. {interrupting Mm.) Oh, thou everlasting 
sneerer ! 
Be silent ! How the soldiers' rough strain sorjtis 
Soften'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence ! 
Listen ! 

Cas. Yes. I have heard the angels sinj^ 

Ai-n. And demons howl. 

Cas. And man too. Lot us isteu : 

I lovo all music. 



by the senate and people, there was none wJiich he eitner 
accepted or used with so much pleasure as the rignt ol 
wearing constantly a laurel crown.] 



318 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part i. 



Song of the Soldiers within. 

The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow; 
Willi Boiubon, the rover, 

They pass'd tiie broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

Wo have captured a king, 
Wo have turn'd back on no men, 

And so' let us sing! 
Here's the Bourbon forever ! 

Though pcnayless all. 
We'll have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we'll gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot. 
Our shout 8hall grow gladder, 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We'll revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red, 
And her temples so iioary 

Shall clang with our tread. 
Oh, the Boiubon! the Bourbon! 

The Bourbou for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ! 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch'd at their mother ; 
But our leader from France is. 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbou! the Bourbon! 

Sans country or home, 
We'll follow the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Rome. 

C<es An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, mcthinks, to hear. 

Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But here 
comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel ! 

Enter the Constable Bourbon' " cum suis," ^-c. <^c. 

Phil. How now, noble prince, 

You are not cheerful? 

Bourb. Why should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours, 
Most men would be so. 

Bourb If I were secure ! 



1 [Charlc? of Bourbon was cousin to Francis I., and Con- 
stable of France. Being bitterly persecuted by the queen- 
mother for having declined the nonor of her hand, and 



Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of I 
adamant, 
They'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. j 

Bourb. That they will falter is my least of fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for | 

Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on — were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guaid them like the gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ; — • 
But now 

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 

Bourb. True : but those walls have girded m great 
ages, 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart. 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon mo away ! 

Phil. So let them ! Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

Bomb They do not menace me. I could have 
faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp, 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike hands, 
And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourb. ^ And there ! 

Phil. Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Sheltcr'd by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practise in the cool twilight. 

Bourb. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Bo so. 

Bourb A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 
The liberty of that I would enslave. 
And the first Ca?sar with his triumjihs flits 
From battlement to battlement. 

Phil. Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 

Bourb. True : so I will, or perish. 

Phil. You can not 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and Cmsak advance. 

Cms. And the mere men — do they too swoa*. 
beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glory? 

Bourb. Ah ' 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beautcoim. 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

Cas. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourb. And if I do, there will not be a laborer 
More forward, hunchback ! 

CcBS. You may well say bo, 

For you have seen that back — as general, 



also by the king, he transferred his services to the Eirpcror 
Charles V.] 



Scene ii. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



319 



riacod ill tho rear in action — ^but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

■ Bourb. That's a fair retort, 

For I provoked it : — but the Bourbon's breast 
Has been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
[n danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Cffis.'' And if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 

Phil. Why so? 

C(ES. One half 

Of your brave bands of their own bold accord 
Will go to him, tlie other half be sent, 
More swiftly, not less surely. 

Bourb. Arnold, your 

Slight crooked friend 's as snako-like in his words 
As his deeds. 

C(BS. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, I only sting when stung. 

Bourb. You are bravo, and tliat's enough for me ; 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that's more. 
1 am not alone a soldier, but the soldiers' 
Comrade. 

CcBS. They are but bad company, your highness : 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, fellow ! 

Tliou waxest Insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

CcES. You mean I speak the truth. 

I'll lie — it is as easy : then you'll praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Let him alone ; he's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and mountain shoul- 
der. 
In field or storm, and patient i3 starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
Tlie gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave. 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
A.nd wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
With which he deems him rich. 

C(BS. It would be well 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourb. Be silent ! 

C(ES. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with 
words ! 
You have few to speak. 

Phil. What means the audacious prater? 

CcBS. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourb. Philibert ! 

Why will you vex him? Have we not enough 
To think ou? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow 

Arn. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourb. And you will follow? 

Arn. Since I must not lead. 

Bourb. 'Tis necessary for the further daring 
Of our too needy army, that their chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step 

CcES. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 
So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourb. The world's 

Groat capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Tlirougli every change the seven-hill'd city hath 



Rotain'd her sway o'er nations, and the Ctesais, 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest, 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well ! 
'Twas their turn — now 'ti? ours ; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better 
CcES. No doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
rights. 
What would you make of Rome ? 

Bourb. That which it was 

C(BS. In Alaric's time? 

Bourb. No, slave I in the first Cuesar's, 

Whose name you bear like other curs 

C(ES. And kings . 

'Tis a great name for bloodhounds. 

Bourb. There's a demon 

In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious? 

C(ES. On the eve of battle, no ;— 

That were not soldier-like. 'Tis for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we think ^ 
Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape. 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourb. You may sneer, since 

'Tis lucky for you that you fight no worse for't. 

Ccrs. I thank you for the freedom ; 'tis the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

Bourb. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay your- 
self. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury : 
But, Philibert, we'll in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Arn. Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourb. In both we prize it, 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 
C(BS. And mine ? 

Bourb. To follow glory v/ith the Bourbon. 

Good night ! 

Arn. {to C^SAR.) Prepare our armor for tho 
assault, 
And wait within my tent 

[Exeunt Bourbon, Arnold, Philibert, ^c. 
CcES. (solus.) Within thy tent ! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my pres- 
ence? 
Or that this crooked coflTer, which contain'd 
Thy principle of life, is augiit to me 
Except a mask? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance. 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 'tis 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it, I have business 
Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for them to look at. 'Twere a jest now 
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
Unto their anthill : how the pismires then 
Would scamper o'er the scalding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha ! ha ! 

[Exit CiSua. 



320 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part ii. 



PART II. 

SCENE I. 

Before the Walls of Rome. — The assault : the army 
in moiiw., loith ladders to scale the walls; Bour- 
BUN, wilh a white scarf over his armor, foremost. 

Chorus of Spirits in the air 

1. 

'Tis the morn, but dim and dark. 
Whither flies tlie silent lark ? 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun'? 
Is the day indeed begun? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy : 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber c' ashes. 
Oh ye seven hills ! awaken. 
Ere your very base be shaken . 



2. 

Hearken to the steady stamp I 

Mars is in their every tramp ! 

Not a step is out of tune, 

As the tides obey the moon ! 

On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water, 

Whose high waves o'ersv^^eep tlie border 

Of huge moles, but keep their order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior. 

How he glares upon the barrier : 

Look on each step of each ladder. 

As the stripes that streak au adder 



3. 

Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval"! 
Round and round, and tier on tier. 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear. 
Lit match, bell-mouth'd musquetoon. 
Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
All the warlilve gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife; 'twixt old and new, 
Gather hke a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus ! 'tis a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine :— 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 



4. 
Near — and near — and nearer still, 
As the earthquake saps the hill, 
Firet with trembling, hollow motion, 
Like a scarce-awaken'd ocean, 
Then with stronger shock and louder. 
Till the rocks are crush'd to powder,— 
Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 
Heroes of the immortal boast ! 
Mighty chiefs ! eternal shadows ! 
First flowers of the bloody meadows 
Which encompass Rome, the mother 
Of a people without brother ! 



Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 
Plough the root up of your laurels? 
Yo who weep o'er Carthage burning. 
Weep not — strike .' for Rome is mourning ' 



Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger. 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger. 
On they sweep. Oh ! glorious city. 
Must thou be a theme for pity? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Roman 1 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti ! 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thy own hand to thy porch, 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
Your worst dwelling with thei: foot. 



Ah ! behold yon bleeding spectre ! 
Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother; 
Rome's great sire forgot his mother. 
When ho slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide ! 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall. 
Its foundation moum'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome ! 



Now they reach thee in their anger: 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder ! 
Death is in thy walls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
Downward then the ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming, 
Lying at its foot blaspheming I 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife : thy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish, 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 



Yet once more, ye old Penates ! 
Let not your quench'd hearths be At6's ' 
Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 
Yield not to these stranger Neros ! 
Though the son who slew his mother 
Shed Rome's blood, ho was your brother 



1 Scipio, the second Africanus, is said to have repeated a 
verse of Homer, and wept over the burnmg of Carthage 
He had better have granted it a capitulation. 



Scene i. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



321 



'Tvvas the Roman curb'd the Roman ; — 

Brennus was a baffled foeman. 

Yet again, ve saints and martyrs, 

Rise ! for yours are holier charters I 

Mighty gods of temples faUing, 

Yet in ruin still appalling ! 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Ch istian, — strike the assauUers.' 

Tibex ! Tiber ! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 

Rome be crash'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still tlie Roman's Rome ! 

Bourbon, Arnold, Cesar, and others, arrive at the 
foot of the wall. Arnold is about to plant his 
ladder. 

Bourb. Hold, Arnold ! I am first. 
Arn. Not so, my lord. 

Bourb. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow ! I am 
proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader 

[Bourbon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys ! On ! on ! 

[A shot striles him, and Bourbon /aZZs. 
CcBS. And ofF! 

Arn. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appall'd,— but vengeance ! ven- 
geance ! 
Bourb. 'Tis nothing— lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes Arnold by the hand, and rises; 
but as he puts his foot on the step, falls again. 
Arnold ! I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it ! 
riing my cloak o'er what will be dust anon ; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 

Arn. You must be 

Removed ; the aid of 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay, 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 

C<ES. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
cross? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead :— it did the same for Bayard.' 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave ! to name him at this 
time ! 
But I deserve it. 

Arn. {to C^SAR.) Villain, hold your peace ! 
CcES. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vado in pace ?" 

Arn. . Silence ! Oh ! 

Those eyes are glazmg which o'erlook'd the world, 
And saw no equal. 

Bourb. Arnold, shouldst thou see 

France But liark ! hark ! the assault grows warm- 
er—Oh ! 



' [" Finding himself mortally wounded. Bayard ordered 
one of his attendants to place him under a tree with his 
face towards the enemy : then, fixing his eyes on the guard 
of his sword, which he held up instead of a cross, he ad- 
dressed his prayers to Uod, and in this posture he calmly 
waited the approacli of death."— Robertson, Charles V.l 

s [" On the first of May, 1527, the Constable and his army 
came in sight of Rome, and the next morning commenced 
the altasiT Bourbon wore a white vest over his armor, in 



41 



For but an hour, a minute more of life 
To die within the wall I Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without 
thee. 
Arn. And without thee ! 

Bovrb. Not so ; I'll lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away ! and be 
Victorious I 

Arn. But I must not leave thee thus. 
Bourb. You must — farewell — Up 1 up ! the wovld 
is winning. [Bourbon dies.'' 

CcES. (to Arnold.) Come, count, to business. 
Am. True. I'll weep hereafter. 

[Arnold covers Bourbon's body with a mantle, 
and mounts the ladder, crying 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Rome is . jrs ! 
C(ES. Good-night, lord constable ! thou wert a man. 
[Cesar follows Arnold ; they reach the bat- 
tlement; Arnold ana, C^sar are struck 
down. 
C(ES. A precious somerset ! Is your countship in- 
jured ? 
Arn. No. [Remounts the ladder. 

Cces. A rare bloodhound, when his own is heated ! 
And 'tis no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement — he grasps it 
As though it were an altar.; now his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ? — a Roman ? 

[A 7nan falls 
The first bird of the covey ! he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why, how now, fellow? 
Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
C<ES. Blood's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Rome. {Dies 

Cccs. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives ! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 

[C^sar mounts the ladder ; the scene closes. 

S C E N K II. 

The City. -Combats between the Besiegers and 
Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants flying in con- 
fusion 

Enter CjEsar. 

C<ES. I cannot find my hero ; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now pursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 'twould 

be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self-same purple hue. 



order, he said, "to be more conspicuous both to his friends 
and foes. He led on to the walls, and commenced a furious 
assault, which was repelled with equal violence. Seeing tliat 
his army began to waver, he seized a scaling ladder from a 
soldier standing, and was in the act of ascending, when he 
was pierced by a musket-ball, and fell. Feeling that Ins 
wound was mortal, he desired that his body might be con- 
cealed from his soldiers, and instantly expired "— Hobebt- 

EON.] 



322 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part ri. 



Enter a Party fighting — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes, 
Hand in hand with the mild twins — Gore and Glory. 
Hol'a ! hold, count ! 

Am. Away ! they must not rally. 

CcES. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 
A form of beauty, and an 
Exemption from some maladies of body 
But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 
But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 
I dipp'd thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 
I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 
More than Pelides' heel ; why then, be cautious, 
And know thyself a mortal still. 

Am. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he wore 
Invulnerable? That were pretty sport. 
Think'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 

CcFS. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood 's up : and if a little 's shed, 
'Twill serve to curb his fever. 

[Arnold engages with a Roman, who retires 
towards a portico. 

Am. ■ Yield thee, slave ! 

I promise quarter. 

Rom. That's soon said. 

Am And done — 

My word is known. 

Rom. So sjjall be my deeds. 

[They re-engage. Cesar comes forward. 

Cas. Why, Arnold I hold thine own : thou hast in 
hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor ; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musqueteer ; twas he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. ■ Ay, did he so? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Rom. I yet 

May live to carve your betters'. 

Ca:s. Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some jiractice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks.' 

[Arnold disarms and wounds Celllni, but 
slightly ; the latter draws a pistol, and fires; 
then iires, an ' disappears through the 
portic " 

C(BS. How farest the ? Thou hast a taste, me- 
thinks. 
Of red Bellona'o banquet. 

Arn. {staggers.) 'Tis a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf Ho shall not 'scape mo thus. 

Ca:s. Where is it ? 

Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm — 

And that's enough. I am thirsty: would I had 
A helm of water . 

Cces Tliat's a liquid now 



1 [" Levelling my arquebuse," says Benvenuto Cellini, " I 
discharged it with a deliberate aim at a person who seemed 
to be liftc I above the rest : but the mist prevented me from 
distinguishing whether he was on horseback or on foot. 
Then lurning suddenly about to .Alessandro and Cecchino, 
I bid them (ire olT their pieces, and showed them how to es- 
car e eveiy shot of the besiegers. Having accordingly fired 
twice for the enemy's once, -I cautiously apprsached the 



In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Arn. And my thirst increases ; — ^but 

I'll find a way to quench it. 

Cois. Or be aucnch'd 

Thyself? 

Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating: 
Prithee be quick. [C^sar hinds on iui acarf. 

And what dost thou so idly ? 
Why dost not strike ? 

C(Bs. Your old philosophers 

Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. When I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be J^und a Milo. 

Arn. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

Cas. A forest, when it suits me- 

I combct with a mass, , not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine ; 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these laborers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Arn. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

Cces. And thou — a man. 

Am. Why, such I fain would show me. 

Cas. True — as men are. 

Arn. And what is that ? 

Cces. Thou feelest and thou see'et. 

[Exit Arnold, joining in the combat ivhich still 
continues between detached parties. The 
scene closes. 



SCENE III. 

St. Peter's— The Interior of the Church— The Pope 
at the Altar — Priests, cj-c. crowding in confusion, 
and Citizens flying for refuge, pursued by Sol- 
diery. 

Enter C^sar. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades! 
seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary's of gold. 

Lutheran Soldier. Revenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Christ I 

Cces. (interposing.) Ho\7 now, schismatic ? 

What wouldst thou? 

Luth. Sold. In the hcly name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

C(ES. Yea, a disciple that would make the foundoi 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 

Luth. Sold. I say he is the devil. 

CcBS. Hufh ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognise you for his own. 

Luth. Sold. Why would you save him? I repeat 
he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

CcBS. And that's the reason : would you make a 
quarrel 



walls, and perceived that there was ar. £\t"f.rrc;ir!.ry con- 
fusion among the assailants, occasioned by our iihiing shot 
the Duke of Bourbon ; lie was, as I understood afterwards, 
that chief personage whom I saw raised above the rest." — 
Vol. i. p. 120. This, however, is one of the many stones in 
Cellini's amusing autobiography which nobody seems ever 
to have believed.] 



Scene hi 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



323 



With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet como. 

Luth. Sold. That shall be seen ! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a shot 
btrikes him from one of the Pope's Guards, 
and he falls at the foot of the Altar. 

C(Es. (to the Lutheran.) I told you so. 

Luih. Sold. And will you not avenge me ? 

Cas. Not I ! You know that " Vengeance is the 
Lord's :"' 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sold, (dying.) Oh ! 

Ilitd I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
My feelleness of arm that reach'd him not, 
And take ihy servant to thy mercy. 'Tis 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon's 
No more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes I [The Lutheran dies. 

C(xs. Yes, thine own amidst tho rest. 

Well done, old Babel ! 

[The Guards defend themselves desperately, 
while the Pontiff escapes, hij a private pas- 
sage, to the Vatican, and the Castle of St 
Angelo.^ 

CcRS. Ha ! right nobly battled ! 

Now, priest ! now, soldier .' the two great professions, 
Together bj' the ears and hearts ! I have not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Romans had the best then ; 
Now they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped I 

Follow ! 

Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
sage up, 
And it is clogg'd with dead even to (h". door. 

CoiS. I am glad he hath escaped ; he may thank 
me for't 
[n part. I would not have his bulls abolished — 
'Twere worth one half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall ; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his iufallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-thioats! 
What do you pause for? If you make not haste. 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you, too. Catholics! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
See how they "trip the shrines I 

Soldiers. By holy Peter 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best awaj'. 

CiES. And that were shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion. 

[The Soldiers disperse ; many quit the Church, 
others enter. 

CoiS. They are gone. 

And others come: so flows tho wave on wave 
Of what these creatures call eternity, 
Deet)iing themselves the breakers of the ocean. 
While they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 



1 [The castle of St Angelo was besieged from the 6th of 
May to llib 5th of June, during which time slaughter and 
desolation, accompanied with every excess of impiety, ra- 
pine, and lust, on the side of tlie Jmperiahsls, devastated 



Enter Ohmvix, flying from the pursuit — She springo 
upon the Altar. 
Sold. She's mine ! 

Another Sold, (opposing the former.) You lie, I 
track'd her first ; and were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. [They fight 

3d Sold, (advancing towards Olimpia.) You may 
settle 
Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slnva . 

You touch me not alive. 

3d Sold. Alive or dead I 

Olimp. (embracing a massive crucifix.) Respect 

your God ! 
3d Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, loith a strong and 
sudden effort, casts doion the crucifix : it 
strikes the Soldier, who falls. 
3d Sold. ' Oh, great God! 

Olimp. Ah ! now you recognise him. 
3d Sold. My brain's crush'd ! 

Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [He dies. 

Other Soldiers, (coming vp.) Slay her, although 
she had a thousand lives: 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome «uch a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the wor«t slave 
Would take. Great God! through thy redeeming 

Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and 
thee I 

Enter Arnold. 

Am. What do I sec? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 

CcBS. (aside and laughing.) Ha ! ha ! here's equity ! 
The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to tho issue ! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

Am. With what weapon ? 

Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd ; 
behold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honor'd her. But get ye hence. 
And thank your meanness, other God you havo 

none. 
For your existence. Had you tonch'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals, gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sold, (murmuring.) The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am. (cuts him down.) Mutineer! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

[The Soldiers assault Arnold. 

Arn. Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show yoa, 
slaves. 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale. 



the city of Rome. For this picture of horrors, see especially 
the " Siickage of Rome," oy Jacopo Buonaparte, '• gentilu- 
omo Samiiiiniatese. che vi se trovb presente," and " Life of 
Crllmi," vol. i. p. 124.J 



324 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Part ir. 



Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you ar3 bold within it. 

[Arnold mows down the foremost ; the rest 
throw down their arms. 

Soldiers. Mercy ! mercy ! 

Arn. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you who 
Jjed you o'er Rome's eternal battlements? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led ta 

Arn. Get you hence I 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace 

Olimp. (aside ) la my father's 

House 1 

Ai'u. {to the soldiers.) Leave vour arms ; ye have 
no further need 
Of such : the city's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, (deposing their arms and departing.) We 
obey ! 

Arn. (to Olimpia.) Lady, you are safe. 

Olimp. I should be so, 

Had I a knifo even ; but it matters not — 
Death hath a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

Arn. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 

Olimp. No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native 
land, — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury I — tliis temple — 
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me. 

To be but that shall never be ! 

[She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe 
round her, and prepares to dash herself 
down on the side of the Altar opposite to 
that where Arnold stands. 

Arn. Hold! hold! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

Arn. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
Of these men, though 

Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 

It is for God to ridge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purp ^ with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, tis all thou e'er shalt have of me, 
And here, upon the marble of this temple, 
Where the b^rttismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd uifant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with dis- 
dain, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
the Altar. 

Arn. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She's gone. 

CcBS. (approaches.) I am here. 

Arn. Thou I but oh, save her ! 
CcES. (assisting him to raise Olimpia.) She hath 
dene it well ! 
The leap was serious. 

Atn. Oh! she.is lifeless . 



Cces. If 

She be so, I have naught to do with that • 
The resurrection is beyond me 

Arn. Slave ! 

CcBS. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Arn. Words I — Canst thou aid her ? 

Cees. I will trj'. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[He brings some in his helmet from the font 

Arn. 'Tis mix'd with blood. 

Cms. There is no cleaLer now 

In Rome. 

Arn. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
I love but thee ! 

Ctes. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea : with his form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one 

Arn. She breathes ! But no, 'twas nothmg or the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

C(Bs. She breathes. 

Arn. Thou say'st it ? Then 'tis truths 

Cas. You do me right — 

The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's 

deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Arn. (without attending to him.) Yes ! her heart 
beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I ever wish'd to beat with mine sho>ald vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

CtES. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where shall we bear her ? 
I say she lives. 

Am. And will she live ? 

C(zs. As much 

As dust can. 

Arn. Then she is dead ! 

Cces. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Arn We will 

Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitch'd my banner. 

C(ts. Come then ! raise her up ! 

Arn. Softly! 

C(ES. As softly as they bear the dead. 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Arn. But doth she live indeed ? 

Cms. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Arn. Let her but live ! 

CeBS. The spirit of hei life 

Is yet within her breast, and may revive 
Count ! count ! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new oflice : — 'tis not oft 
I am employ'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
Now / desert not mine. Soft ! boar her hence, 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 

Arn. Thou ! 

CcBS. 1 ! But fear not. I'll not be your rival 

Arn. Rival ! 

Cces. I could be one right formidable ; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 



Scene iti. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



325 



Tobias' future bride, (and after all 
'Twas suck'd out by some incense,) I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 'tis rarely wortli the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again ; for there's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Am. Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

C(BS. Like stars, no doubt ; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Venus. 

Arn. To the palaco 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

CcBS. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Arn. Now onward, onward ! Gently ! 

[Exeunt, bearing Oumpia. The scene closes. 



PART III 



SCENE I. 
A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild 
but smiling country. Chorus of Peasants singing 
before the Gates. 

CHORUS. 

1. 

The wars are over, 

The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 



The spring is come ; the violet's gone, 

T^\e first-born child of the early sun : 

WUh us she is but a winter's flower. 

The -snow on the hills cannot blast her bower. 

And sho lifts up her dewy eye of blue 

To the youngest sky of the self-same hue. 



And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Shrinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heavenly odor and virgin hues. 

4. 

Pluck the others, but stil. remember 
Their herald out of dim December — 
The morning star of all the flowers, 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours; 
Nor, midst the roses, e'er forget 
Tlio virgin, virgin violet 



L 



Enter C^sar. 
Ctzs. (singing.) The wars are all ovor, 

Our swords are all idle. 

The steed bites the bridle. 
The casque's on the wall. 
There's rest for the rover ; 

But his anii.cr is rusty, 

And the veteran grows crusty, 
As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks — but what's drinking? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
No bugle awakes him with life-and-deatb call 



But the hound bayeth loudly. 

The boar's in the wood. 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, * 

And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cas. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 

Dim image of war ! 
But the chase hath no story. 

Her hero no star. 
Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase. 
Who made the woods wonder 

And quake for their race. 
When the lion was young. 

In the pride of his might, 
Then 'twas sport for the strong 

To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth. 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time. 
The first-born of Nature, 

And, like her, sublime ! 



But the wars are over. 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their hnme : 
They are happy, and we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice ! 

[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing 



326 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAIN: 

A MYSTERY.' 
" N>w the Serpent was more subtil than any oeast of the field which the Lord God hai made.' — Gen cb iiL ver. 1 

TO 

SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS MYSTERY OF CAjN IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND, AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

The following scenes are entitled " A Mystery," in 
conformity with the ancient title annexed to dramas 



> [" Cain" was begun at Ravenna, on the 16th of July, 
1821 — completed on the 9th of September— and published, 
in the same volume with " Sardanapalus" and "The Two 
Foscari," in December. Perhaps no production of Lord 
Byron has been more generally admired, on the score of 
ability, than this " Mystery ;" — certainly none, on first ap- 
pearing, exposed the author to a fiercer tempest of personal 
abuse. Besides being unmercifully handled in most of the 
critical journals of the day, " Cain" was made the subject 
of a solemn separate essay, enlilled "A Remonstrance ad- 
dressed to Mr. Murray respecting a recent Publication — by 
Oxoniensis ;" of which we may here preserve a speci- 
men : — 

" There is a method of producing conviction, not to be 
found in any of the treatises on logic, but which I am per- 
suaded you could be quickly made to understand ; it is the 
argumintum ad crumenam ; and this, I trust, will be brought 
home to you in a variety of ways ; not least, I expect, in 
the profit you hope to make by the offending publication. 
As a bookseller, I conclude you have but one standard of 
poetic excellence — the extent of your sale. Without as- 
suming any thing beyond llie bounds of ordinary foresight, 
I venture to foretell, lliat in this case you will be mistaken : 
the book will disappoint your cupidity, as much as it dis- 
credits your feeling and discretion. Your noble employer 
has deceived yon, Mr. Murray : he has profited by the 
celebrity of his name to palm upon you obsolete trash, the 
very ofT-scourings of Bayle and Voltaire, which he has made 
you pay for as though it were first-rate poetry and sound 
metaphysics'. But I tell you (and if you doubt it, you may 
consult any of the literary gentlemen who frequent your 
reading-room) that this poem, this ' Mysiery,' with which 
vou have insulted us, is nothing more than a cento from 
Voltaire's novels, and the most objectionable articles in 
Bayle's Dictionary, served up in clumsy cuttings of ten 
syllables, for the purpose of giving it the guise of poetry. 

" Still, though ' Cain' has no claims to originality, there 
are other objects to which it may be made subservient ; 
and so well are the noble author's schemes arranged, that 
in some of them he will be sure to succeed. 

"In the first place, this publication maybe useful as a 
financial measure. It may seem hard to suspect, that the 
high-souled philosophy, of which his Lordship makes pro- 
fession, could be ' servile to the influence' ol money ; but 
you could tell us. Sir, if you would, what sort of a har.i 
your noble friend is at a bargain ; whether Plutus does n; 
sometimes go shares witli Apollo in his inspirations. 

" In the second place, (second I mean in point of order, 
for I do not presume to decide which motive predominates 
in his Lordship's mind,) the blasphemous impieties of 
'Cain,' though nothing more in reality than the echo of 
cftsn refuted sophisms, by being newly dressed and put 
forth in a form easy to be remembered, may produce con- 
siderable efl'ect ; that is, they may mislead the ignorant, 
unsettle the wavering, or confirm the hardened skeptic in 
his misbelief These are consequences which Lord Byron 
must have contemplated ; with what degree of complacency 
he alone caii tell. 

• But, in the third place, if neither of these things hap- 
pens, and ' Cain' should not prove either lucrative or mis- 



upon similar subjects; which were styled " Mystor Cs, 
or Moralities." The author has by no moans taken 
the .same liberties with his subject which were com- 
mon, formerly, as may bo seen by any reader curious 



chievous, there is another point wluch Lord Byron has 
secured to himself, so tliat he cannot be deprived of it, — 
the satisfaction of insulting tfioce from whom he difiers 
both in faith and practice . . . Now, at last, lie quarrels 
with the very conditions of humanity, rebels against that 
Pro\'idence which guides and governs all things, and dares 
to adopt the anguage which had never before been at- 
tributed to ai y being but one, ' Evil, be thou my good.' 
Such, as far as we oan judge, is Lord Byron." 

This critic's performance is thus alluded to in one of 
Lord Byron's letters to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird : — " I know 
nothing of Rivington's 'Remonstrance' by tlie 'eminent 
Churchman ;' but I suppose the man wants a living." On 
hearing that his publisher was threatened with more 
serious annoyances, in consequence of the appearance of 
the " Mystery," Lord Byron addressed the following lecter 
to ]Mr. Murray :— 

"Pisa, February 8, 1822. 

" Attacks upon rne were to be expected ; but I perceive 
one upon you in the papers, which I confess that I did not 
expect. How, or in what manner, you can be considered 
responsible, for what / publish, I am at a loss to conceive. 

" If ' Cain' be ' blasphemous,' Paradise Lost is blasphe 
mous ; and the very words of the Oxford gentleman, ' Evil, 
be thou mvgood,' are from that very poem, from the mouth 
of Satan , and is there any thing more in that of Lucifer in 
the Mystery ? ' Cain' ia nothing more than a drama, not a 
piece of argument. If Lucifer and Cain speak as the first 
murderer and the first rebel may be supposed to speak, 
surely all the rest of the personages talk also according to 
their characters— and the stronger passions have ever been 
permitted to the drama. 

"I have even avoided introducing the Deity, as in 
Scripture, (though Milton does, and not very wisely either ;) 
but have adopted his angel as sent to Cain instead, on pur- 
pose to avoid shocking any feelings on the subject, by fall- 
ing short of what all uninspired men must fall sliort in, viz., 
giving an adequate notion of the effect of the presence of 
Jehovah. Tlie old Mysteries introduced hiin liberally 
enough, and all this is avoided in the new one. 

" The attempt to bully you, because they tliink it won't 
succeed with me, seems to me as atrocious an attempt as 
ever disgraced the times. What I when Gibbon's, Hume's, 
Priestley's, and Drummond's publishers have been allowed 
to rest in peace for seventy years, are you to be singled out 
for a work of /c/ion, not of history or argument? There 
must be something at the bottom of this— some private 
enemy of your own : it is otherwise incredible. 

" I can only say, ' Me, mn ; en adsum qui feci ■'—mat any 
proceedings directed against you, I beg, may be transferred 
to me, who am willing, and ought, to endure them all ;— thf.t 
if you have lost money by the publication, I will refund anv 
or all of the copyright ;— that I desire you will say that bota 
you and Mr. Gifford remonstrated against the publication, as 
also Mr. Hobhouse ;— that / alone occasioned it, and I alono 
am the person who, either legally or otherwise, should bear 
the buiden. If they prosecute, I will come to England ; th&l 
is, if, by meeting it in my own person, I can save yours. Let 

.1 



CAIN. 



327 



enough to refer to those very profiiiie productions,' 
whether hi EiL-rlish, French, Itahan, or Spanish. The 



me know. You sha'n't suffer for me, if I can help it. Make 
any use of this letter you please. Yours ever, &c. 

' "BYRON. 

" p. S.— I write to you about all this row of bad passions 
iind absurdities with ;he summer moon (for here our winter 
is clearer than you/' dog-days) lighting the winding Arno, 
with all her buildings and bridges,— so quiet and still '- 
What nothings are we before the least of these stars !" 

An individual of the name of Benbow having pirated 
' Cain," Mr. Shadwell (now, 163fi, Sir Lancelot, and Vice 
Chancellor) applied to tlie Lord Chancellor (Eldon) for an 
injunction to protect Mr. Murray's property in the Mystery. 
The learned counsel, on the 9th of February, 1822, spoke as 
follows :— 

" This work professes to record, in a dramatic poem of 
three Acts, the story contained in the book of Genesis. It 
is meant to represent the state of Cain's mind when it. re- 
ceived those temptations which led him to commit the mur- 
der of his brotlier. The actors in the poem are few : they 
consist of Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, and their two 
wives, with Lucifer, and, in the Third Act, the angel of the 
Lord. The book only does that which was before done by 
Milton, and adheres more closely to the words contained in 
Scripture. The book, in the commencement, represents 
Cain m a moody, dissipated disposition, when the Evil 
Spirit tempts him to go forth with him to acquire knowledge. 
After the first Act, he leads him through the abyss of space ; 
and, in the third, Cain returns with a still more gloomy 
spirit. Although the poet puts passages into his mouth, 
vvhi-ch of themselves are blasphemous and impious ; yet it 
is what Milton has done also, both in his Paradise Lost, 
and Regained. But those passages are powerfully combat- 
ed by tlie beautiful arguments of his wife, Adah. It is true 
that the book represents what Scripture represents, — that 
lie is, notwithstanding, instigated to destroy the altar of his 
brother, whom he is then led on to put to death ; but then 
the punishment of his crime follows in the very words of 
the Scripture itself Cain's mind is immediately visited 
with all the horror of remorse, and he goes forth a wander- 
er on the face of the earth. I trust I am the last person in 
the world who would attempt to defend a blasphemous or 
impious work ; but I say that this poem is as much entitled 
•,o the protection of the court, in the abstract, as either the 
Paradise Lost or the Paradise Regained. So confident am 
I of this, that I would at present undertake to compare it 
with those works, passage by passage, and show that it is 
perfectly as moral as those productions of Milton. Eveiy 
sentence carries with it, if I may use the expression, its 
own balsam. The authority of God is recognised ; and 
Cain's impiety and crime are introduced to show that its 
punishment immediately followed. I repeat, that there is 
no reason why this work, taken abstractedly, should not 1^3 
protected as well as either of the books I have mentioned. 
I therefore trust that your Lordship will grant this injunc- 
tion in limine, and then the defendants may come in and 
show cause against it." 

The following is a note of the Lord Chancellor's judg- 
ment . — 

" This court, like the other courts of justice in this coun- 
try, acknowledges Christianity as part of the law of the 
land. The jurisdiction of this court in protecting literary 
property is founded on this,— that where an action will lie 
for pirating a work, there the court, attending to the imper- 
fection of that remedy, grants its injunction ; because there 
may be publication after publication which you may never 
be able to hunt down by proceeding in the other courts. 
But where such an actio -■ does not lie, I do not apprehend 
that it is according to tne course of the court to grant an in- 
junction to protect the copyright. Now this publication, if 
it is one intended to vilify and bring into discredit that por- 
tion of Scripture history to which it relates, is a publication 
witli reference to which, if the principles on which the case 
of Dr. Priestley, at Warwick, was decided, be just princi- 
ples of law, the party could not recover any damages in 
respect of a piracy of it. This court has no criminal juris- 
diction ; it cannot 'ook on any thing as an offence ; but in 
those cases it only administers justice for the protection of 
the civil riglits of those who possess them, in consequence 
of being able to maintain an action. You have alluded to 
MiV.rn's immortal work : it did happen in the course of last 
long vacation, amongst the solicitm jucunda oblivia vita, I 
read that work from beginning to end ; it is therefore quite 
fresh in my memory, and it appears to me that the great 
)bject of its author was to promote the cause of Christian- 
ity : there are undoubtedly a great many passages in it, of 
which, if tliat were not its object, it would be very improper 
by law to vindicate the publication ; but, taking it altogeth- 



autnor has endeavored to preserve the language adapt- 
ed to his characters ; and where it is (and this is but 

er, it is clear that the object and effect were not to bring 
into disrepute, but to promote, the reverence of our re- 
hgion. Now the real question is, looking at the work be- 
fore me, its preface, the poem, its manner of treating the 
subject, particularly with reference to the fall and the atone- 
ment, whether its intent be as innocent as th.at of llie other 
with which you have compared it ; or whether it be to tra- 
duce and bring into discredit that part of sacrea ..istory. 
This question I have no right to try, because it has been 
settled, after great difference of opinion among the learned, 
that it is for a jury to determine that point ; and where, 
therefore, a reasonable doubt is entertained as to the charac- 
ter of the work, (and it is impossible for me to say I have 
not a doubt, I hope it is a reasonable one,) another course 
must be taken for determining what is its true nature and 
character. There is a great difficulty in these cases, because 
it appears a strange thing to permit the multiplication of 
copies by way of preventing the circulation of a mischiev- 
ous work, which I do not presume to determine that this is; 
but that I cannot help ; and the singularity of the casa, in 
this instance, is more obvious, because here is a defendant 
who has multiplied this work by piracy, and does not think 
proper to appear. If the work be of that character which 
a court of common law would consider criminal, it is pretty 
clear why he does not appear, because he would come 
confitcns reus ; and for the same re.ason the question may 
pei-haps not be tried by an action at law ; and if it turns out 
to be the case, I shall be bound to give my own opinion. 
That opinion I express no further now than to say that, 
after having read the work, I cannot grant the injunction 
until you show me that you can maintain an action for it. 
If you cannot maintain an action, there is no pretence for 
granting an injunction ; if you should not be able to try the 
question at law with the defendant, I cannot be charged 
with impropriety if I then give my own opinion upon it. It 
is true that this mode of dealing with the work, if it be cal- 
culated to produce mischievous effects, opens a door for its 
dissemination ; but the duty of stopping the work does not 
belong to a court of equity, which has no criminal Juris- 
diction, .ind cannot punish or check the offence. If the 
character of the work is such that the publication of it 
amounts to a temporal offence, there is another way of pro- 
ceeding, and the publication of it should be proceeded 
against directly as an offence; but whether this or any 
other work should be so dealt with, it would be very im- 
proper for me to form or intimate an opinion." 

The injunction was refused accordingly. The reader is 
referred to Mr. IMoore's Notices for abundant evidence of 
the pain which Lord Byron suffered from the virulence of 
the attacks on " Cain," and the legal procedure above al- 
luded to. 

Sir Walter Scott announced his acceptance of the dedica- 
tion in the following letter to Mr. Murray : — 

"Edinburgh, 4t,h December, 1821. 

" My dear Sir, — I accept with feehngs of great obliga- 
tion, the flattering proposal of Lord Byron to prefi.x my 
name to the very grand and tremendous drama of ' Cain.' 
I may be partial to it, and you will allow I have cause , 
but I do not know that his Muse has ever taken so lofty a 
flight amid her former soarings. He has certainly matched 
Milton on his own ground. Some part of the language is 
bold, and may shock one class of readers, whose line will 
be adopted by others out of affectation or envy. But then 
they must condemn the ' Paradise Lost,' if they have a 
mind to be consistent. The fiend-like reasoning and bold 
blasphemy of the fiend and of'his pupil lead exactly to tlie 
point which was to be expected. — the commission of the 
first murder, and the ruin and despair of the perpetrator. 

" I do not see how any one can accuse the author liimself 
of Manicheism. The Devil talks the language of that sect, 
doubtless ; because, not being able to deny llie existence of 
the Good Principle, he endeavors to exalt himself— the Evil 
Principle— to a seeming equality with the Good ; but such 
arguments in the mouth of such a being, can only he used 
to deceive and to betray. Lord Byron might have made 
this more evident, by placing in the mouth of Adam, or of 
some good and protecting spirit, the reasons which render 
the existence of moral evil consistent with the general be- 
nevolence of the Deity. The great key to the mystery is, 
perhaps, the imperfection of our own faculties, which see 
and feel strongly the partial evils -vhich press upon us tut 
know too little of the general system of the universe, tc be 



1 [See note to "Hints from Horace," post; Payne Col- 
her's " Annals of the Stage," vol. i. ; the " Histoue do 
Theatre Frrmcais," vol. ii., &c.] 



328 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act X 



rarely) taken from actual Scripture, he has made as 
little alteration, even of words, as the rhythm would 
permit. The reader will recollect that the book of 
Genesis does not state that Eve was tempted by a 
demon, but by " the Serpent ;" and that only because 
he was " the most subtil of all the beasts of the field." 
Whatever interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers 
may have put upon this, I take the words as I find 
them, and reply, with Bishop Watson upon similar oc- 
pasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as 
Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, " Behold the 
Book !" — holding up the Scripture.' It is to be recol- 
lected that my present* subject has nothing to do with 
the Neio Testament, to which no reference can be 
here made without anachronism. With the poems upon 
similar topics I have not been recently familiar. Since 
I was twenty, I have never read Milton ; but I had 
read him so frequently before, that this may make little 
difference. Gesner's " Death of Abel" 1 have never 
read since I was eight years of age, at Aberdeen. The 
general impression of my recollection is delight; but of 
the contents I remember only that Cain's wife was 
called Mahala, and Abel's Thirza: in the following 
pages I have called them " Adah" and " Zillah," the 
earliest female names which occur in Genesis ; they 
were those of Lamech's wives : those of Cain and Abel 
are ^ot called by their names. Whether, then, a co- 
incidence of subject may have caused the same in ex- 
pression, I know nothing, and care as little.^ 

The reader will please to bear in mind, (what few 
choose to recollect,) thatr there is no allusion to a future 
state in any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the 
Old Testament' For a reason for this extraordinary 
omission he may consult Warburton's ■' Divine Lega- 
tion ;" whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
been assigned. I have therefore supposed it new to 
Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was diffi- 
cult for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon 
the same subjects ; but I have done what I could to re- 
strain him within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
tlie Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
not the most distant allusion to any thing of the kind, 
but merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvicr, that 
the world had been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
different strata and the bones of enormous and un- 



aw=>,re how the existence of these is to be reconciled with 
the betievolence of the great Creator. 

" To drop these speculations, you have much occasion for 
some mighty spirit, like Lord Byron, to come down and 
trouble the waters ; for, excepting ' The John Bull,'* you 
seem stagnating straiigely in 1. -ndon. Yours, my dear Sir, 
very truly, WALTER SCOTT." 

" To John Murray, Esq." 

1 [" I never troubled myself with answering any arguments 
which the opponents in the divinity-schools brought against 
the Articles of the Church, nor ever admitted their authority 
as decisive of a difficulty ; but 1 used on such occasions to say 
to them, holding up the New Testament in my hand, • En 
sacrum codicem 1 Here is the fountain of truth ; why do you 
follow the streams derived from it by sophistry, or polluted 
by the passions, of man V " — Bp. Watson's Life, vol. i. p. 63.] 

- [Here follows, in the original draught, — " I am prepared 
to bo accused of Manicheism, or some other hard name end- 
ing in ism, which make a formidable figure and awful sound 

* [The pungent Sunday print so called had been estab- 
lished S'/me little time before this letter was written, and 
had e.xcited a sensation unequalled in the recent liistory of 
the newspaper press.] 



known animals found in them, is not contrary to the 
Mosaic account, but rather confinns it ; as no human 
bones have yet been discovered in those strata, al- 
though those of many known animals are found near 
the remains of tlie unknown. The assertion of Luci- 
fer, that the pre-Adamite world was also peopled by 
rational beings much more intelligent than man, and 
proportionably powerful to the mammotli, &c. &q.,is, 
of course, a poetical fiction to help him to make out 
his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia" of 
Alfieri, called " Abele." — I have never read that, noi 
any other of the posthumous works of the writer, ex- 
cept his Life. 

Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Men. — Adam. 
Cain. 
Abel. 

Spirits. — Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 

Wo?nen. — Eve. 
Adah. 
Zillah. 



CAIN: 

A MYSTERY.* 

ACT L 

SCENE I. 

The Land loitliout Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 

Ada.m, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering o 
Sacrifice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite I All-wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night', till then divided never — 



In the eyes and ears of those who would be as much puzzled 
to explain the terms so bandied about, as the liberal and 
pious indulgers in such epithets. Against such I can defend 
myself, or, if necessary, I can attack in turn."] 

3 [There arc numerous passages dispersed throughout the 
Old Testament, which import something more than " an 
allusion to a future state." In truth, the Old Testament 
abounds in phrases which imply the immortality of the soul, 
and which would be insignificant .ind hardly intelligible, but 
upon that supposition. " Then shall the dust return to the 
earth as it was, and the spirit return unto God who gave it." 
— Eccl. xii. 7. " And many of them that sleep in the dust 
of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some 
to shame : and they that be wise shall shine as the bright- 
ness of the firmament ; and they that turn many to righte- 
ousness as the stars for ever and ever." — Dan. x.2. " I know 
that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall Sitand in the lat- 
ter days upon the earth: and though after my skin wornss 
shall destroy my body, yet in my flesh shall I see God." — 
Job xix. 25. — Bnt. Rev.'i 

4 [Lord Byron has thought proper to call this drama a 
" Mystery ;" the name which was given in our own countri'. 
before the Reformation, to those scenic represtnlatioui; ot 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



329 



^Vho didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Fart of thy work the firmament— all hail ! 

AbtL God ! who didst call the elements into 
Earth— ocean— air— and fire, and with the day 
And night, and worlds, which these illuminate, 
Or snadow, madest heings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and thee— all hail ! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Wlio didst create tliese best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let nio U ve thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 

Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in, 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil :— Hail ! all hail ! 

Adam. Sou Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou 
silent ? 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adam. To pray.' 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly : I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Abel. Amen! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wlierefore so? 

Cain. I have naught to ask.'' 

Adam. Nor aught to thank for ?^ 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall." 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of know- 



Cain And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of 
life? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh ! my son, 

Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words. 

Cain. Why not? 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree of knowledge ; 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 



the mysterious events J. -lur religion, which, indecent and 
unedifying as they seem lo ourselves, were, perhaps, the 
principal means by which a knowledge of those events was 
conveyed to our rude and uninstructed ancestors. But, ex- 
cept in the topics on which it is employed, Lord Byron's 
Mystery has no resemblance to those which it claims as its 
prototypes. — Heber.] 

1 [" Prayer," s.aid Lord Byron, at Cephalonia. " does not 
consist in the act of kneeling, nor in repeating certain 
words in a solemn manner. Devotion is the afiection of 
the heart, and this I feel ; for when I view the wonders of 
creation, I bow to the majesty of Heaven ; and when I feel 
the enjoyment of life, health, and happiness, I feel grateful 
to God for having bestowed these upon me."— Kennedy's 
Conversations, p. 135 ] 
» [" Say then, shall man, deprived all power of choice, 

Ne'er raise to Heaven the supplicating voice ? 

Not so ; but to the gods his fortunes trust ; 

Their thoughts are wise, their dispensations just. 

"What best may profit or delight they know, 

And real good for fancied bliss bestow ; 

With eyes of pity they our frailties scan ; 

More dear to them, than to himself, is man." — Juv 

•Though the Deity is inclined," says Owen, "by his 
42 



Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, in sio. 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
My misery in thine. I have repented. 
Let me n«t seo my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy 'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
Thou now liadst been contented. — Oh, my soia! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us henco, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is youn^, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labor. 

Lve. Cain, my son. 

Behold thy father cheftr<"ul and resign'd, 
And do as ho doth. [Exeunt Adam and EvK 

Zillah. Wilt f nou not, my brother ? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy 
brow, 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no 

I fain would be alone a little while 
Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass. 
Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind ; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met 
I'll follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah 

Cain, (solus.) And this is 

Life I — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — becauso 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had I done in this? — I was unborn : 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or. 
Yielding, why suffer? What v.'as there in this? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew. 
The fairest in the centre? They have but 
One answer to all questions, " 'Twas his will. 
And he is good." How know I that? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 



own benignity, to bless his creatures, yet he expects the 
outward expressions of devotion from the rational part of 
them." This is certainly what Juvenal means to inculcate : 
hence his earnest recommendation of a due regard to the 
public and ceremonial part of religion.— Gikford.] 

3 [" I took out my ' Ogden on Prayer,' and read some of 
it. Dr. Johnson praised hira. ' Abernethy,' said he, ' al- 
lows only of a physical effect of prayer upon the mind, 
which may be produced many ways as well as by prayer 
for instance, by meditation. Ogden goes farther. In truth, 
we have the consent of all nations for the elBcacy of prayer, 
whether offered up by individuals or by assemblies ; and 
revelation has told us it will be effectual.' "—Boswell, 
vol. iv. p. 66, ed. 1835.] 

i [This passage affords a key to the temper and frame of 
mind of Cain throughout the piece. He disdains the hmited 
existence allotted to him ; he has a rooted horror of death, 
attended with a vehement curiosity as to his nature ; and 
he nourishes a sullen anger against his parents, to whose 
misconduct he ascribes his degraded state. Added to this, 
he has an insatiable thirst for knowledge beyond the bounds 
prescribed to mortality ; and this part of the poem bears a 
strong resemblance to Manfred, whose counterpart, indeed, 
in the main points of character, Cain seems to be.— Camp- 
bell.] 



330 



BYRON'S works- 



Act I. 



I jiulso but by tho fruits — and tlioy aro bitter — 

Wiiic.li I must food on for a fuult not inino. 

Wii.rin have wo hero? — A shape iil» to tho angels, 

Yot of a sterner and a sadder aspect ^ 

Of K[)iritual esfioneo : wiiy do I quako? 

Why nhouid I fear iiini morn than other Rpirits, 

Whom I see daily wavo their fiery Kvvords 

Heforo (he gate.s round which 1 liufror ofl, 

In twilight's liour, to catch a glimpHO of those 

Gardens which aro my just inheritance, 

Ero tiie night closes o'er tho iniiibited walla 

And tho immortal trees which overtop 

The cherubim-defended battlements? 

If I shrink not from these, tho flro-arm'd angels, 

Why shiiuld I .[uitii Irom him who now approaches? 

Yet he seem.s mightier far than them, nor less 

Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

As he hath boon, and might bo: sorrow seems 

Half of his iuunortality.' And is it 

So? and can aught gricvo save humanity? 

IIo come-th. 

Enter LuciFKii.^ 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust? 

Lucifer. I know tho tlioughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cain. How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They aro the tho\ights of all 

Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
Which Bj)caks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

This has not been rcveal'd : tho tree of life 
Was wilhliold from us by my father's folly. 
While tiiat of knowledge, by my luothcr's haste. 
Was pluck'd too soon : and all tlio fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 

Cain. I live, 

1 [Cain's description of llic approach of Lucifer would 
have slione in the " Paradise Lost." There is sornelhing 
spiriUially fine in this coneeplion of the terror of presenti- 
nieiil of coining evil.— Jui'.i'uisy.] 

'•'[Of I,iu',ifer, as iliavvii liy Lord Byron, we absolutely 
know no evil ; on llic contrary, tlic impression which we 
receive of l\iin is, from his lirst nitrortnelion, most favorable, 
lie is not oniy cailuoil with all Ihc beauty, the wisdom, and 
tho uneonqucruble (larniR which Milton has assigned him, 
anil which nr.y reasonably be supposed to belong to a spirit 
of so e-;-i'le i nature, but he is reprcseiilod as unhappy 
wiUioUi. ; crniiO, and as pitying our unhappincss. Even 
before he a,)pears, we are pr'jnared (so far as the poet lias 
had skill to prepare us) to syn.puthizc with any spiriliial 
being who is opposed to the government of Jehovah. The 
conversations, the exhibitions which ensue, arc all condu- 
cive to the same conclusion, that whatever is is evil, and 
tliat, had the Devil been the Creiitor, ho would have made 
his creatures happier. Above all, his arguments and in- 
ciiiualions are allowed to pass uncontradicted, or arc 
answered onlv by overbearing force, and punishment in- 
flicted not on himself hut on his disctiplo. Nor is the inten- 
tion ess app;ireiil, nor tho poison less sublh;, l)ec;uise the 
languaf;c employed is not indecorous, and llie accuser of 
the Almighty does not descend to ribaldry or scurrilous in- 
vective.— IIkbkii. 

The Satan of Miltnn is no halfhuman devil, with enough 
ol carlh nlxut him to typify the malignant skej/j; -,, and 
enoMgl. cf heaven to throw a shade ol" sublimity on his 
very raahgnity. The Lucifer of liyron is neither a noble- 
fiend, nor yet a vlllaiiilicnd— he does nothing, and he 
seems notluiig— there is no poetry cillicr of character or 
deseiiption about him— he is a iioor, sneaking, talking 
devil— ii 'nosl v\ retched nietaphvsieian, without wit enouuli 
to save mm e\en from the damnation of criticism— he 
speujiiS iieitlier poetry nor ooinmon sense. Thonias Aquinas 



But live to die: and, living, see no thing 

To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 

A loathsome, and yet all invincible 

Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 

Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 

And so I live. Would 1 had never lived ! [not 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must livo forever: think 
Tho earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou art now. 

Cain. No less ! and why 

No moro ? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt bo as we. 

Cain. And ye? 

Ljicifer. Are ovorlasting 

Cain. Areyohiippy? 

Lucifer. We aio mighty. 

Cain. Aro ye appy? 

Lucifer. No: art thou? 

Cain. How should I bo so? Look on nio ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou protondest to bo wrelchcd ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what 
art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
Would not have made thco what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Ludfcr. I am none : 

And having fail'd to bo one, wou/d bo naught 
Save wiiat I am. IIo conquer'd ; let him reign ! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the carth'a 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing; and t;o my father saitli. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, 
ou pain 
C)f being that wdiich I am — and thou art — 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that? 

Lucifer. Soids who dare uso their immortality — * 



would have flogged him more for his bad logic than his un- 
belief; and St. tiunstan would have caught him by the nose 
ere tiic purblind fiend was aware. — Ulackwood. 

The impiety chargeable on this Mystery consists mainly 
in this— that the purposeless and gratuitous blasphemies 
put into the mouth of Lucifer and Cain are left unrefutcd, 
so lliat they appear introduced for their own sake, and the 
design of the writer seems to terminate in them. There 
is no attempt made to prevent their leaving the strongest 
possible iiniiressionon the reader's mind. On llio contrary, 
tlie arguments, if such they can be called, levelled against 
the wisdom and goodness of the Creator, are put forth 
with the utmost ingenuity. And it has been tlie noble 
poet's endeavor to ])alliale as much as possible the charac- 
ters of the Kvil Spirit and of the first Murderer ; the former 
of whom is made an elegant, poeticnl, philosophical senti- 
mentalist, a sort of Manfred,— the latter an ignorant, proud, 
and self-willed boy. J.ueifer, too, is represented as deny- 
ing all share in the temptation of Eve, which he throws 
u|)on the Serpent " in his seriientinc capacity ;" the author 
pleading, that he does so, nnhy because the book of Genesis 
has not the most distant allusion to any thing of Ihc kind, 
and that a reference to the New Testament would be an 
anachronism. — Kcl. llev.} 

" [In this long dialogue, the tempter tells Ciiin (who is 
thus far supposed to be ignorant of the fact) that the soul 
is immortal, and that " souls who dure use their immor- 
tality" are condemned by God to be wretcheil everlastingly 
This sentiment, whicli is the pervading moro/ (if we may 
call it SO) of the jilay, is developed m the lines which fol- 
low.— llEnEii. " There is nothing apainst the immortality 
of the soul in ' Cain' that I recollect. I hold no such 
o|)ini()ns ;— but, in a drama, the first rebel and Ilio first 
murderer must be made to talk according to their charac- 
ters." — liyron Letters. \ 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



331 



Souls wlio daro look the Oniiiii)otcut tyrant in 

Ilis cvcrlastinir face, and toll him, that 

His ovil is not <rood ! If ho has made, 

As ho saith— which I know not, nor bcliovc — 

15ut, if ho niado us— ho cannot unmake: 

Wo are immortal I — nay, ho'd Ii/ivd us so, 

That ho may torture :— lot him ! Ho is {jroat — ■ 

But, iu his frrcatuess, is no hapjMor than 

Wo in our conflict ! Coodncss would not mako 

Evil ; and what clso hatii ho mado ! IJut let him 

Sit on his 7ast and solitary throne, 

Creating worlds, to mako eternity 

Less burdensome to his iunnenso oxislcnco 

And unparticii)aled solitude ! 

Let him crowd orb on orl): ho is alono 

Inderuiito, indissoluble tyrant !' 

Could ho but crush himself, 'twcro tho best boon 

IIo ever <jranled : but, let him reign on, 

And multi.i)!y himself in misery ! 

Spirits and men, at least wo sympathize — 

And, suftoring in concert, mako our pangs, 

Innumerable, more endurable, 

IJy tho miboiuulcd sympathy of all — 

With all ! But Jlc ! so wretched in his height, 

So restless in his wretchedness, nuist still 

Create, and ro-create '■' 

Cain. Thou spoak'st to mo of things which long 
have swum 
In visions through my thought: I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to mo 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I sco 
Tho gates of what they call their Paradise 
Ciuarded by fiery -sworded cherubim. 
Which shut them out, and mo: 1 feel tho weight 
Of daily toil artd constant tliougbt: I look 
Around a world where 1 seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could nmster all things: — but I thought alono 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot tho mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at tho risk 
Of au (Vernal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who oilers up 
The firstlings of tho flock to him who bids 
Tho earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Tiian the birds' matins; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
Tho mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Now met I aught to sympathizo with me. 
'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not boon fit by thine own 
BOul 



1 [Tlio poet rises to tlic sublime in making Lucifer first 
inspire Cain with llie i;iiowkxlge of his imiiioiUility— a por- 
tion of Inilli wliicli liatli the cllieacy of falseliood upon llie 
victim ; for Cain, feeling himself already unhappy, knowing 
that Ills being cannot be abridged, has the less scruple to 
desire lo be as Lucifer, "miglity." The whole of this 
speech is truly salanic ; a daring and dreadful description 
given by everlasting despair of the Deity.— Gai-t.] 

3 t" Create, and re-create— perhaps lic'Il make 
One day a Son unto himself— as he 
Cave you a father— and if he so doth, 
Mark me ! that Son will be a sacrifice !"— MS.] 

• ["Have stood before thee as I am ; but chosen 

The Si2.-ptnl's charming symbol, as before."— MS.] 

* [The tree of life was doubtless a material tree, producing 
in.alcr al fruit, proper as such for the nourishment of the 
body ; but was it not also set apart to be partaken of as a 



For such companionship, I would not now 
Ilavo stood beibro thee as I am: a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before."'' 

Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother? 

Lucifer. I tempt iioae, 

Save with tho truth : was not tho tree, the tree 
Of knowledge? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful;^ Did / bid her jiliick them not i 
Did / i)bint things prohibited within 
Tho reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By Iheir own innocence?* I would havo mado yo 
Oods ; and even He who thrust yo forth, so .hrust ye 
Because " yo should not eat th(> fruits of life, 
And become gods as we." \Vero tiiose his wcu'ds? 

Cain. They were, as I havo heard from those who 
lie;ird them. 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the dcuion? Ho 
Who would not let yo live, or ho who would 
Have made )^^ live forever iu the joy 
And power of k\. wledgo? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

Tho fruits, or neithc . 

Lucifer. One Ls yours already ; 

Tho other may bo still. 

Cain. How so ? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will bo itself 
And centre of surrounding thiugs — 'tis mado 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents? 

Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I temi)t them for, or how? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a s])irit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saitli that? It is not written so on high : 
Tho proud Ono will not so far falsify. 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would mako him cast u|)on the sjiiritual nature 
His own low failing. Tho snake vhis the snake — 
No more ; and yet not less than those ho templed, 
In nature being earth also — viore in nrisdom, 
Since ho could overcome them, and foreknow 
"^I'ho knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Tbink'st thou I'd take tho shape of things that die? 

Cain. But tho thing had a demon? 

Lucifer. He but woko one 

In those ho spako to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that tho ser})ent was no inoro 
Than a )nero serpent: ask tho cherubim 
Who guard tho tempting tree. When thousand ages 
'Havo roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
The seed of tho then world may thus array 



symbol or sacrament of that celestial principle which nour- 
ishes the soul to immortality 1— Uisnop Hounk.J 

1 [The Eclectic reviewer, we believe the late Rol)ert Ilall, 
says, — " fniioccnce is not the cause of curiosity, biii has, in 
every stage of society, been its victim. Curio.-^ily has ruin- 
ed grealor numbers than any other passion; and as, in its 
incii)iciil acliii^s, it is the most dangerous foe of innocence, 
so, when il becomes a passion, it is only feci by guilt. In- 
noccnei', indued, is gone, when desire has conceived the sin 
Cain, in this drama, is made, like the Faust of (ioellic. to Ijo 
the victim of curiosity ; and a fine moral might have been 
deiliiced from it." — Dr. Johnson, on the contrary, says, "A 
generous and elevated mind is disliiignishcd by nolhirig I 
more certainly than by an eminent liegrcc of curiosity, 
't'liis passion is, perhaps, regularly helglitt^iuHl in proportion 
as the jiowers of tho mind are elevated and cMilarg(Ml. 
Curiosity is the thirst of the soul ; il intUune.s and loiinents 
us, and makes us taste every thing with joy, however other- 
wise insipid, by which it may be quenched."] 



332 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 1. 



Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 

To me a sliape I scorn, as I scorn all 

That bows to hiin, who made things but to bend 

Pefore his sullen, sole eternity ; 

But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 

Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 

And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? Whac 

Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 

Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st 

not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst net 

Speak aught of knowledge which I wculd not know, 
And do not thiist U know, and boar a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart tD. ook on? 
Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Darest thou to look on Death ? 
Cain. He has not yet 

Seen seen. 

Lucifer. But must bo undergone 
Cain My father 

Says he ia something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth. 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer And thou? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him? 
I ■wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
In play, til! he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to heings save a being? 
Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 
Cain. Who ? ' 

Lucifer. The Maker — call him 

Which name thou wilt ; he makes but to destroy. 
Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I 
heard 
Of deatl. although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, checkerd 
By tlie far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watch'd for what I thought his coming ;' for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 'twas which shook us ail — but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in th^ azure. 
Which are so beautiful : shall tney, too, die ? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and 

tliee. 
Cain. I'm glad of that: I would not have them 
die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
1 feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 



' Lit may appear a very prosaic, but it is certainly a very 
obnous c.-iticism on these passages, ihat the young family 
of mankind, liad, long ere this, been qtute familiar with the 
dcalK c/ animals— s )me of whom Abel was in the habit of 



I cannot compass : 'tis denounced against us, 
Both them who sinu'd and siun'd not, as an ill — 
What ill? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it? 

Lucifer. As I know r ot death, 

I cannot answer 

Cain. Were I quiet earth 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, 

Less than thy father's, for he wish'd to know. 

Cain. But not tc live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree ? 

Lucifer. He -.vas hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere ho pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it — fear I know not what I 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing : 
see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teacVi rw all? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it 

Lucifer. Tl.at 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worshijjs. 

Lucifer. No 

Cain. His equal? 

Lucifer. No ; — I have naught in common with him ! 
Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brotlier Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to thee? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him? 

Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to 
me ! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 

Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that? 

Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me but 

Be taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What? 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. Why ? 

Cain. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar, 



offering up as sacrifices ; so that it is not quite conceivable 
that they sliould be so much at a oss to conjecture wb&t 
Death was.— Jeffbey.] 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



333 



Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to hhn who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
The offering is more his than mine — and Adah 

Lucifer. Wliy dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb ; and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
leather than see her weep, I would, methinks. 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will.' 



Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labor'd not 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
Come away 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel ; 

AVe have seen many :' will he share our hour 
Of rest? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But ho is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deigu'd 
To be our guests — will ho ? 

Cain, (to Lucifer.) Wilt thou? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us? ^ 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain Beloved Adah ! 

Adah. Let me go with thee, 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Ai-t thcu that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He spealis like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah! — was not the tree that 
Of knowledge? 

Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he 
lie.', not : 
And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home. 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have ooru"^ and love me — I 
Love thee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 



• [The first interview of Lucifer with Cain is full of sub- 
lunity.— Jeffrey.] 

* [It is impossible not to be struck with the resemblance 
between many of these passages and others in Manfred.] 

" V&i, Jeffrey's eulogium on this, perhaps the most Shak- 



Adah. I da Is that a sin, too? 

Lucifer. No, not yet: 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. Wliat ! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that lovo 
Out of their love ? haVe they not drawn their milk 
Out of this bosom? was not he, their father, 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me? did we not love each other? and 
..n multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we lovo 
Them? — And as I love thee, my Cain! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'tr 
It seem in those ifho will replace ye in 
Mortality.^ 

Adah. What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves: and higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smootli agonies of adulation. 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers. 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But terror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. •« 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou 
art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother! thou 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine ofTspriufj 
Than to thyself; thou at the least hast pass'd 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits: 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I can not abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear. 
And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
Nearer, and nearer: — Cain — Cain — save me from 
him!' 

Cain. What dreads my Adah? This is no ill 
spirit. 

Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have behold 



spearian speech in Lord Byron's tragedies, seems cold 
enough. He says, " Adah, ilie wife of Cain, enters, and 
shrin.ks from the daring and blasphemous speech which is 
passing between him and the Spirit. Her account of the 
fascination which he exercises over her is magnificent."! 



334 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 



n 



The c'liorubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Lilio them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
The arcliangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 

Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — - 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 

Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches 
love, 
Wliat must he be you cannot love when known?* 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of tliy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
No other clioice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
His worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
I5orn with me — but I love naught else. 

Adah. Our parents ? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from 
the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? . 

Adah. We were not born then — and if we had 
been. 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain? 

Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Sliall men ive the remembrance of the man 

\^ 10 sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour! They pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow. 

Begot ?«e — thee — and all the few that are, 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 

Tliy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour," 

All we love in our children and each other, 

But lead them and ourselves through many years 

Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 

Intcrcheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 

To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of 

knowledge 
Hath not fulfiU'd its promise : — if they sinn'd 
At least they ought to have known all things that 

are 
Of knowledge — and the my.sterj' of death. 
What do they know? — that they are miserable. 
What neea of snakes and fruits to teach us that? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have naught to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor icould be happy: but with those around us, 



J [" VHiat can he be who places love in ignorance'!" — 
MS.] 
E [Tills ' placid hour" of Cain is, we fear, from a source 



I think I could be so, despite of death, 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldsl not 

Alone, thou sayst, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God ! 

Who could be happy and a.oii,e, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is he happy ? 
Lonely, and good ? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy. 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy : 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh frona 
Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas! no! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things ; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear. 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial. 
Since better may not be without: there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the mom. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I lovo it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore? 

Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible ojily. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him ' 

Adah. Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his being 7 

Adah. No- 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming: as the silent sunny noon. 
All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them. 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee.' 



which it will do Lord B. no credit to name,— the romance 
of " Faublas." 

8 [In the drawing of Cain himself, there is much ^ igorous 



Scene r. 



CAIN. 



335 



Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed 

Adah. By me? 

Lucifer. By all. 

Adah. , What all? 

Lucifer. The million millions — 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth— 
The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled Hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth ri 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroy'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he, 

In sooth, return v/ithin an hour? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity 
We breatlie not by a mortal measurement — 
But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! ho alon'3 

Of mortals from that place, (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One,) — shall come back to 

thee, 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
dwell? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I wore not that which I have said 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 

Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate • 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 



expression. It seems, however, as if, in the effort to give 
to Lucifer that " spiritual politeness" which the poet pro- 
fesses to have in view, he has reduced him rather below the 
standard of diabolic dignity, which was necessary to his 
dramatic interest. He has scarcely " given the devil his 
due" We thouglit Lord Byro ; knew better. Milton's 
Satan, with his faded majesty, anu blasted but not oblitera 
ted glory, holds us suspended between terror ;md amaze- 
ment, wilV sometliing like awe ol A\s spiritual essence and 
lost estatj ; bul Lord Byron has introduced him to us as 
elegant, pensive, and beiiutiful, with an air of sadness and 
suffering that ranks him with the oppressed, and befpcaks 
ou^ pity.— Brif. Crit.l 



Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me 
Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

[Exeunt Lucifer andCKiu. 
Adah (follows, exclaiming.) Cain ! my brother ! 
Caiu !- 



ACT IL 



GENE I. 



The Ahijss of Space? 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faitn .n me, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ' 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not I doubt — and 
perish I thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels ; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing naught beyond tl^eir shallow senses, 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and aeem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Warship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops,^ 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me. 
And walk the waters ;" and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe. / will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognise 

The dust which form'd your father? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that which lit our earthly night? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls. 
And Lhey who guard them? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 



1 [The act concludes with the departure of Cain, under 
the guidance of his new monitor, to see the place of de- 
parted spirits. Their flight, in the next across the abyss 
of space, and amid the unnumbered s ins and systems 
which it comprises, is very fine.— Heber. 1 

" [In the second act, the demon carries his disciple 
through all the limits of space, and e.xpounds to him, in 
very lofty and obscure terms, the desUnics of past and 
future worlds. They have a great deal of e.xccptionible 
talk. — Jeffrey.] 

3 [" An hour, when, walking on a petty ake, 

A man shall say, &c."— J*1S.] 



33(3 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II, 



Methinks Ihcy both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join tho innumerable stars 
Which aie around ns ; and, as we move on^ 
lucrease their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inliabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth. 
Though multiplied to animated atoms. 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 
Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science still beyond them, were chain'd down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As frail, and few so happy " 

Cain. ' Spirit ! I 

Know naught of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit I if 
It bo as thou hast said, (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth,) 
Hero let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but sufTer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
Ho shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 

Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
And see thou shov;'st me things beyond 7ny power, 
Beyond all power of my born faculties. 
Although inferior still to n^ desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 



> [It is nothing less than absurd to suppose, that Lucifer 
cannot well be expected to talk like an orthodox divine, and 
that, the conversation of the first Rebel and the first Mur- 
derer was not likely to be very unexceptionable ; or to 
plead the authority of Jlilton, or the authors of the old 
mysteries, for such offensive colloquies. The fact is, that 
here the whole argument— and a very elaborate and specious 
argument it is— is directed against the goodness or the 
power of the Deity ; and there is no answer so much as 
attempted to the offensive doctrines that are so strenu- 
ously inculcated. The Devil and his pupil have the field 
entirely to themselves, and are encountered with nothing 
but feeble obtestations and unreasoning horrors. Nor is 
this argumentative blasphemy a mere incidental deformity 
that arises in the course of an action directed to the com- 
mon sympathies of our nature. It forms, on the contrary, 
the great staple of the piece, and occupies, we should 
ttiiakjUj; l3ss than two -thirds of it; so that it is really 



So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain How? 

Lucifer. By suffering. 

Cain. And must toi' re be immortal? 

Lucifer We and thy sons will tr)% But now, 
behold ! 
Is it not glorious? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to ih :: k — 
Intoxicated with eternity ? 
Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye -t**' 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be ! Let mo die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die,) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 
Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer ? look back to thine 
earth ! 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That ! — yonder I 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so? 

Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 



difficult to believe that it was written for any other purpose 
than to inculcate these doctrines ; or, at least, to discuss 
the question upon which they bear. Now, we can cer- 
tainly have no objection to Lord Byron writing an essay on 
the origin of evil, and sifting the whole of that vast and 
perplexing subject, with Ihe force and the freedom that 
would be expected and allowed in a fair philosophical dis- 
cussion ; but we do not tliink it fair thus to argue it partially 
and con amore, in the name of Lucifer and Cum, without the 
responsibility or the liability to answer, that would attach 
to a philosophical disputant ; and in a form which both 
doubles the danger, if the sentiments are pernicious, and 
almost precludes his opponents from the possibility of a 
reply. — Jeffrey. — " What does Jefi'rey mean by elaborate'! 
Why ! they were written as fast as I could put pen to 
paper, in the midst of evolutions, and revolutions, and 
persecutions, and proscriptions of all who interested me m 
Italy." — Byron Letters.^ 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



Cain. Tliat Ihey are beautiful in their own sphere, 
And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
Tlie little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what? 

Cam. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st the a behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown naught 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal? 

Cain Wliy, what are things ? 

Luc-ifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. • But what 

Sate nearest it ! 

Cain. The things I have not seen. 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. [died, 

Lucifer. What, if I sliow to thee things which have 
As I have sliown thee much which cannot die ? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
from us ! 
TJie earth ! where is my earth? Let me look on it. 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee. 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust : 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but* the wreck. 

Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere 
thou 
Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either: many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay ; 
But thou art clay, — and canst but comprehend 
That wnich was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 

Cain. Clay, spirit I what thou wilt, I can survey. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! 

Cain. But the lights fade fron*. me fast 

And some till now grew larger as we approac^'d, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them 7 

Lucifer. It may be. 



337 



And men ? 



1 [It IS not very easy to perceive what natural or rational 
object the Devil proposes to himself in carrying his disciple 
through the abyss of space, to show him that repository of 
which we reiiisinber hearing something in our infant days, 
" where the old noons are hung up to dry." To prove tliat 
there is a lifo bey md the grave, was surely no part of his 
business wlicn lie was engaged in fostering the indignation 
3f one who lepined at the necessity of dying. And, tliough 
it would seem, that entire Hades is, in Lord Byron's pict\n-e. 
a place of suffering, yet, when Lucifer himself had premised 
tliat the.se sufferings were the lot of those spirits who had 



43 



Cain. 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay? and serpents too? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them? 
must no reptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and sha'dows still to come. 

Cain. I3ut it grows dark and dark — the stars are 
gone ! 

Lucifer. And yet tliou soest. 

Cain. 'Tis a fearful light I 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue c " 'he empurpled night 
Fades to a dreajy wilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses : but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, wliich, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead, 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer Behold ! 

Cain. 'Tis darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapors roll 

Apart — what's this? 

Lucifer. Enter ! 

Cain. Can I return? 

Lucifer. Return! be sure: how else should death 
be peopled? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou ! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
[ They disappear through the clouda^ 

SCENE II. 
Hades.^ 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim 
worlds ! 



sided with him against Jehovali, is it likely that a more 
accurate knowledge of them would increase Cain's eager- 
ness for the alliance, or tliat he would not rather have in- 
quired whether a better fortune did not await the adherents 
of the triumphant side? At all events, the spectacle of 
many ruined worlds was more likely to awe a mortal into 
submission, than to rouse him to hopeless resistance ; and, 
even if it made him a hater of God, had no natural tendency tc 
render him furious against a brother who was to bo tiis 
fellow-sufferer.— He B EK.J 



338 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II 



For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 

Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 

So thickly in the upper air, that I 

Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 

Of some all unimaginable heaven, 

Than things to bo inhabited themselves. 

But that ou draw^ing near them I beheld 

Their swelling into palpable immensity 

Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 

Rather than life itself. But here, all is 

So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 

It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present? 

Cain. Till know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, "tis a thing — 
Oh God! I dare net think on't! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the. innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother? What else is 
Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye? 
Live ye, or have ye lived? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 

Lucifer. What? Hath not he who made ye 

Said 'tis another life? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die.' 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

lie one day will unfold that further sfcnt. 

Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes ; happy ! when unfolded 



1 [" Death, the last and most dreadful of all evils, is so far 
from being one, that it is the infallible cure for all others — 

' To die, is landinfr on some silent shore, 
Where b' dws never beat, nor tempests roar: 
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er.' 

But was it an evil ever so great, it coiUd not be remedied 
but by one much greater, which is, by living forever ; by 
which means our wickedness, unrestrained by the prospect 
of a future state, would grow so unsupportable, our sulTer- 
ings so mtolerahle by perseverance, and our pleasures so 
tiresome by repetition, that no being in the universe could 
be so completely miserable as a species of immortal men. 
We have no reason, therefore, to look upon death as an 
evil, or to fear it as a putiishment, even without any sup- 
position of a future life : but if we consider it as a passage 
to a more perfect state, or a remove only in an eternal 
succession of still improving states, (for wliich we have the 
strongest reasons,) it will then appear a new favor from the 
divine munificence ; and a man must be as absurd to repine 
at dying, as a traveller would be who proposed to himself a 
delightful tour through various unknown countries, to la- 
ment that he cannot lake up his residence at the first dirty 
irji vvhi(;h he baits at on the road. The instability of human 
life, or of the changes of its successive periods, of which we 
so frequently complain, are no more than the necessary 
progieis of it to this necessary conclusion ; and are so far 



Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
All to be animated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I s(« 
Floating around me ? — They wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'iHt 
In Adam's, and in Abel'j, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something, which 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, , 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form or A.iightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike thenij i'lat I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where ^ 

Lucifer. Wliere 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. On what thou callcst earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou shall be. 

Cain. But what were they ? 

Lucifer. Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior tmto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade 
from thine. 



from being evils deserving these complaints, that they are 
the source of our greatest pleasures, as they are the source 
of all novelty, from which our greatest pleasures are ever 
derived. The continual successions of seasons in the human 
life, by daily presenting to us new scenes, render it agree- 
able, and, like tliose of the year, afford us deliglits by their 
change, which the choicest of them could not give us by 
their continuance. In the spring of life, the gilding of the 
s mshine, the verdure of the fields, and the variegated paint- 
ings of the sky, are so exquisite m the eyes of infants at their 
first looking abroad into a new world, as nothing perhaps 
afterwards can equal. The heat and vigor of the succeeding 
summer of youth ripen for us new pleasures,— the blooming 
maid, the nightly revel, and the jovial chase : the serene 
autumn of complete manhood feasts us with the golden 
harvest of our worldly pursuits: nor is tlie hoary winter of 
old age destitute of its' peculiar comforts and enjoyments 
of which the recollection and relation of those past are pei 
haps none of the least ; and at last death opens to us a new 
prospect, from whence we shall probably jook back upon 
the diversions and occupations of this world with the same 
contempt we do now on our tops and hobby-liorses, and 
with the same surprise that thev could ever so much enter- 
tain or engage us." — Jenvns. — " These " says Dr. Johnson, 
" are sentiments which, though not new. may be read with pleasure 
and profit, in the thousandth repetition."] 



Scene 



CAIN. 



339 



Cain. But was mine theirs? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now. 

It is too little and too x)wly to 
Sustain such creatures.' 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'Tis awful ! 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that 
I show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they icere thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
What ye in common have with what they had 
Is life, and what ye shall have — death : the rest 
Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Slime of a mighty universe, crush'd into 
A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled' with 
Things whose enjoyment was to bo in blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
Kiiowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 

Cain. No: I'll stay here. 

Lucifer. How long ? 

Cain. . Forever ! Since 

I must one day return her© from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 



• [" If, according to some speculations, you could prove the 
worlJ many thousand years older tlian the Mosaic chronolo- 
gy—or if you could Icnoek up Adam and Eve. and the Apple 
and Serpent— still, what is to be put up in their stead ?— or 
how is the ihfficulty removed? Things must iiave had a be- 
ginning : and what matters it when, or how? I sometimes 
think that man may be the relic of some higher material 
being wrecked in a former world, and degenerated in the 
hardship and struggle through chaos into conformity, or 
somethmg like it— as we see Laplanders, Esquimaux, &'C., 
inferior, m the present date, as the elements become more 
inexorable. But even then, this higher pre-Adamite sup- 
posititious creation must have had ah origin and a Creator; 
for a Creator is a more natural imagination than a fortuitous 
concourse of atoms ; all things remount to a fountain, though 
they may flow to an ocean." — Byron Diary, 1821.] 

- [Mr. Gifford having, through Mr. Murray, suggested the 
oropricty of omitting a portion of this dialogue, Lord Byron 
feplied :— " The two passages cannot be altered without 
making Lucifer talk like the Bishop of London, which would 
not be in the character of the former. The notion is from 
Cuvier, (that of the old worhls.) The other passage is also in 
character ; If nonsense, so much the 1 etter, because then it 
can do no harm ; and the sillier Satan is made, the safer for 
everyliody. As to ' alarms,' &c., do you really think such 
things eier led anybody astray? Are these people more 
jm]iioiis than Milton's Satan ? or the Prometheus of jEschy- 
lus 7 or even than ' the Sadducees," the 'Fall of Jerusalem' of 
Milman, &c. ? Are not Atlam, Eve, Adah, and .Vbel, as pious 
as the Catechism "! Gilford is too wise a man to think that 



Lucifer. It cannot be: tht'i now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 

To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou fpass'd — 
Must pass through what the things thou see'st liavo 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gato have W3 enter d 

Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone forever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it xoas ' 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I mu.*;, till it, 
I feci at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Their bark and branches — what were they? 

Lucifer. That which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain. But 

None on it ?^ 



such things can have any serious effect : who was ever alter- 
ed by a poem ? I beg leave to observe, that there is no creed 
or personal hypothesis of mine in all this ; but I was obliged 
to make Cain and Lucifer talk consistently ; and surely this 
ha~ always been permitted to poesy. Cain is a proud man : 
if Lucifer promised him kingdom, &c., it would elate him : 
the object iif the demon is to depress him still further in his 
own estimation than he was before, by showing him infinite 
things and his own abasement, till he falls into the frame of 
mind that leads to the catastrophe, from mere interna/ irrita- 
tion, not premeditation, or envy of Abel, (which would have 
made him contemptible,) but from rage and fury against the 
inadequacy of his state to his conceptions, and which dis- 
charges itself rather against life, and the Aul hor of life than 
the mere living. His subsequent remorse is the natural effect 
of looking on his sudden deed. Had the deed been premcdi 
tated, his repentance would have been tardier."] 

3 [Hades is a place, in Lord Boron's description, very dif- 
ferent from all that we had anticipated. He supposes tint 
the world which we now inhabit h:id been preceded by many 
successive worlds, which had each, in turn, been created 
and ruined ; and the inhabitants of which he dc.=.cribes, on 
grounds sufficiently probable for poelrv, as proijortioned, in 
bodily and inlellectual strength to those gigantic sptcimens 
of animal existence whose remains still perplex the natu- 
raUst. But he not only places the pre-Adamite giants in 
Hades, but the ghosts of the Mammoth and Megatheriun, 
their contemporaries, and, above all, the phanlo ns of t'\e 
worlds themselves which these beings inhabited, with their 
mountains, oceans, and forests, all gloomy and sad togetner. 



340 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to war 
With lliem would render the curse on it useless — 
'Twould be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war ? 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
Which drove your race from Eden — war with all 

things, 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for 

you. 

As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
Like thorn, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them, too, without the so dear-bought knowledge ! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still: but what knows 
man ? 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest 
knowledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain. 
At 'cast leads to the surest science : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 'tis something 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowcst that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain. But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Bo content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth. 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean 

Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun — 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its inhabitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears its dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 



and (we s ippose he means) in a state of eternal suffering. 
We really tmnk that tliis belongs to that species of sublime, 



Is he not of the kind which base d beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Ev( , thy mother, be&t 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her 

Cain. Thi« "seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him 7 

Cain. Many of the same kind, (at least so call'd,) 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 

Cain. No : 'twas rny mother 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent 

Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy 
sons' wives 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange, 
Be sure thou see'st first who hatii tempted ihnm. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : thyre is no 
more 
For serpents to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
My counsel is a kind one ; for 'tis even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
'Twill not be follow'd, so there's little lest. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 

Thy world and thou are still too young! Thou 

thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufFerest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly mayst be ; and that state again 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust, (which they 
In fact but add to,) shall endure and do. — 
Now let us back to earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes ; as being 

The road to happiness 

Lucifer. If truth be so. 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No : 

I'll not believe it — for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not ^ Who covets 
evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 'tis 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we bnliold, 
Distant, and daz/ling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come ; they are too beautiful. 



which is considerably less than a iingle step removed from 
the ridiculous.— Hedeb.] 



Scene ii. 



CAIN. 



341 



Lucifer. Thou hast seen them i;om afar — 

Cain. And what of that? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
When nearer, must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most beau- 
tiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — What is 
tha.. 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful th.*n beauteous things remote? 

Cain. My sister Adah — All the stars of heaven, 
The deeo blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
As the day closes ova Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart. 
Like Adah's face : 1 turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality. 
In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowsiiip with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist? 

Why art thou wretched? why are all things so? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy. 
And yet my sire says he's omnipotent : 
Then why is evil — he being good 1 I ask'd 
This question of my father ; and he said. 
Because this evil only was the path 
To good Strange good, that must arise from out 
Its deadly oppasiuA I lately saw 
A lamb stung bj r reptile : the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vai 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
The mothers milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer What didst thou answer ? 

Cain Nothing; for 



['< God Almighty ! 
There is some soul of goodness in things evil. 
Would men observingly tlistil it out ; 
For our bad neighbors make us early stirrers, 
"Which is both healthful and good husbandry 
Besides, rhey are our outward comciences, 



He is my father: but I thought, that 'twere 

A better portion for the animal 

Never to have been stung at all, than to 

Purchase renewal of its little life 

With agonies unutterable, though 

Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children • 

Cain. Most assuredly: 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am 1 1 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing? 

Lucifer. What does thy Got love? 

Cain. All things, my father says ; but I confes.s 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see / 
love 
Or no, exi:,cpt some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like snows 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspnug must encounter; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter ! 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like thy- 
self? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable. 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be ? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 
In them and her. 

Cain. I'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her tlie less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must perish. 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy 
God. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly! 

Lucifer. He is the second bom of flesh, 

And is his mother's favorite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favor, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 



And preachers to us all ; admonishing. 
That we should dress us fairly for our end 
Thus may we gather honey from the weed. 
And make a moral of the devil himself."— 

Shakspeabz ] 



342 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Lucifer And his father's? 

Cain. What is that 

To me? should I not love that which all love'? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother: 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 

Cam. And if 

I have thought, why recull a thought that {he 

pauses, as agitated) — Spirit ! 
Here we are in thy world : speak not of mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me 

those 
Mighty pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
Myriads of starry wcr'.d'', of which our own 
Is the dim and remote coinpanion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ;' thou hast shown 

me much — 
But not all: show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise, — or thine : 
Where is it? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 

Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 

say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! perchance 
A unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren ii'i 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glorj'? 

Lucifer. Art thor. not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethr?':!, 

And so we shall rema.j: ; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh? can it fall out? 
Infinity with Immortality? 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 



» [" Which my sire shrinks from— Death."— MS.] 

2 [In Lord Byron's Diary for January 28, 1821, we find the 
following entry :— 

" Thought for a Speech of Lucifer, in the Tragedy ;/ Zain. 
' Were Death an evil, would / let thee live 
Fool ! live as I live— as thy father lives, 
And thy sons' sons shall live for evermore . ] 

3 [" It would be to no purpose to suppose two such oppo- 
site principles. For, admit that a being infinitely mis- 
cnievous were infinitely cunning, and infinitely powerful, 
yet it could do no evil, because the opposite principle, of 
infinite gocduess, being also infinitely wise and powerful. 



Cain. Did ye not tell mo that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then? — is there 
not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which ? 

Cain. Thou ! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? / made ye 
not ; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou say'st v,v z.re, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shall see one 
Of them for evermore.^ 

Cain. And why not now? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries! the two Principles J* 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones i 
Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

Tlie son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it les.?, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
Where thou shall multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld tiiese things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst then not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 

Cain. Alas ! I seem 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness : 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'Twill spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
Hast a superior. 



they would tie up one another's hands : so that upon this 
supposition, the notion of a deity would signily just nothing ; 
and, by virtue of the eternal opposition and equality of these 
principles, they would keep one another at perpetual cay ; 
and, being an equal matcli for one another, instead of ijeiu" 
two deities, they would be two idols, able todoneitlier good 
nor evil." — Tillotson. " Moral evil is occasioned by free 
will, which implies choice between good and evil. With 
all the evil that there is, there is no man tut would rather 
be a free agent, than a mere machine without the evil ; and 
what is best for each individual must be best for the whole 
If a man would rather be the machme, I cannot agree witb 
him." — Johnson.] 



Scene ii. 



CAIN. 



343 



Lucifer. No ! by heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him— No ! 
I have a victor— true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all— but none from me : 
I buttle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space. 
And the infinity of endless ages, 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease. 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd ! 
And what can quench our immortality. 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the good he gives? 
Were I the victor. Ids works would be deem'd 
Tiie only evil ones. And you, ye now 
And scarce born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already, in your little world?' 

Cain. But few ! and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ; if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
Your reason : — let it not be oversway'd 
By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own." 

[They disappear, 



AC^T in. 

SCENE I. 
The Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 
Enter Cain and Adah. 
Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 
Cain. I will ; but wherefore ? 



1 ["Whatever we enjoy is purely a free gift from our 
Creator; but that we enjoy no more, can never sure be 
deemed an injury, or a just reason to question his infinite 
benevolence. All our happiness is owing to his goodness ; 
but tliat It is no greater, is owmg only to ourselves ; that is, 
to oui not having any inherent right to any happiness, or 
even to any existence at all." — Jenvns.] 

2 [As to the question of the origin of evil, Lord Byron has 
neither thrown any new light upon it, nor darkened the 
previo'is knowledge which we possessed. It remains just 
where it was, in its mighty, unfathomed obscurity. His 
Lordship may, it is true, have recapitulated some of the ar- 
guments with a more concise and cavalier air than the old 
schoolmen or fathers ; but the result is the same. There is 
no poetical road to metaphysics. In one view, however, 
which our rhapsodist has taken of the subject, we conceive 
he has done well. He represents the temptations held out 
to Cain hy Satan, as constantly succeeding and correspond- 
ing to some previous discontent and gloomy disposition in 



Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon you bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it raourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
For our child's canopy? 

Adah. Because its Vianches 

Shut out the sun like night, and the??fore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the chila. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The lobtt leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too. 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-&-.^y rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps I — Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent I thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — • 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not mine nor thine? But now sleep on! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, althougii in slumber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise !— Ay ! dream of it. 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy I' 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past: 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we 

owe her. 
Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee 
hence, 



bis own mind ; so that Lucifer is little more than the per- 
sonified demon of his imagination : and further, the acts of 
guilt and folly into which Cam is hurried are not treated as 
accidental, or as occasioned by passing causes, but as 
springing from an internal fury, a morbid state akin to 
phrensy, a mind dissatisfied with itself and all things, and 
haunted by an insatiable, stubborn longing after Unovvledge 
rather than happiness, and a fatal proneness to dwell un the 
evil side of things rather than the good. We here sec the 
dreadful consequences of not curbing this disposition (wliicb 
IS, after all, perhaps, the sin that most easily besets human- 
ity) exemplified iu a striking point of view ; and we so far 
think, that the moral to be derived from a perusal of lUis 
Mystery is a valuable one. — Jeffrey.] 

a [The censorious may say what they will, but there are 
speeches in the mouth o'f Cain and Adah, especially regard- 
ing their child, which nothing in English poetry but the 
" woodnotes wild" of Shakspeare ever equalled — Sir Eqee 

TON BbYDOES.] 



344 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act iir. 



Hath Radden'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and jjresent worlds. 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
And can forgivo him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To VIC, but only hours upon the sun. [see.: 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds ho never lit : mcthought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; tkirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, mothought 
I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothing! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. . No : he contents him 

With making us tho nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what? 

Adah. Thou know'st — 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us? they sinn'd, then let them die ! [thought 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, i or is that 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would / could die for them, so tliey might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow. 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. • 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement 
one day 
May not redeem our race ? 
- Cain. By sacrificing 

'The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there? why, toe are innocent: what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never, 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 



1 [The third A.ct shows us Cain gloomily lamenting over 
the fut ire fortunes of his infant son, and 'withstandnig all 
tho consolations and entreaties of Adah, who is anxious to 
soUen him to the task of submission and to a participation 



Cain. And how knew he, that /would he so roady 
With the burnt-offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whoso base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 

Adah. Surely, 'tis well done. 

Cain. One altar m;iy suffice ; / have no offering 

Adah. 'I'he fruits of tho earth, the early, beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits, 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the 
sun 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what miv I bo grateful? 
P'or being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
And seem well-pleased with pain ? For wnat should I 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone. 
And to bo more than expiated by 
The ages pro[)!iesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there. 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 
I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dasli'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy c\v\d\ Oh Cain! 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 

Cain. I said, 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twere better that he never had been bom. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so! Where were then the 
joys. 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet Enoch! 
[Slie goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike; is't not so, Cain? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain! 
And love thyseli' for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look I how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent I Bless him, Caiu ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too.' 

Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 



in the sacrifice which his brother is about to offer Here 
are some passages of no common beauty. That whifh 
strikes us most is when the parents are hanging over thj;i 
sleeping boy.— Heber.] 



Scene i. CAIN. 



345 



If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 

Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Ab^l- 
Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been wan- 
dering, 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father? 
Cain. No. 

Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may bo 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 
Abel. Term him ! your words are strange to-day, 
my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

{Exit Adah, with her child. 
Abel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead. 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon theur loud-voiced 

spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal coiaverse : leave me, Abel. 

Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light — 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Tiiy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — ■ 
What may this mean ? 

Gain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till wo have pray'd and sacrificed together. 
Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 
Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Revere him, then — but let it be alone — 
At least, without me. 

Abel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's sou, 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not, 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me ui 
Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more my grief; I pray thee 
To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 



44 



Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm I say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Abel. Neither ; we must perform our task to- 
gether. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must bo so well, then 

What shall I do? 

Abfl. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou"! 

Cain. I have chosen, 

Abel 'Tis the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now pivpare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here — 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof— 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fniit : 

[He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 

[They dress their altars, and kindle ajlame 
upon them. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel, {kneeling.) Oh God ! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us. 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes : — Sole Lord of light ! 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering. 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ? — but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore I 

Cain, {standing erect during this speech.) Spirit! 
whate'er or whosoe'er thou art. 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may bo with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works :^ — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers. 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them I 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrir.e, which 

smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In tlio first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 



346 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 111. 



In sanfjuinary iuconse to thy skies ; 

Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 

And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 

I spread them on now offers in the face 

Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 

Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 

SufFor'd in limb or life, and rather form 

A sample of thy works, than supplication 

To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 

And altar without gore, may win thy favor, 

Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 

He is — such as thou mad'&t him ; and seeks nothing 

Which must be won by kneeling: if he's evil. 

Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and mayst — 

For what can he oppose? If he be good, 

Strike him, or spare him, as thot> wilt I since all 

Rests upon thee ; and good and ovil seem 

To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 

And whether tliat be good or ill I. know not, 

Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 

Omnipotence, but merely to endure 

Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

{The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles into 
a column of the brightest fiame, and as- 
cends to heaven; while a whirlwind throws 
down the altar of Cain, and scatters the 
fruits abroad upon the earth. 

Abel, {kneeling.) Oh, brother, pray! Jehovah's 
wroth with thee. 

Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them 
return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-ofT'ring prospers better ; see 
How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with 
blood ! 

Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars. 

Nor suffer any. — • 

Abel, (rising.) Cain! what meanest thou ? 

Cain. To cas» down yon vile flatt'ror of the clouds. 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
Thino altar, with its blood of lambs a:.id kids. 
Which fed on milk, to be dcstroy'd in blood. 

Abel, (opposing hiin.) Thou shalt not: — add not 
impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His .' 

His pleasure ! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 



I [It is evident that Lord Byron had studied his subject 
rery deeply ; and, though he lias varied a little from, or 
gone a little beyond, the letter of Scripture, which is very 
concise, yet he lias apparently entered with great exact- 
ness into the mmds of Cain and Abel in this most interest- 
ing scene : and were it allowable to ascribe to the author 
of a dramatic work the principles or feelings of all or any 
of his characters, except .as adopting them for his particular 
purpose, one would be at a loss to say, whether Lord Byron 
ought most to be identified with Cuiii, or with Abel ; so ap- 
tropriately has he maintained the character of each.— 
GrjINT's " Notes on Cain," p. 4lll.] 

a I As a whole, this scene is heavy and clumsily managed. 
It C!.n hardly fail to strike the reader as a defect in poetry, 
no CSS than a departure from history, that the event which 
15 the catastrophe of the drama, is no otherwise than 



To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 

Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch 
my altar 
With violence: if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou 1 

Cain. Give — 

Give way ! — thy God lo;es blood ! — then look to it : — 
Give way, ere he hath more I 

Abel. In his great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyseif. 
Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
Its native soil : — else 

Abel, (opposing him.) I love God far more 
Than life.' 

Cain, (striking him with a brand, on the temples, 
which he snatches from the altar.) 
Then take thy life unto thy God, 
Since he loves lives. 

Abel, (falls.) What hast thou done, my brother? 

Cain. Brother ! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and toil 
Poor Zillah 

Cain, (after a momenVs. stupefaction.) My hand ! 
'tis all red, and with — 
What? 

[A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
Where am I? alone! Where's Abel? where 
Cain ? Can it be that I am ho ? My brother. 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'Tis not the hour of slumber ; — why so pale ? 

What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this mom ! 

Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 

Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 

Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 

And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 

And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! [me .' 

Why, so — that's well ! — thou brcath'st ! breathe upon 

Oh, God! Oh, God! 

Abel, (very faintly) What's he who speaks of God? 

Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 

Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dies.^ 

Cain.' And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 



incidentally, we may say accidentally, produced by those 
which precede it. Cain, whose whole character is repre- 
sented in Scripture as envious and malicious, rather than 
impious ; — this Cain, as pamted by Lord Byron, has no 
quarrel with his brother whatever, nor, except in a single 
word, does he intimate any jealousy of him. Two acts, 
and half the third, are passed without our advancing a 
single step towards the conclusion ; and Abel at length 
falls by a random blow given in a struggle of which the 
object is not his destruction, but the overthrow of Jehovah's 
altar. If we could suppose a reader to sit down to the 
perusal of the drama in ignorance of its catastrophe, he 
could scarcely be less surprised by its termmatii ti in such 
a stroke of chance-medley, than if Abel had beei made to 
drop drown in an apoplexy, or Cain to die of griel over his 
tody.— Hebeb.] 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



347 



His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart; why then he breathes! 
And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! — his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No ! — no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me : — what is this? — 'tis wet ; 
[Puis his hand to his brow, and then looks at it 
And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since I have taken life from my own flesh? 
But he can not be dead I — Is silence death ? 
No ; he will wake : then let me watch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him ?— My brother !— No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
That I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillaii. 

Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what can it be ? 
'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep ? Oh, heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no ! 
It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what's this? — who hath done this? He moves 

not ; 
He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
AVith stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father I — Eve I — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world I 

[Exit Zillah, calling on her Parents, ^-c. 
Cain, (solus.) And who hath brought him there? — 

I — who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him hero, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me I — but he shall ne'er awake ! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 

Adam. A voice of wo from Zillah brings me here. — 
What do I see ? — 'Tis true I — My son 1 — my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! 

[To Eve. 

Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel l 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who, 

Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel. 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest? 

fve. Ah ! a livid liffht 



> [The three last lines were not in the original MS. In 
urwurding them to Mr. Murray, to be added to Eve's speech, 
Lcti Byron says — " There's as pretty a piece of iraprecatiou 



Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand. 
Massy and bloody ! suatch'd from ofi" the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my sod ! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are. 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou! 

Eve- It was 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hand* 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him ■\\ rong — 

Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal. 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
May all his days be desolate. May 

Adah. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy soil — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath lei'l iliee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son .'-^for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us ! as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death I 

Why didst thou not lake me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now? 

Adam. Eve ! let not thig, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve, {pointing to Cain.) His will .' .' the will of yon 
incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wa.x something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man I 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind. 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet I the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God !* 

[Exit Eve 

Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : we dwell no more 
together. 

Depart ! and leave the dead to me 1 am 

Henceforth alone — we never must meet more 



for you, when joined to the lines already sent, ns you roay 
wish to meet with in the course of your liusiness. Bu*. 
don't forget the addition of these three lines, w lucli are clinca- 



348 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 1:1. 



Adah Oh, part not with him thus, my father: do not 
Add tliy deep curse to Evo's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not: his spirit be his curse. 
Come, ZiUah ! 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah, weeping 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must go forth. I 
am ready. 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
ijet us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night. — Nay, speak to me. 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave mo ! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou 
not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice frsm within exclaims, Cain! Cain! 

Adah. Hear' st thou that voice? 

The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel Where is thy brother Abel? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper? 

Angel. Cain! what hast thou done? 

Tlio voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out. 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shall till the ground, it shall not 
Yield thee her strength ; a fugitive ehalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear 
Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall ':;j be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'Twill come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 

Shall slay me? Where are these on the lone earti 
As yet unpeopled? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ?, 

Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor s^y 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood? 
The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 



era to Eve's speech. Let me know what Gifford thinks, 
for I have a good opinion of the piece, as poetry ; it is in 

my gay metapliysical style, and in tlie Manfred line."] 

J "^hc " four rivers" wliicli flowed round Eden, and con- 
eeqaently the only waters with which Cain was acquainted 
upon earth. 



But it shall not bo so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither : 

Cain. What 

Wouldst thou with me ? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
Cain. No, let me die .' 
Angel. It must not bo. 

[The Angel sets the mark on Cain's brow 
Cain. It burns 

My brow, but naught to that <vhich !s within it. 
Is there mure? let me meet it as I may. 

Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn fi*.ni the 
womb. 
As the ground thou mvist hencefi .-th till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocKS he tended. 
Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did net seek 
For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
And why not so? let him return to-dcy. 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to him he loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done is 
done ; 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days I and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappears 

Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for I 
And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
But the four rivers' would not cleanse my soul. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would — 
Cain, (interrupting her.) No, 

No more of threats : we have had too many of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together.^ 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what / am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with tliee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own, 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who liath dug that grave? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops down and kisses the body oj Abel. 



2 [The catastrophe is brought about with great dramatic 
skill and effect. The murderer is sorrowful and confounded, 
— his parents reprobate and renounce him, — his wife clings 
to him with eager and unhesitating affection ; f.nc they 
wander forth together into the vast solitude of the umveree. 
— Jeffrey.] 



Scene i. 



CAIN. 



349 



Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
Has bepn thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
I alone must not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them : 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way ; 
'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our 
God 



1 [The reader has seen what Sir Walter Scott's general 
opinion of " Cain" was, in the letter appended to the Dedi- 
cation, ante, p. 327. Mr. Moore's was conveyed to Lord By- 
ron in these words : — 

" I have read Foscari and Cain. The former does not 
please me so highly as Sardanapalus. It has the fault of all 
those violent Venetian stories ; being unnatural and improb- 
able, and therefore, in spite of all your fine management of 
!.hem, appealing but remotely to one's sympathies. But 
Cain is wonderful — terrible — never to be forgotten. If I 
am not mistaken, it will sini^ deep into the world's heart ; 
and while many will shudder at its blasphemy, all must 
] fall prostrate before its grandeur. Talk of jEschylus and 
I his Prometheus ! here is the true spirit both of the Poet— 
and the Devil." 

Lord Byron's answer to Mr. Moore on this occasion con- 
tarns the substance of all that he ever thought fit to advance 
in defence of the assaulted points in his " ftlystery :" — 

" With respect to religion," he says, " can I never con- 
vince you that / hold no such opinions as the characters in 
that drama, which seems to have frightened everybody? 
My ideas of a character may run away with me : hke all 
imaginative men, I, of course, .embody myself with the 
character, while I draw it, but not a moment after the pen is 
from off the paper." 

He thus alludes to the effects of the critical tempest ex- 
cited by " Cain,' in the eleventh canto of " Don Juan:" — 

" In twice five years the 'greatest living poet,' 

Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is caird on to support his claim, or show it, 

Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 
Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it, 

Nor sought of foolscap subjects w be king- 
Was reckon'd, a considerable time, 
The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

•' But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

]\Iy Leipsic, and my Iilont Saint Jean seems Cain." 

We shall now present the reader with a few of the most 
elaborate summaries of the contemporary critics, — favor- 
able and unfavorable— beginning with the Edinburgh Re- 
view. 

Mr. Jeffrey says,—" Though ' Cam' abounds in beautiful 
passages, and shows more power, perhaps, than any of the 
author's dramatical compositions, we regret very much that 
it should ever have been published — Lord Byron has no 
priestlike cant or pries! ike reviling to apprehend from us. 
We do not charge him with being either a disciple or an 
apostle of Lucifer ; nor do we describe his poetrv as a mere 
compound of blasphemy and obscenity. On the con.cary, 
! we are inclined to believe that he wishes well to the hap- 
■ piness of mankind, and are glad to testify that his poems 
i abound with sentiments of great dignity and tenderness, as 
i well as passages of infinite sublimityand beauty — Phi- 
I losophy and poetry are both very good things in their way j 
I but, in our opinion, they do not go very well together. It is 
but a poor and pedantic sort of poetry that seeks to embody 
nothing but metaphysical subtleties and abstract deduc- 
tions of reason— and a very suspicious philosopliy that aims 
at establishing its doctrines by appeals to the passions and 
the fancy. Though such arguments, however, are worth 
little in the schools, it does not follow that their effect is 
j inconsiderable in the world. On the contrary, it is the mis- 
! chief of all poetical paradoxes, that, from the very limits 
I und end of poetry, which deals only in obvious and glancing 
I viewB, they are ne 'er brought to the fair test of argument. 
! An allusion to a doubtful topic will often pass for a defini- 



Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
Which might have graced his recent marriage 

couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's ofTspring ! 
O Abel ! 

Adah. Peace bo with him I 

Cain. But with ine ." 

r Exeunt. 



tive conclusion on it ; and, clothed in beautiful language, 
may leave the most pernicious impressions behind. We 
therefore think that poets ought faiily to be confined to the 
established creed and morality of their country, or to the 
actual passions ar.d sentiments of mankind ; and that po- 
etical dreamers and sopiiiSts who pretend to theorize ac- 
cording to their feverish fancies, without a warrant from 
authority or reason, ought to be banished the common- 
wealth of letters. In the courts of morality, poets are 
unexceptionable witnesses . '.^■ey may give in the evidence, 
and depose to facts whethe £Ood or ill ; but we demur to 
their arbitrary and self-pleasing summing up ; they are sus- 
pected judges, and not very often safe advocates, where 
great ques'tions are concerned, and universal principles 
brought to issue." 

The Reviewer in the Quarterly was the late Bishop Ileber. 
His article ends as follows :— 

" We do not think, indeed, that there is much vigor or 
poetical propriety in any of the characters of Lord Byron's 
Mystery. Eve, on one occasion, and one only, expresses 
herself with energy, and not even then with any great depth 
of that maternal feeling which the deatli of her favorite 
son was likely to excite in her. Adam moralizes without 
dignity. Abel is as dull as he is pious. Lucifer, though his 
first appearance is well conceived, is as sententious and 
sarcastic as a Scotch metaphysician ; and the gravamina 
^vhieh drive Cain into impiety are circumstances which 
could only produce a similar effect on a weak and sluggish 
mind,— the necessity of exertion and the fear of death ! 
Yet, in the happiest climate of earth, and amid the early 
vigor of nature, it would be absurd to describe (nor has 
Lord Byron so described it) the toil to which Cain can have 
been subject as excessive or burdensome. And he is made 
too happy in his love, too extravagantly fond of his wife and 
his child, to have much leisure for those gloomy thoughts 
which belong to disappointed ambition and jaded licentious- 
ness. Nor. though there are some passages in this drama 
of no common power, is the general tone of its poetry so 
excellent as to atone for these imperfections of design. 
The dialogue is cold and constrained. The descriptions 
are like the shadows of a phantasmagoria, at once indis- 
tinct and artificial. Except Adah, there is no person in 
(\hose fortunes we are interested ; and we close the book 
with no distinct or clinging recollection of any single pas- 
sage in it, and with the general impression only that Lucifer 
has said much and done little, and that Cain has been un- 
happy without grounds and wicked without an object. But 
if, as a poem, Cain is little quaUfied to add to Lord Byron's 
reputation, we are unfortunately constrained to observe that 
its poetical defects are the very smallest of its demerits. It 
is not, indeed, as some both of its admirers and its enemies 
appear to have supposed, a direct attack on Scripture and 
on the authority of Moses. The expressions of Cain and 
Lucifer are not more offensive to the ears of piety than 
such discourses must necessarily be, or than Rlilton, without 
offence, has put into the mouths of beings similarly situated. 
And though the intention is evident which has led the Athe- 
ists and Jacobins (the terms are convertible) of our metro- 
polis to circulate the work in a cheap form among the 
populace, we are not ourselves of opinion that it possesses 
much power of active mischief, or that many persons will 
be very deeply or lastingly impressed by insinuations which 
lead to no practical result, and difficulties which so obvi- 
ously transcend the range of human experience." 

It is not unamusingto compare the above with the follow- 
ing paragraph in one of the Bishop's private letters at tho 
time : — 

" I have been very busy since I came home in review:ng 
Lord Byron's dramatic poems. Of course, I have had occa- 
sion to find a reasonable quantity of fault, but I do not think 
that I have done Lira injustice. ' Pereant qui ante nos nos- 



350 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



tra dixeruTit.' I should have liked to have taken up the 
same ground in a great degree with Jeffrey ; but, as it will 
never do to build on another man's foundation, I have been 
obliged to break ground on a different side of the fortress, 
though not, 1 think, so favorable a one, and with the dis- 
advantage of contending against a rival, who has conducted 
his attack with admirable taste and skill." 

The following extract is from Mr. Campbell's Maga- 
zine :— 

' ' Cain' is altogether of a higher order than ' Sardanapa- 
lus' and the ' Two Foscari.' Lord Byron has not, indeed, 
fulfilled our expectations of a gigantic picture of the first 
murderer ; for there is scarcely any passion, except the iin- 
'mediate agony of rage, which brings on the catastrophe ; and 
Cain himself is little more than the subject of supernatural 
agency. This piece is essentially nothing but a veliiclc for 
striking allusions to the mighty abstractions of Death and 
Life, Eternity and Time ; for vast but dim descriptions of 
the regions of space, and for daring disputations on that 
great problem, the origin of evil. Tiie groundwork of the 
arguments on the awful subjects handled is very common- 
place ; but they are arrayed in great majesty of language, 
and conducted with a frightful audacity. The direct at- 
tacks on the goodness of God are not, perhaps, taken apart, 
bolder than some passages of Milton ; but they inspire quite 
a different sensation ; because, in thinking of Paradise Lost, 
we never regard the Deity, or Satan, as other than great 
adverse povvers, created by the imagination of the poet. 
The personal identity which Milton has given to his spirit- 
ual intelligences, — the local habitations whicli he has 
assigned them, — the material beauty with which he has in- 
vested their forms, — all these remove the idea of impurity 
from their discourses. But we know nothing of Lord Byron's 
Lucifer, except his speeches : he is invented only that he 
may utter them ; and the whole appears an abstract dis- 
cussion, held for its own sake, not maintained in order to 
serve the dramatic consistency of tlie persons. He lias 
made no attempt to imitate Milton's plastic power ; — that 
power by which our great poet has made his Heaven and 
Hell, and the very regions of space, sublime realities, pal- 
pable to the imagination, and has traced the lineaments of 
his angelic messengers with the precision of a sculptor. 
The Lucifer of ' Cain' is a mere bodiless abstraction, — the 
shadow of a dogma ; and all the scenery over which lie 
presides is dim, vague, and seen only in faint outline. 
There is, no doubt, a very uncommon power displayed, 
even in this shadowing out of the ethereal journey of the 
spirit and his victim, and in the vast sketch of the world of 
phantasms at which they arrive : but they are utterly unlike 
the massive grandeurs of Milton's creation. We are far 
from imputing intentional impiety to Lord Byron for this 
l\Iystery ; nor, though its language occasionally shocks, do 
we apprehend any danger will arise from its perusal." 

So much for the professed Reviewers. We shall conclude 
with a passage from Sir Egerton Brydges's " Letters on the 
Character and Genius of Lord Byron :" — 

" One of the pieces which have had the effect of throw- 
ing Hie most unfavorable hues, not upon the brilliancy 6f 
Lord Byron's poetry, but upon its results to society, is 
* Cain.' Yet, it must be confessed, that there is no incon- 
siderable' portion of that poem which is second only to 
portions of similar import in Milton, — and many of them 
not sccund ; in a style still sweeter and more eloquent, and 
with equal force, grandeur, and purity of sentiment and 
conception ; such as the most rigidly-religious mind would 
have read, if it had come from Milton, or any other poet 
whose piety was not suspected, as the effusion of something 
approaching to holy inspiration. 

" Let us then task our candor, and inquire of ourselves, 
whether he who could write such passages could mean 
wrong? Let us recollect, that as the rebellious and blas- 
phemous speeches he has put into the mouths of Lucifer 
and Coin are warranted by Milton's example, and the fact 
of Cain's transgression recorded in the Bible, the omission 
of the design and filling up a character who should answer 
all those speeches might be a mere defect in the poet's 
judgment. He might think that Lucifer's known character 
as an Evil Spinl precluded his arguments from the sanc- 
tion of authoiity; and that Cain's punishment, and the 
denunciations which accompanied it, were a sufficient 
warning. I know not that any objection has been made to 
'Heaven and Earth.' It has the same cast of excellence 
&s the more perfect parts of ' Cain,' but, perhaps, not quite 
8o intense in degree. 



" It seems as if Lord Byron persuaded himself, with re- 
gard to his own being, that he had always within him two 
contrary spirits of good and evil contending for the do- 
minion over him, and thus reconciled those extraordinary 
flights of intellectual elevation and purity with a submission 
to the pride, the ferocity, the worldly passions, the worldly 
enjoyments, the corporeal pastimes, the familiar humor, tiie 
vulgarisms, the rough and coarse manliness, to which he 
alternately surrendered himself, and which the good-natured 
public chose to consider as the sole attributes of his personal 
character. Much of his time, however, must have been 
spent in the musings by which these high poems, so com 
pacted of the essence of thought, were produced ; and, in 
all this large portion of his existence here, his imagination 
must have borne him up on its wings into ethereal regions, 
far above the gross and sensual enjoyments of this grovel- 
ling earth. Did he deal, as minor poets deal, in mere splen- 
dor of words, his poetry would be no proof of this ; but he 
never does SO :— there is always a breathing soul beneath liis 
words, 

' That o'er-informs the tenement of clay ;' 
it is like the fragrant vapor that rises in incense fron: ne 
earth through the morning dew ; and when we listen to his 
lyre, 

' Less than a God we think there cannot dwell, 

Within the hollow of that shell. 

That sings so sweetly and so well I' 

"If Lord Byron thought that, however loudly noisy voices 
might salute him with a rude and indiscriminate clamor of 
applause, his poems were not received with the taste and 
judgment they merited, and that severe and cruel comments 
were attached to them by those who assumed to themselves 
authority, and who seldom allowed the genius without per- 
verting it into a cause of censure, that more than outweighed 
the praise ; those fumes of flattery which are imputed as the 
causes of a delirium that led him into extravagancies, en- 
raging decorum and the respect due to the public, never, in 
fact, reached him. To confer ' faint praise' is ' to damn ;' to 
confer praise in a wrong place is to insult and provoke. Lord 
Byron, therefore, had not, after all, the encouragement that 
is most favorable to ripen the richest fruit ; and it was a 
firm and noble courage that still prompted him to persevere. 

" For this reason, as well as for others, I think his foreign 
residences were more propitious to the energies of )iis 
Muse than a continued abode in England would have been. 
The poison of the praises that were insidious did not reach 
him so soon ; and he was not beset by treacherous com- 
panions, mortifying gossip, and that petty intercourse with 
ordinary society which tames and lowers the tone of the 
mind. To mingle much with the world is to be infallibly 
degraded by familiarity ; not to mingle, at least, among the 
busy and the known, is to incur the disrespect to which in- 
significance is subjected. Lord Byron's foreign residence 
exempted him from these evils : he saw a few intimate 
friends, and he corresponded with a few others ; but such 
an intercourse does not e-xpose to similar effects. The ne- 
cessary knowledge and necessary hints may thus be con- 
veyed ; but not all the pestilent chUls which general society 
is so officious to unveil. 

" If Lord Byron had not had a mind with a strong spring 
of virtue within it, I think that he would have thrown down 
his pen at some of tlie attacks he received, and given him- 
self up to the sensual pleasures of his rank for the remainder 
of his life. The finer parts of his poems were of such 
spiritual splendor, and so pure, though passionate, an ele- 
vation, that they ought to have redeemed any parts whicii 
were open to doubt from a malevolent construction, and 
even have eclipsed and rendered unnoticeable many positive 
faults. Lord Byron's style, like his thoughts, had every va- 
riety : it did not attempt {as is the common practice) to make 
poetry by the metaphorical and the figurative; it followed 
his thoughts, and was a part of them : it did not fatigue it- 
self to render clear by illustration or important by orna- 
ment, because the thought was clear or important in itself. 

" I remember, when I first read ' Cain,' I thought it, as a 
composition, the most enchanting and irresistible of all Lord 
Byron's works ; and I think so still. Some of the seiiti 
ments, taken detachedly, and left unanswered, are no doubt 
dangerous and therefore ought not to have been so eft; but 
the class Oi readers whom "this poem is likely to interest 
are of so very elevated a cast, and the effect of the poetiy- 
is to refine, spiritualize, and illumine the imagination wiln 
such a sort of unearthly sublimity, that the mind of theso, 
I am persuaded, will become too strong to incur any taint 
thus predicted, from thi; defect wnich has been so much 
insisted on "j 



WERNER. 



351 



WERNER; OR THE INHERITANCE 



A TRAGEDY.' 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, 
THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 

The followin{^ drama is taken entirely from the 
" German's Tale, Kruitzner," publislied many years 
ag^o in Lee's Canterbury Tales; written (I believe) 
by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story 
and another, both of which are considered superior 
to the remainder of the collection." I have adopted 
the characters, plan, and even the language, of many 
parts of the story. Some of the characters are modi- 
tied or altered, a few of the names changed, and one 
character, Ida of Stralcniieim, added by myself; but 
in the rest the original is chiefly follov/ed. When I 
was young (about fourteen, I think) I first read this 
tale, which made a deep impression upon me ; and 
may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much 
that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever 
was very popular ; or, at any rate, its popularity has 
since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in 
the same department. But I have generally found 
that those who had read, it, agreed with me in their 
estimate of the singular power of mind and concep- 
tion which i* develops. I should also add conception, 



> [The trapredy of " Werner'' was begun at Pisa, Decem- 
ber 18tli, 18-21, completed January 20th, 1822, and published 
m London in the November following. The reviews of 
" Werner" were, without exception, unfavorable. One 
critique of the tune thus opens ; — 

" Who could be so absurd as to think, that a dramatist has 
no right to make free with other people's fables .' On the 
contrary, we are quite aware that that particular species of 
genius which is exhibited in the construction of plots, never 
at any period flourished in England. We all know that 
Shakspeare himself took his stories from Italian novels, 
Danish sagas, English Chronicles, Plutarch's Lives — from 
anywhere rather than from his own invention. But did he 
take the whole of Hamlet, or Juliet, or Richard the Third, 
or Antony and Cleopatra, from any of these foreign sources? 
Did he not zm-ent, in the noblest sense of the word, all the 
characters of his pieces ? Who dreams that any old Italian 
novelist, or ballad-maker, could have formed the imagination 
of such a creature as Juliet ? Who dreams that the Hamlet 
of Shakspeare, the princely enthusiast, the melancholy phi- 
losopher, tiiat spirit refined even to pain, that most mcom- 
prehensible and unapproachable of all the creations of hu- 
man genius, is the same being, in any thing but the name, 
with the roiigli, stnmg-hearted, bloody-handed Amlett of 
the north ? Who is there that supposes Goethe to have taken 
the chasracter of his Faust frjm the nursery rhyme? and 
penny pamphlets about the Devil and Doctor Faustus ? Or 
who, to come nearer home, imagines that Lord Byron him- 
srlf found his Saidanapalusin Dionysius of Halicarnassus ? 

•' But here Lord Byron has invented nothing — absolutely 
NoiuiNG.. There is not one incident in his play, not even 
the most trivial, that is not to be found in Jliss Lee's novel, 
occurring exaclly in the same manner, brought about by e.x- 
acf.y the same agents, and producing exactly the same ef- 
fects on the plot And then as to the characters— not only is 



rather than i\ecution ; foi the story niighi perliaps, 
have been developed with greater jidvantage. Amongst 
those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, 
I could mention some very high names: but it is not 
necessary, nor indeed of any use ; for every one must 
judge according to his o\\n feelings. I merely refer 
the reader to the original story, that he may see to 
what extent I have borrowed from it ; and am not 
unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure 
in perusing it than the drama, which is founded upon 
its contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 
1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thir- 
teen years old, called " Ulric and Ilvina," which I 
had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly completed 
an act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. 
This is somewhere amongst my papers in England ; 
but as it has not been found, I have rewritten the 
first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage.^ 
Pisa, February, 1822 



every one of them to be found in ' Knutzner,' but every one 
is to be found there more fully and powerfully developed. 
Indeed, but for the preparation which we had received from 
our old familiarity with Miss Lee's own admirable work, we 
rather incline to think that we should have been unable to 
comprehend the gist of her noble imitator, or rather copier, 
in several of what seem to be meant for his most elaborate 
delineations. The fact is, that this undeviating closeness, 
this humble fidelity of miitalion, is a thing so perfectly new 
in any thing worthy of the name of titeraturc, that we are 
sure no one, who has not read tiie Canterbury Tales, will 
be able to form the least conception of what it amounts to. 

" Those w ho have never read Miss Lee's book, will, how- 
ever, l3e pleased with this production ; for, in truth, the 
story is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the 
most picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, 
that we are acquainted with. 

" ' Kruitzner, or the German's Tale,' possesses mystery, 
and yet clearness, as to its structure ; strength of characters, 
and admirable contrast of characters ; and, above all, the 
most lively interest, blended with and subservient to the 
most affecting of moral lessons." 

The reader will find a minute analysis, introduced by the 
above remarks, in Blackwood, vol. xii. p. 710.] 

2 [This is not correct. " The Young Lady's Tale, or the 
Two Emily's," and " the Clergyman's Tale, or Pembroke," 
were contributed by Sophia Lee, tlie author of " The Re- 
cess," tlie comedy of "The Chapter of Accidents," and 
" Almedya, a Tragedy," who died in 1824. The '• German's 
Tale," and all the others in the Canterbury Collection, were 
written by Harriet, the younger of the sisters.] 

3 [Werner is, however, the only one of Lord Byron's 
dramas that proved successful in represent? ton. It is still 
(183GJ in possession of the stage.] 



3S2 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Act I. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Men. — Werner. 
Ulric. 
Stralenheim 

luENSTEIN. 

Gabor, 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 

RoDOLPH. 
LUDWIG. 



Women.- 



-Josephine. 
Ida Stralenheim 



Scene — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly 
in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Time — The Close of the Thirty Years' War 



WERNER. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I, 



TJie Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Toion 
on the Northern Frontier of Silesia — the Night 
tempestuous. 

Werner' and Josephine his wife. 

Jos. My love, be calmer ! 

Wer. I am calm. 

Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried. 
An J no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
But here I 

Wcr. 'Tis chill ; the tapestry lets through 
T'le wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 

Wer. {smiling.) Why ! wouldst thou have it so ? 

Jos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd — how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 



1 [Werner— we mean Kruitzner — is admirably drawn. 
Who does not recognise in him the portrait of too common 
a character? Tlie man of shmmg talent, ardent mind, pow- 
erful connections, brilliant i)rospects, who, after squander- 
ing away all in wanton self-indulgence, having lived only 
for himself, finds himself bankrupt m fortune and character, 
the prey of bitter regret, yet unrepentant, as selfish ia re- 
morse as in his gayety. All that is inconsistent in the char- 
acter of Kruitzner is rendered still more so in the Werner 
of the drama.— iic/. Rev.] 

2 [In this play, Lord Byron adopts the same nerveless 
and pointless kind of blank verse, which was a sorrow to 
everybody in his former dramatic essays. It is, indeed, 
" most unmusical, most melancholy." — " Ofs," " tos," 
" ands," " fors," '• bys," •' buts," and the bke, are the most 



Wcr. All— all 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must 
break mine? 

Wer. (approaching her slowly.) But for thee I had 
been — no matter what, 
But much of good and evil ; what I am. 
Thou knowest ; what I might or .should have been 
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly, and then approaches 
Josephine. 

The storm of the night 
Perhaps affects me ; I am a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much — 
To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

Jos. But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth. 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wcr. And that's not the worst : who cares 

For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom 
Thou namest — ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. 

Jos. And art thou not now sheltered from them all? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something 

Wer. True — to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly bom 

Bo thankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life? 

Wer. It is not that, tliou know'st it is not ; wo 
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently. 
Except in^hee — but we have borne it. 

Jos. Well ? 

Wcr. Something beyond oiu" outward sufferings 
(though 
Tliese were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now. 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and^ 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means. 
And leaves us — no 1 this is beyond me ! — but 
For this I had been happy' — thou been happy — 
The splendor of my rank sustaiu'd — my name — 



common conclusions of a line ; there is no ease, no flow, no 
harmony, "in lirdced sweetness long drawn out :" neitJier 
is there any thing of abrupt fiery vigor to compensate lor 
these defects. — Blackwood.] 

3 [In this drama there is absolutely no poetry to be found ; 
and if the measure of verse which is here dealt to us be a 
sample of what we are to expect for the future, we have only 
to entreat that Lord Byron will drop the ceremony of cutting 
up his prose into lines often, eleven, or twelve syllables, (for 
he is not very punctilious on this head,) and favor us with 
it in its natural state. It requires no very cunning alchemy 
to transmute his verse into prose, nor, reversing the ex- 
periment, to convert his plain sentences into verses like his 
own.—" When," says Werner, "but for this untoward sick- 
ness, which seized me upon this desolate frontier and hath 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



353 



My father's name— been still upheld ; and, more 
Than those 

Jos. {abruptly) My son — our son— our Ulric, 
Been cl.isp'd again in these long-empty arms, 
And all a motlier's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then : — beautiful 
He was, and beautiful he must be now, 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely! my dear husband? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died. 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray tako 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who 

strive 
With Fortune win or wearj' her at last. 
So that they find the goal or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow— 
And to be baffled thus ! 

Jos. We are not bafHed. 

Wer. Are we not penniless ? 

Jos. We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and 
power ; 
Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them, 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath. 
In my o'er-fcrvent youth ; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, yet not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere tiiis time outstepp'd me, 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

May have retuni'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 

Wer. 'Tis hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's, 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have r^veal'd his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
Th'g promise that his anger would stop short 
Of ;he third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his fail..n-'s fanlts and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still, — at least we have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sick- 
ness ; 
More fatal than a mortal malady. 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 



Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies, 
Who so long watch'd tliee, have been left at Hamburgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 
None holds us here for aught save what we seem. 

Wer. Save what we seem ! save what we are — 
sick beggars, 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas . 

That bitter laugh ! ♦' 

Wer. Who would read in this fcrm 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 
Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? in this worn cheek 
And famine-hollow'd brow, tlie lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things. 
My Werner ! when you deign'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the staib :ve both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd ; 
And worthy by its birtii to match with ours, [noble ; 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 'twas 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in thine eyes? 

Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 

Wer. How, — nothing? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning : but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of mj'riads feel it, cheerfully ; 
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers. 
Thou mightst have earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

earn it ; 
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 

W>er. {ironically.) And been an Hanseatic burgher? 
Excellent ! [art 

Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou 
What no state high or low can ever change, 
My heart's first choice ; — which chose thee, knowing 

neither 
Thy birth, tliy hopes, thy pride ; naught, save thy 

sorrows : 
While they last, let me comfort or divide them ; 
When they end, let mine end with them, or thee \ 

Wer. My better angel ! such I have ever found 
thee ; 
This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
\\\ youth was such as to unmake an empire, 
Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know 
Myself, — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when, m my two-and-twentieth sprmg, 



was-tcd, not alone my strength, butmeans, and leaves us— i 
no '. this !s beyond me 1 but for this I liad been happy." — 
This is, indeed, beyond us. If this be poetry, than we 
wsrewiong in takiiig his Lordship's preface for prose. It 
will run on ten feet as well as the rest. 

" Some of the characters are modified 

Or altered, a few of the names changed, and 

One character, Ida of Stralenheim, 



45 



Addea by myself ; but in the rest the 
Original is chiefly followed. Wiien 
I was young (about fourteen, I think) I 
First read tliis tale, which made a deep imprcssioa 
Upon me." — 
Nor is there a line in these so lame and halting, but V/0 
could point out many in the drama as bad.— Cakibeij..J 



354 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act 1. 



My father barr'd me from my father's house, 
The last solo scion of a thousand sires, 
(For I was then the last,) it hurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved — exclusion ; although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the gorgon's round me. 

[A loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark I 

Wer. A knocking ! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? We have 
Few visiters. 

Wcr. And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if 
to search for some weapon. 

Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation : — 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

[She goes to the door. 

Enter Idenstein.* 

Ide7i. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And worthy What's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

Not afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid? 

Egad I I am afraid. You look as if 
I ask'd for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony : what 
Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure. 
His highness had icsign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years — but 'tis still a palace) — 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board : 
I have a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife wl^o bore 
Tlie same. He is an officer of trust. 
Surgeon's assistant, (hoping to be surgeon,) 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative. 

Wer. To yours? 

Jos. Oh, yes ; we are, but distantly. 

[Aside to Werner. 
Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 
We learn h ; purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I'm glad of that ; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play'd round my heart: — blood is not water, cousin: 
And so let's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drank enough already ; 



1 [Th€ most amusing fellow in the drama is Monsieur 
Idcnslein ; wl o makes the finest speech, too, beyond com- 
parison, of any of the personages. The only wonder is, 
where hj g :t ii.—Ecl. Rev.;\ 

« [Gabor is a most inexplicable personage : he is always 
on the point of turning out something more than he proves 



And if you had not, I've no wine to offer, 
Else it were yours : but this you know, or shoa'd know 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 

Iden. Why, what should bring mc herd 

Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guosa 
That which will send you hence. 

Jos. (aside.) Patience, dear Werner ! 

Iden. You don't know what has happen'd, then? 

Jos. How should we? 

Iden. The river has o'erflow'd. 

Jos. Alas I we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

Iden. But what you don't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postillions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown. 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller. 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos. And where will you receive him? here, I hope, 
If we can be of service — say the word. 

Iden. Here? no ; but in the prince's own apartment, 
As fits a noble guest : — 'tis damp, no doubt. 
Not having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'crtheless, 
I have order'd fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is. 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope he will, with all my heart. 

Wer. Intendant, 

Have you not learn'd his name? My Josephine, 

[Aside to his wife. 
Retire : I'll sift this fool. [Exit .Josephine. 

Iden. His name? oh Lord! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able 
To give an answer ; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names? 

Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 



Enter Gabor.'' 

Gab. If I intrude, I crave • 

Iden. 



Oh, no intrusion ! 



to be. A sort of mysterious horror is thrown round 
his impalpability, in the tale ; but, in the drama, he is 
only a sentimental, moody, high-tnettled soldier of for- 
tune, whose iijipearances and disappearances are alike 
singularly inopportune, and who ends in a mere mercen- 
ary. His character, is, we think, decidedly a failure. — Ed 
Rev.] 



SCEVE I. 



WERNER. 



355 



This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's his excellency? and how fares he? 

Gab. Wetly aud wearily, but out of peril : 
He paused to change his garments in a cottage, 
(Where I dofF'd mine for these, and came on hither,) 
And has almost recover'd from his drenching. 
Ho will be here anon. 

Ideji. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Heniian, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad ! 

[Gives directions to different servants who 
enter. 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night — see that 
All is ill order in the damask chamber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel ; for. 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 
Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless? 

Gab. Faith ! 

I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
Would please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend without 
Who will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite. 

Idcn. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name: what is it? • 

Gdb. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gab. I help'd my friend to do so. 

Idcn. Well, that's strange, 

To sa-fj a man's liffl whom you do not know. 

Gab. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 

I (scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and who may you be ? 

Gab. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd ? 

Gab. It matters little. 

Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are grown 
anonymous. 
Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd I 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite? 

Gab. Sufficient. 

Idcn. How many? 

Gab. 1 a]c not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great 
man ! 
No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as recom- 
pense. 

Gab. Perhaps. 

Idcn. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gab I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockcheimer — a green glass, 
Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, 
O'trflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own 

II seems, of all deatlis, the least likely for you,) 
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
.4iid Ihink, for every bumper I shall qnafF, 

A wave the less may roll above your head. 



Iden. (aside.) I don't much like this fellow — clcso 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not: however, 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlock him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

[Exit Idenstein. 

Qab. (to Werner.) This master of the ceremo- 
nies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'Tis a fine building, but decay'd. 

Wer. The apartment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not. 
For you seem delicate in health. 

Wer. (quickly.) Sir ! 

Gab. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend you? 

Wer. Nothing : but we are strangers to each cltier. 

Gab. And that's the reason I would have us less so: 
I thought our Lustling guest without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the coun- 
terpart 
Of me and my companions. 

Wer. Very true. 

Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never. 
It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
The fare of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab. Even as you please. 

I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Requite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service? 

The Imperial? 

Wer. (quickly, and then interrupting himself.) I 
commanded — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago. 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
Th6»Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; aud, to say truth. 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whate'or 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance : the Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls — beyond them 'tis but doubtful 
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That's harder still. You say you were a 
soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 

Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
(While levell'd) at each other's hearts ; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are breth- 
ren. 
You are poor and sickly — I am not rich, but healthy ; 



356 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



I want for nothing wliich I cannot want ; 
You soem dovoid of this — wilt share it? 

[Gabor pulls out his purse 

Wcr. Who 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself, 

In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer. {looking at him with suspicion.) You know 
me not? 

Gab. I know no man, not even 

Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since ? 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer 's noble were it to a friend. 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger. 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank you. 
I am a beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when I beg of any one, it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit. 

Gab. (solus.) A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
worn. 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
Which tear life out of us before our time ; 
I scarce know which most quickly : but be seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
Who has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine : however. 
For the cup's sake I'll bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Iden. 'Tis here ! the supernaculum ! twenty years 
Of age, if 'tis a day. 

Gab. Wliich epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 'tis great pity. 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other. 
Fill full — Here's to our hostess ! — your fair wife ! 

[ Takes the glass. 

Iden. Fair ! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
equal 
To that you show for beauty ; but I pledge you. 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have bettor 
Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days, 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment,) return'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your si^ouse ? 

Iden. I would she were ! 

But you're mistake : : — that's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains 
' Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Iden. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared — but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Iden. There I differ. 

He's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Who he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name, (and that I only bam'd 
To-night,) I know not. 

Gab. But how came he here ? 

Iden. In a most miserable old caloche, 



About a month since, and immediately 

Fell sicls, almost to death. Ho should have died. 

Gab. Tender and true I — but why ? 

Iden. Why, what is lifo 

Without a living? He has not a stiver. 

,Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should admit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Iden. That's true ; but pity, as you knowj doc3 
make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides. 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the smal tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the .■•Idest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for firewood. 

Gab. Poor souls . 

Iden. Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to po\erty. 

If I mistake not. Whither were they going ? 

Iden Oh ! Heaven knows where, urdess to heaven 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

GaJ}. AVerner ! I have heard the name . 

But it may be a feign'd one. 

Iden. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be at my post : will you not join rr.e, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ?. ^ 

Gab. I dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 
The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He hd£ valets now enough : they stood aloof then. 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
All roaring " Help !" but offering none ; and as 
For duty, (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here! 

Iden. I cringe I — but I shall lose the opportu- 
nity — 
Plague take it ! he'll bo here, and I not there ! 

{Exit Idenstein h Kstily. 

Re-enter Werner. 

Wer. {to himself.) I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me ! 

Perceiving Gabor.] Still here ! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
For friends are slow at such. 

Gab. Sir, you seem rapt J 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron. 
Or count, (or whatsoe'er this half-drown'd noble 
May be,) for whom this desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Iden. {without.) This way — 

This way, your excellency : — have a care, 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



357 



The staircase is a little gloomy, and 
Somewhat decay'd ; but if we had expected 
So iiigh a guest — Pray, take my arm, my lord ! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 
partly his own, and partly Retainers of the Domain 
of which Idenstein is Intendant. 
Stral. I'll rest me here a moment. 
Iden. (to the servants.) Ho ! a chair ! 

In.;taiitly, knaves ! [Stralenheim sits down. 

Wer. (aside.) 'Tis he ! 
Stral. I'm better now. 

Who are these strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord, 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. (aloud and hastily.) Who says that ? 

[They look at him with surprise 
Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you .' — 
but 
Here's one his excellency may be pleased 
To recognise. [Pointing to Gabor. 

Gab. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I o'w* my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succor'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He ! — no, my lord, he rather wants for res- 
cue 
Than can afford it 'Tis a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
From whence he never dream'd to rise. 

Siral. * Methought 

That there were two 

Oab. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his ; it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said ho would be here to-morrow. 

Stral. Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 

And then 

Gab. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 

So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. (fixing his eyes upon Werner : then aside) 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
'Tis twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes ; and, th 'jgh my agents still have kept 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assurance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
T6 have been lord of Siegendorf, and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To figlit against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner here till 

[He pauses, and looks at Werner ; then resumes. 

This mau must 
Bo watch'd. If it is he, he is so changed, 



His father, rising from his grave again, 

Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 

An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

StraL 'Tis past fatigue which gives my weigh'd- 
down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest 

Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with £.11 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

(Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd. 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchlight ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment ; 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something like one 
Now, as he one day will forever lie. 

Stral. (rising and turning to Gabor.) Good-night, 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to -equite your service. 
In the mean time I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber 

Gab I attend you. 

Stral. (after a few steps, pauses, and calls Wer- 
ner.) Friend ! 

Wer. Sir ! 

Iden. Sir .' Lord — oh lord ! Why don't you say 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding: 
He hath not been accustom'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral. (to Idenstein.) Peace, intendant ! 

Iden. Oh I 

I am dumb. 

Stral. (to Werner.) Have you been long here ? 

Wer. Long ? 

Stral. I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'er the less, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, reply — in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said, you had been detada'd 
by sickness — 
If I could aid you — ^journeying the same way ? 

Wer. (quickly.) I am not journeying the same 
way! 

StraL How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

Wer. Because there ia 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
Some hours ago, and I some days • henceforth 
Our roads must lie asunder, though they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. (bitterly.) Is it? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'Tis well that it is not beneath it, 
As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 

Stral. (startled.) If 

Wer Yes — you ! You know me not, and question 



358 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act I. 



And wonder that I answer not — not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I'll satisfy yourself, or me. 

SiraL I knew not that you had reasons for re- 
serve. 

Wer. Many have such : — Have you none ? 

Stral. None which can 

Interest a mere stranger. 

Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He \^ishes to reinain so to the man 
Who can have naught in common with him. 

Stral. Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward : 
I only meant you service — but good-night! 
Intendant. show the way ! {to Gabor.) Sir, you will 
with me ? 
[Exeunt Stralenheim and attendants; Iden- 
STEiN and Gabor. 

Wer. (solus.) 'Tis he ! I am taken in the toils. Be- 
fore 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward, 
Inform'd me, that he had obtain'd an order 
From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore) when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom — till I left 
Its walls — fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure. 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What's to be done ? He knows me not by person ; 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension. 
Have recognised him, after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him ! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers. 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ! An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair ; and now, 'tis such. 
The past seems paradise. Another day. 
And I'm detected, — on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favormg an escape 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Iden. I tell you 'tij impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however ; and if one express 
Fail, you nuist send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest ? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
He may not be disturb'd until eleven 
When he will take himself to bed. 

Iden. Before 

x\a hour is past I'll do my best to serve him. 

Fritz, llomember ! [Exit Fritz. 



Iden. The devil take these great men . they 

Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
J'rom their scant pallets, and, at peril 
Of their lives, dispatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teach him fellow feeling" 
But no, " it must," and there's an end. How 

now ? 
Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Iden. Yes — he's dozing 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses : 
But I must not lose time : Good-nigUt 1 'Exit. 

Wer. " To Frauitibrt !" 

So, so, it thickens ! Ay, " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Werner looks around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a tahle in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark, — footsteps ! How do I know that Stralenheim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
That he suspects me 's certain. I'm alone ; 
He with a numerous train. I vi'eak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Than they could do elsewhere. Hark 1 nearer still ! 
I'll to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No I all is silent — 'twas my fancy ! — 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder: — I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire. 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of: it will serve me as a den 

Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 

[Werner draws a panel, and exit, closing it 
after him. 

Enter Gabor and JosEpmNE. 

Gab. Where is your husband ? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left Iiiin 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, licw 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf. 
Rather than that of him whose life yon saved i 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril ; but 
1 did not pledge myself to serve him in 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



359 



Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 
I find them practising against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

Not easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 

Gah. Is he so suspicious? 

Jos. lie was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gab. I'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

[Exit Gabor. 

Re-enter Idf.nstein and some Peasants. Josephine 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I'm drown'd? 

Idem Why, you will be well paid for't. 

And liave risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families? 

Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Iden. That's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. I'll promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed ; 
And you shall have besides, in sparkling coin, 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. , Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ! 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Risk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler? 
W^hen had you half the sum? 

Third Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were bom, knave? 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's, 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah ! in the prince's 

Absence, I'm sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connection ; — " Cousin Idenstein I 
(Quoth he) you'll order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop — march — march, I say 
And if a single dog's-ear of this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder — look to it ! 
For every page of paper, shall a hide 
Of yours bo stretch'd as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Refractory vassals, who can not effect 
Impossibilities — Away, ye earth-worms ! 

{Exit, driving them out. 

Jos. {coming foricard.) I fain would shun these 
scenes, too oft repeated. 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims ; 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in th'a STiote, unnamed, dull spot, 
Tbi dimmest in tne district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In sen'itude, o'er something still more servile ; 
And vice in misery affecting still 



A tatter'd splendor. What a state of being ! 

In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land. 

Our nobles were but citizens and merchants. 

Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 

As these ; and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 

Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 

Was in itself a meal, and every vine 

Rain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 

The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 

(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 

His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 

Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 

Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 

But, here ! the despots of the north appear 

To imitate the ice-wind of their clime. 

Searching the shivering vassal through his rags. 

To wring his soul — as the bleak elements 

His form. And 'tis to be amongst these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as r.o 

Father born in an liu«iblo state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal. 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father. 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and thus ? 

Enter Werner hastily, with the hnife in his hand, 
by the secret panel, which he closes hurriedly ajvcr 
him. 

Wer. {not at first recognising her.) Discover d . 

then I'll stab {recognising her.) 

Ah! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest? My God. 

What doth this mean? 

Wer. {showing a rouleau.) Here's gold — gold, 
Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dungeon. 

Jos. And how obtain'd ? — that knife ! 

Wer. 'Tis bloodless — yet. 

Away — we must to our chamber. 

Jos. But whence comest thou ? 

Wer. Ask not! but let us think where wo shall 
go — 
This — this will make us way — {showing the gold) — 
I'll fit them now. 

Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 

Wer. Dishonor ! 

Jos. I have said it. 

Wer. Let us hence. 

'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 

Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 

Wer. Hope ! I make sure. 

But let us to our chamber. 

Jos. Yet one question — ■ 

What hast thou done ? 

Wer. {fiercely.) Left one thing undone which 

Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
Away! 

Jos. Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 

[Excurd. 



360 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act XI. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 
A Hall in the same Falace 
Enter Idenstein and Others 

Iden. Fine doings ! goodly doings ! honest doings . 
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 

Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoil'd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day ! 
The honor of our city's gone forever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent : 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum witliout a search. 

Iden. And so am T. , 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Iden. Suspect ! all people 

Without — within — above — ^below — Heaven help me ! 

Fritz. Is there no other entrance to the chamber? 

Iden. None whatsoever. 

Fritz. Are you sure of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here since 
my birth, 
And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Iden. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man call'd Werner ^s poor ! 

Iden. Poor as a miser.' 

But lodged so far off, in the other wing, 
By which there's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night" in the hall. 
Almost a mile off, and which only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
When this burglarious, larcenous felony 
Appears to have been committed. 

Fritz. There's another, 

The stranger 

Iden. The Hungarian ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

• To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

Unlikely. But, hold — might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How ? We, sir ! 

Iden. No — not you, 

But some of t.i;.- inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroider'd night-gown ; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon it 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
Has disappear" 1 ; — the door unbolted, with 
No difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir. 

Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
Which forms the baron's .luusehold 's unimpeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation ; such as in accompts. 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 



1 1" Yoiir printer has mads an odd mistake :— 'poor as a 
mouie,^ instead of ' poor as a miser.' The expression may 



Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Pui-veying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters: 
But for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
We scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have been so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

Iden. Tljere is some sense in that 

Fritz. No, sir, bo sure 

'Twas none of our corps ; but some petty, trivial 
Picker and stealer, without art or genius. 
The only question is — Who else could have 
Access, save the Hungarian and yourself? 

Iden. You don't mean me ? 

Fritz. No, sir ; I honor nioro 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's to 
be done? 

Iden. Nothing — but there's a good deal to bo 
said. 
We'll offer a reward ; move heaven and earth, 
And the police, (though there's none nearer than 
Frankfort ;) post notices in manuscript, 
(For we've no printer ;) and set by my clerk 
To read them, (for few can, save he and I.) 
We'll send out villains to strip beggars, and 
Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we'll have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And for the baron's gold — if 'tis not found. 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The ghost of this rouleau. Here's alchemy 
For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

Iden. Where ? 

Fritz. In a most immense inheritanco. 

The late Count Siegend'orf, his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

No heir? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneath his father's ban 
For the last twenty years ; for whom his sire 
P.,efused to kill the fatted calf; and, therefore, 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him, 
Were he to reappear: he's politic. 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'Tis true, there is a grandson, 

Whom the late count reclaim'd from his son's hands. 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage. 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf 's. The graudsire ill 



seem strange, but it is only a translation of ' semper avarus 
egct !' " — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray.] 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



361 



Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If lie's a lad of mettle, iie may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

FrUz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough: they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter ; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. ' 

Iden. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yes : 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken by it. 

Iden. Was there no cause assign'd? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the true one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly, 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him ;) 
A third believed he wish'd to s^rvc in war, 
But peace being made soon after his departure, 
He might have since return'd, were that the motive ; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised, 
As there was something strange and mystic in him, 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bc.hemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dwindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

Iden. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
To risk his life and honors with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 

Fritz. Heaven best knows ! 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise. 
That they will seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all. 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
W^ra but the same thing upon a gi'and scale ; 
And now that tiiey are gone, and peace proclaim'd. 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escape, 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric* 

Stral. Since you have refused 

All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them. 



1 [The characters are anything but original.. ..Ulric is 
only the Giaour, Goiirad, Larn, Alp, &c. &c., rehashed and 
SDrved up as a Bohemian. " Cceluin, non animum mutant." 
It is the old mess with a new sauce. Compare him particu- 
larly with Lara, and you must be struck with the resem- 
blance. Both high born— both leaving home mysteriously 
—both suspected of being linked with desperate characters 



46 



Making me feel the worthlessness of words. 
And blush at my own barren gratitude. 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 

Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

Vlr. I pray you press the theme no further. 
Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould which throws out heroes ; fair~in favor; 
Brave, I .'".now, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart. 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure deu.h to save an unknown stranger 
In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 
Who shall be you?s. 'Tis true this pause of peace 
Favors such views at present scantily ; 
But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the mean time 
You might obtain a post, which would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the Elector ; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

Ulr. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 'tis with the same feeling which 
Induced it. 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 
I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt. 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

Ulr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not — 

You are nobly born ? 

Ulr. I have heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your 
name ? 

Ulr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

Ulr. When I'm worthy of it, 

I'll answer you. 

Stral. {aside.) Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers. 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

[Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 
So, sirs ! how have ye sped in your researches 1 

Iden. Indifferent well, your excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. Humph ! — not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected ? 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected ? 

Stral. Who may he be ? 



—both returning to play the magnifico— both charged with 
heavy crimes, by people who liad /net them while absent on 
their Wild exploits, and both ready to ge't rid of iMir ac- 
cusers by the summary process of murder. Both are, more 
over, very fine speakers, valiant men. ingh-browed. bright- 
eyed, black-haired. — Maoinn.j 



3C2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Iden. Why, don't you know, my lord ? 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Iden, And sc 

Was I, and that's the cause I know no more 
Tlian does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Iden. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognise 
The rcgue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'Tis only at the bar and in the dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
But I'll engage, that if seen there but once, 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. {to Fritz.) Prithee, Fritz, inioini me 
What hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss, (which, I must own, afFec'.s 
me 
Just now materially,) I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
So dexterous a spoiler, who could creep 
Through my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough. Sir Intendant ! 

Iden. True ; 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Ulr. What is all this? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morriaig, 

And have not heard that I was robb'd last night. 

Ulr. Some runcr of it reach'd mo as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a- strange business ; 

Tlie intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Iden. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. (impatiently.) . Defer your tale. 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 
Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

Stral. (ag'iin interrupting him, and addressing 
Ulric.) 
In short, I was asleep upon a chair, 
My cabinet before mc, with some gold 
Upon it, (more than I much like to lose. 
Though in part only :) some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants, 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there's an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great o" 'igation, this. 
Though slighter, yet noi slight, to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it? 

TJlr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
{To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 

Iden. But so muc'^ haste bodes 

Right little speed, and 

U'r. Standing motionless 

Nono ; eo let's march ; we'll talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

Ulr Show the spot, and then I'll ans (per you. 

Fritz I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

StraL Do so, and take you old ass with you. 

Fritz Heuce ! 



Ulr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

[Exit with Idenstein and Fritz 
Stral. (solus.) A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 

stripling. 
Handsome as Hercules ere his first labor, 
And with a brow of thought beyond his years 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wish I could engage him 
I have need of some such spirits near me now. 
For this inheritance is worm a struggle. 
And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
Neither are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
But ho hath play'd the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That's well. The father, 

whom 
For years I've track'd, as (lets the bloodhound, 

never 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put mo 
To fault ; but here I have him, and that's better 
It must be he .' All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it. — Yes ! 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, .00, 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ', 
Besides the antipathy with which we met. 
As snakes and lions shrink back from each other 
By secret instiiyct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either ; 
All — all — confirm it to my mind. However, 
We'll grapple, ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
The order comes from Frankfort, if these WL*ers 
Rise not the higher, (and the weather favors 
Their quick abatement,) and I'll have him safe 
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
His real estate and name ; and there's no harm done. 
Should he prove other than I deem. This robbery 
(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also: 
He's poor, and that's suspicious — he's unknown, 
And that's defenceless. — True, we have no proofs 
Of guilt, — but what hath he of innocence? 
Were ho a man indifferent to my prospects, 
In other bearings, I should rather lay 
The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not; and alone 
Of all around, except the intendant, and 
The prince's household and my own, had ingress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare you? 

Gah. As those who fare well everywhere, when thoy 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how — 
And you, my lord? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is lilie to cost me dear. 

Gab. I hoard 

Of your late loss ; but 'tis a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think so, 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turu'd back — I have outstripp d 

them, 
In my return. 



Scene ii. 



WERNER. 



3C3 



Sfral. You!— Why? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river, 
As being r.axious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself; 
And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasui-e. 

Stral Would the dogs were in it . 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage? 
I order'd this at all rislcs. 

Gab- Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea, (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swohi stream,) and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. I must see to it : 

The knaves! the slaves I — but they shall smart for 
this. [Exit Straleniieim. 

Gab. {solus.) There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
will'd baron ! 
Epitome of what brave chivalry. 
The preux cheval'srs of the good old times. 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands, (if he hath any,) and, still dearer. 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half way through the window 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches. 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he's right : 
'Tis strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh ! thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! [Exit G.icoR. 

SCENE II. 

The Apartment of Werner, in the Palace. 

Enter Josephine and Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric ! — my beloved ! — can it be — • 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful ! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven receive 
A mother's thanks I — a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work ! — At such an hour, too. 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld) — forgive me ! 
This long delay was not my fiv.ilt.' 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and dou 
If I e'er felt it, 'tis so dazzled from 
My memory, by this oblivious transport ! — 
My son ! 

Enter Werner. 

Wer What have we here, — more strangers ? 
Jos. No '. 

Look upon him! Wliat do you see? 

^yer. ^^ stripling. 



- [TJlric behaves far too hopefully and too dutifully for an 
ossatiiri and a brigand. lie is of the Giaour and the Lara 
oixlui— a Westall ruffian.— i'ci. Jicv.] 



For the first time 

Ub: (kneeling.) For twelve long years, my father ! 

Wer. Oh, God! 

Jos. He faints ! 

Wcr. No — I am better now^ 

Ulric ! (Embraces him.) 

Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. (starting.) Hush ! boy- 

The walls may hear that name ! 

Ulr What then ? 

Wer Why, then— 

But we will talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be known here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
I should have been, and was not. Josephine ! 
Sure 'tis no father's fondness dazzles me ; 
But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! 

Ulr. And yet you knew me not ! 

Wcr Alas ! I have had that upon my soul, 
Which makes me look on all men with au eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly: I 
Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimes in 
The proud and princely halls of — (I'll not name them, 
As you say that 'tis perilous) — but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset, 
And wept to see another daj' go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 

Ulr. Oh, heavens! I left him in a green old age, 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'Twas scarce three months 
since. 

Wcr. Why did yon leave him ? 

Jos. (embracing Ulric.) Can you ask that ques- 
tion ? 
Is he not here ? 

Wer. True : he hath sought his parents, 

And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights. 
Or rather yours ; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost, 
So that I must prefer my claim for form: 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

Ulr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr - You speak 

Riddles: what is this Stralenheim to us? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands ; 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count, 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who. 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me — and what then 1 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 



3G4 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act II. 



Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
lie hath escaped them, ib by fortune, not 
By favo.", 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you? 

Wer No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
At. .16 betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty ' 

To his uncertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him, 

(Excuse me for the phrase ;) but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so, 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in rne. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither: 
Is sick ; 1 stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that:* but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dros;;, 
My own whole treasure — you, my parents ! 

Wer. (agitatedly.) Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of " villain ?" 

Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
W^ith an infernal stigma ? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me ,to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer Who taught you, long-sought and ill-found 
boy ! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common 
With such a being and my father? 

Wer Every thing ! 

That niffian is thy father ? 

Jos Oh, my son ! 
Believe him not — and yet ! (her voice falters.) 

Ulr. (starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
says slowly,) And j'ou avow it? 

Wer. Ulric ! before you dare de«pise your father, 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long. 
It come*h like the night, and quickly) — Wait I — 
Wait ti\i, ike me, your hopes are blighted^ — till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bedfellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — 



1 [The following is the original passage in the novel : — 
" ' Stralenlieim,' said Conrad, ' does not appear to be alto- 
gethei- the man you take him for ; but were it even other- 
wise, lie owes me gratitude not only for the past, but for 
what he supposes to be my present employment. I saved 
his life, and he therefore places confidence in me He hath 
been robbed last night— is sick— a stranger— and in no con- 
dition to discover the villain who has plundered him ; and 
the business on which I sought the intendant was chiefly 
that,'" &c. — Lee.] 

2 [" • And who,' said he, ' has entitled you to brand thus 
with ignominious epithets a being you do not know ? Who 
has taught you that it would be even safe for my son to in- 
sult ine ?'— ' It is not necessary to know the person of a ruf- 
fian,' replied Conrad indignantly, ' to give him the appella- 
tion he merits : and what is there in common between my 
father and such a character ?'— ' Every thing,' said Siegen- 
dorf, bitterly,— • for that ruffian was your father I' "—Ibid.} 

s [" Conrad, before you thus presume to chastise me with 
your e)e, learn to understand my actions. Young, and in- 
experienced in the world— reposing hitherto in the bosom 
of indulgence and luxury, is it for you to judge of the force 



Should you see then the serpent, who hath coird 

Himself around all that is dear and noble 

Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path, 

Witii but his folds between your steps and happiness^ 

When he, who lives but to tear from yon name, 

Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 

Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 

The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep. 

Even to your deadliest foe ; and he, as 'twere ' 

Inviting death, by looking like it, while 

His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! 

If then, like me, content with petty plunder, 

You turn aside 1 did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. (ahruptly . Hear me ! 

I will not br6ok a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own, (if that be human btill) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do.* 
He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
I>-"em yourself safe, as young and brave ; but leani 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power^my knife wa^ -aised — 
Withdrawn — and I'm in his: — are you uot so? 
Who tells you that ho knows you not ? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end ycu? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon? 

[He pauses 

Ulr. Proceed — proceed . 

Wer. Me he hath ever known. 

And hunted through each change of time — name — 

fortune — 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round mo ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now. 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric I — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear.' 

Ulr. (looks first at hin jnd then at Josephine.) 
My mother ! 

Wer. Ay ! I thought so : you have now 

Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

Vie But stay ! 

[Werner rushes out of the chamber. 



of the passions, or the temptations of misery? 'Wait till, 
like me, you have blighted your fairest hopes — have en 
dured humiliation and sorrow — poverty and famine— before 
you pretend to judge of their effects on you ! Should that 
miserable day ever arrive," &c — Ibid.] 

* [" ' You do Mot know this man,' continued he : ' I do ! I 
believe him to be mean, sordid, deceitful ! You will con- 
ceive yourself safe, because you axe young and brave ! 
Learn, however, none are so secure out aesperaiion and 
subtilty may reach them ! Stralenheim, in the pakice of a 
prince, was in my power 1 My knife was held over him — I 
forbore — and I am now in his,' " &c. &c. — Ibid.] 

6 [" Me he has known invariably through every change ■; t 
fortune or of name — and why not you ? Me lie has en- 
trapped—are you more discreet ? He has wound tiie snares 
of Idenstein around me ; — of a reptile whom, a few years 
ago, I would have spurned from my presence, and vvhom, 
in spurning now, I have furnished witli fresh venoia Will 
you be more patient-7 Conrad, Conrad, tiiere are crimes 
rendered venial by the occasion, and temptations :oo ex- 
quisite for human fortitude to master or loroear ' & c — 
md.] 



Scene ii 



WERNER. 



3G5 



Jos. (to Ulric.) Follow him not, until this storm 
of passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not follow'd ? ^ 

Ulr. I obey you, mother. 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
3e one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh I he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To mo, who have borne so much with him, and for 

him, 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. Tliese then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. Nor doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr Explain to me 

3Iore clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate you from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to acromplish this — but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so I 

Enter Gabor and Idenstein, with Attendants. 

Gab. (to Ulric.) I have sought you, comrade. 

So this is my reward ! 

Ulr. What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! have I lived to these years, and for 
this ! 
(To Idenstein.)' But for your age and folly, I 
would • 

Iden. Help ! 

Hands off! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab Do not think 

I'll honor you so much as save your throat 
From the Ravenstone' by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite : but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then, 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester' evening. 

Ide7i. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best s': ?rtly, and the last for all men. 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. (interfering.) Nay, no violence: 

He's old, unarm'd — bo temperate, Gabor ! 

Gab. (letting go Idenstein.) Triae : 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem mo knave • it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein.) How 

Fare you ? 

Iden. Help ! 

Ulr. I have help'd you. 



1 T/iB Ravenstone, " Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet of 
Germany, and tso called from the ravens perching on it. 
iSce ante, p. 197.] 



Iden. Kill him ! then 

I'll say so. 

Gab. I am calm — !ive on! 

Iden. That's more 

Than you shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not? 

Gab. _ Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowniag. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenheim. 

Gab. (goes up to him.) My noble lord, I'm here I 

Stral. Well, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Stral. What should I 

Have with you? 

Gab. You know best, . yesterday's 

f IocaI has not wash'd away your memory ; 
But that's a trifle. I stand here accused. 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber: — is the charge yciir own or his? 

Sfral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 

Sti-al. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit. 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at .east 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy — teach them their duty ! 
To look for thieves at home v/ere part of it, 
If duly taught ; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like me. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed — 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs ; I know enough 
Of what I have done for you, and what you owe 

me, 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing: I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tono 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it, 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials,' and their master? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
Your company. 

Gab. We found ijou 'm the Oder ; 

Would we had left you there ! 

Stral. I give you tlianla>, e'j. 



3G6 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Act II. 



Gab. I've earn'd them ; but might have eam'd 
more from others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to youi fate. 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do, 

If he avouches not my honor. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connection led me, honor. 

Slral. Then 

I'm satisiled. 

Gab. (ironically.) Right easilj', methinks. 
What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine? 

Stral. I merely said that I 

Was satisfied — not that you o'e absolved. 

Gab. Again ! Am I accused or no? 

Stral Go to ! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you. 
Is the fault mine '' Is 't not enough that I 
Decline all questinn of your guilt or innocence? 

Gab. My lord, tny lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation ; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you — 
Your looks a voice — your frowns a sentence ; you 
Are practising your power on me — because 
You have it ; but bevvare! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stral. Threat'st thou? 

Gab. Not so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injiuy, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you some- 
thing. 
For which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To his Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exit Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attend- 
ants. 

Gab. (following.) I'll after him and 

Ulr. (stopping him.) Not a step. 

Gab. Who shall 

Oppr-:/' me? 

Ulr Your own reason, with a moment's 

Tliouglu. 

Gab. Must I bear ih is? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things wJiich had made this silkworm cast his 

skin — 
And shrink yon from a few sharp sneers and words? 

Gab. Must I bear to be deenrd a thief? If 'twere 
A bnndit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There's something daring in it ;— but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man I — 

^'''■- It seems, thenj 

You are not guilty ? 

^Gab. Do I hear aright? 

You too . 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab If the judge ask'd me, 1 would answer 
"No"— 
To you I answer thus. (He draws.) 



Ulr. (drawing.) With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there ! Ho ! help ! help !—0h, God ! 
Here's murder ! 

[Exit Josephine, shrieking 

Gabor and Vimic fight. Gabor is disarmed just as 

Stralenheim, Josephine, Idenstein, ^c, re-enler 

Jos. Oh! glorious heaven ! He's safe I 

Stral. (<o Josephine.) VTAo'ssafe? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. (interrupting her with a stern look, and turn- 
ing afterwards to Stralenheim.) Both i 
Here 's no great harm done. 

Stral. What hath caubcd all thie 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe : but as the effect 
Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor ! 
There is your sword ; and when you bare it next, 
Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last words slowly and 
emphatically in a low voice to Gabor. 

Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. (taking his sword.) They shall. You have 
wrong'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword. I 

would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit hiin yet : — you have vanquish'd me 
I was the fool of passion to conceive 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Rest in this arm. We may meet by and by, 
However — but in friendship. [Exit Gasor. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults, 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt? — 

Ulr. Not even by a scrt.lch. 

Stral. (to Idenstein.) Intendant ! take your meas- 
ures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
Ho shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that 'the waters have abated. 

Iden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword again — 
And seems to know the use on 't ; 'tis his trade, 
Belike ; — I'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence '. after him .' 

Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 

Stral. I must bo 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so— 

March, vassals ! I'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up : a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life — on which ali rests. 
I like that article of war 

[Exit Idenstein and Attcninnts 

Stral. Come hither, 

Ulric: what does this woman here? Oh! now 
I recognise her, 'tis the stranger's wife 
Whom they name " Wenier." 



Scene ii. 



WERNER. 



307 



Vlr. 'Tis his name. 

Stral. Indeed ! 

Is not your liusband visible, fair dame ? — 

Jos. Who seeks him ? 

Siral. No one — for the present : but 

1 fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. I will retire with you. 

Jos. Not so : 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
AM places here. 
{Aside to Ulric, as she goes out.) O Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what depends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. {to Josephine.) Fear nft ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

Siral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you : 
You saved my life — and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Siral. Mysterious 

And long-engender'd circumstances (not 
To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to rr>e. 

Ulr. Who? Gabor, the Hungarian? 

Stral. No— this " Werner" — 

With the false name and habit. 

, Ulr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor — and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Strnl. • He is — 'tis no matte:*; — 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension) 
He must be made secure ere twelve hours further. 

Ulr. And what have I to do with this? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the governor, my friend, 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg,) 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Bars all access, and may do for some hours 

Ulr. It is abating. 

Stral. That is well. 

Ulr. But how 

Am I conccrn'd? 

Strnl. As one who did so much 

For mc, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
The life you rescued. — Keep your eye on him .' 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know 

him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar 

when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gap — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

Ulr. Why so? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall 

T Ir. I hope so. 

Stral Ic is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
I'nscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skinim'd it lightly : so that now, besides 
Its own evuberunce, it bears double value, 
Cor.i'romcd with whole realms far and n?ai 
Made desoris. 

i'lr You describe it faithfully 



Stral. Ay — could you see it, you woiJd say so— 
but, 
As I have said, you shall 

Ulr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as both may make worthy your acceptance, 
And services to me and mine forever. 

Ulr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch — 
This way-worn stranger — stands between yuu and 
This Paradise ? — (As Adam did between 
The devil and his) — [Aside. \ 

Stral. He doth. 

Ulr. Hath he no right ■ 

Stral. Right ! none. A disinherited prodigal 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts — but chiefly by his marriage. 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews 

Ulr. He has a wife, then? 

Stral. You'd be sorry 

Call such your mother. You have seen the woman 
He calls his wife. 

Ulr. Is she not so < 

Stral. Ko more 

Than he's your father: — an Italis girl, 
The daughter of a banish'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same Werner. 

Ulr. They are childless, then? 

Stj-al. There is or was a bastard, 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom, 
As it went chilly downward to the grave: 
But the imp stands not in my path — he has fled, 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not. 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. — Why do you smile ? 

Ulr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp — a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be gain'd. 

Ulr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain it. 

Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to 
my heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

Ulr. 'TwereC too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom, (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful,) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him , 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine, 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once — though too rash. 

Ulr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first — which makes them 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel naught, can lose 

nothing. 
Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. Bi,t say 
I may be sure you'll keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape ? 

Ulr. You mav be sure 



368 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act in 



You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and forever 

Ulr Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I . 



A Hall in the same Palace, from whence the secret 
Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gah. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I'll try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so wretched, give to Misery 
A shelter? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gab. . Or 

The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinka 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

Wer. Ah ! 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me? 
I am oppress'd like you — and poor like you — 
Disgraced 

Wer. {abruptly.) Who told you that I was dis- 
graced? 

Gab. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 
I said / was so — and would add, with truth, 
As imdeservedly as you. 

Wer. Acrain ! 

As/? 

Gab. Or any other honest man. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't believe 

me 
Guilty of this base theft ? 

Wer. No, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that's my heart of honor ! yon young 
gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All — all suspected me ; and why ? because 
I am the worst-clothed, and least named amongst 

them ; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts. 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs: but thus it is — you poor and help- 
less — 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer. Ho. ; know you that ? 

Gab. You're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have 

proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well, 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the new world the Spaniard boasts about. 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth, 
Weigh'd at its proper value in the balance. 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
BeoauBo I leel it) as may leave no nightmare 



Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do you mean ? 

Gab. Just what I say ; I thought my speech was 
plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men. 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say, (and no doubt they should kuow 

best,) • 
Therefore I'll stick by this — as being loth 
To suffer martyfdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging which I crave ; 
To-morrow I will try the waters as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated? Is there hope of that? 

Gab. There was 

At nooui'do. 

Wer. Then we may be safe 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less? 

Wer. Your poverty? 

Gab. No — you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you've a roof. 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly ; for how should such a wretch as I 
Have gold? 

Gab. Scarce honestly, to say the truth on'l, 

Although I almost wish you had the baron's 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. What? 

Wer. Are you awaro 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. (A noise heard without.) But hark! 
they come ! 

Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me : 
I'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go? 
But show me any place. I do assure you. 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless: 
Think if it were your own case ! 

Wer. (aside.) Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. I see you're moved; and it shows well in 
you: 
I may live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Straleuheim's ? 

Gab. Not I ! and if 

I were, what is there to espy in you? 
Although, I recollect, his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why 
I am his deadhest foe. 

Wer. You ? 

Gab. After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd him, I am his enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. I will. 

Gab. But how? 

Wer. {showing the panel.) There is a secret sprirg: 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance. 
And used it but for safety 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



369 



Gab. Open it, 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it, 

As I have said : it leads through winding walls, 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness,) 
A.nd hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
[ know not whither ; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

Gab. It is unnecessary : 

How should I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wcr. Yes, but who knows to what place it may 
lead? 
/ know not — (mark you !) — but who knows it might 

not 
Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
So strangely wore contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days. 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbor. You must not advance 
Beyond the two lirst windings ] if you do, 
(Albeit I never pass'd them,) I'll not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gah. But I will 

A thousand thanlvs ! 

Wer. You'll find the springs more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return. 
It yields to the least touch. 

Gab. I'll in — farewell ! 

[Gabou goes in by the secret panel. 

Wer (solus.) What have I done ? Alas I what 
had I done 
Before to make this fearful 1 Let it be 
Still some atonement that I save the man, 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps ray own — 
They come I to seek elsewhere what is before them I 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 

Idea. Is he not here ? He must have vanish'd then 
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictured saints upon the red and yellow [sunrise 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like 
On long pearl-color'd beards and crimson crosses, 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cowls, 
And helms, and twisted armor, and long swords, 
All the fantastic furniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any other life or glory. 
He's gone, however. 

Wer. Whom do you seek ? 

Iden. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Iden. In the search 

Of him wh i robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Iden. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where's he gone 1 

Wcr. Who? 

Iden. He we sought. 

Wer You see he is not here. 

Iden, And yet we traced him 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices? 
Or deal you in Iho black art ? 

Wer I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 



47 



Iden. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter ; but we must continue now 
Our search for t' other. 

Wcr. You had best bogin 

Your inquisition now : I may not be 
So patient always. , 

Iden. I should like to know, 

In good soo*h, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that ho was not here? 

Iden. Yes, one; 

But there's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But come '. 
Bustle, my boys , tre are at fault. 

[Exit Idenste7\ and Attendants. 

Wer. lu -»ihat 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved mo .' 
And one base sin hath dene me less ill than 
The leaving undone one fti greater. Down, 
Thou busy devil, rising in n:y heart ! 
Thou art too late ! I'll naught to do with Hood. 

Enter Ulric. 

TJlr. I sought you, father 

Wer. Is 't no' dangerous ? 

Ulr. No ; Stralenheim la gn )iaiil cf all 
Or any of the ties between us . mrro— 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. I cannot think it ; 

'Tis but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in our path. 
But must break through them, as an unarm'd carlo 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 

rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
Nets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so : 
We'll overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show n)e how 7 

Ulr. Can you not guess? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er into your mind last night ? 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. ' Then we shall never 

More understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'Tis of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Our general situation in its bearings. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frank- 
fort, 
When you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse. 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wcr. And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 



370 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act in. 



And, for the soveroign's head, my own begirt 
Witli hissing snakes, which curl around my temples, 
And* cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 

Ulr You must not use it, at least now ; but 
take 
This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 

Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the iutendant for his old caleche 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too? 

Ulr. Fear nothing ! 

The only fear were if we fled together, 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favor 
The route on to Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hoars' start, the difficulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush ! hush ! no transports : we'll indulge in 
them 
In Castle Siegendorf! Display no gold: 
Show Idenstein the gem, (I know the man. 
And have Jook'd through him :) it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost o^old — 
No jewel : therefore it could not be his ; 
And then the man who was possess'd of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be net over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. I will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appeared 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favor. 
All had been known at once. 

Wer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred wit'n yourself. 
I will but wait a day or tw6 with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my father. 

Wer. To part no more I 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

The least we'll meet again once more. 

^"" My boy! 

My fnend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
Oh, do not hate me I 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. Ay, 

My ''athor hated me. Why not my son? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 
( Wer Scorpions 

^ Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yat (hate me not) I will be soon. 

Ulr I'll wait ! 

In the moan time be sure that all a son 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 



Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet I feel 
Furtlier — that you despise me. 

Ulr. Wherefore should 1 1 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 

Ulr. ' No! 

I have fathom'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
Not now. Your error has redoublec all 
The present difficulties of our house. 
At cecret war with that of Stralenheim 
All v"=i have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

Wer. The only one, 

And I eiiibrace it, as I did my son, 
Who show'd himself and father's sajnty in 
One day. 

Ulr. 1! on shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we w^ere 
Admitted to our lands ? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although the*first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongesl, 
Especially the next in blood. 

Ulr. Blood! 'tis 

A word of many meanings ; in the veins, 
And out of them, it is a different thing — • 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other, 
Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. That may be— 

And should, perhaps — and yet but get ye ready ; 

You and my mother must away to-nigh*,. 

Here comes the iutendant : sound him with the 

gem; 
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud. 
And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
With its greased understratum ; but no less 
Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
Farewell I I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 
My father ! 

Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed: subdue your nature to the hour! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

Wer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feelmg of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse — it will ease you ! 

Here is the iutendant 



Enter Idenstein. 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue ? 

Iden. No, faith ! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more 

You may have better luck another chase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Iden. Gone back to his chamber; 

And now I think on't, asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answer'd on the instant, as the bound 



Scene n. 



WERNER. 



371 



Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
'Tis well they have horses, too ; for if they had not, 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
They say kings did Sesostrls. 

Iden. Who was he ? 

Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 'tis the same, 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I've heard so ; but I must take leave. In- 
tendant, 
Your servant ! — Werner, (to Werner slightly,) if that 

be your name, 
Yours. [Exit Ulric. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man ! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 
You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
Precedence ! 

Wei: I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That's well — 

That's very well. You also know your place, too ; 
And yet I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. (skotoing the ring.) Would this assist your 
knowledge ? 

Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 

A jewel ! 

Wer. 'Tis your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine ! — Name it ! 

Wer. Tiiat hereafter you permit me 

At thrice its value to redeem it : 'tis 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family ! — yours ! — a gem ! 

I'm breathless ! 

Wer. You must also furnish me 

An hour ere daybreak with all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real? Let me look on it ; 
Diamond, by all that's glorious ! 

Wer. Come, I'll trust you : 

You have guess'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can't say I did, 

Though this looks like it : this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood ! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishhig to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim's in quest of ? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
So much embarrassment to me just now, 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 'tis 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

Iden. Be you the man or no, 'tis not my business ; 
Besides, I never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who woulci raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin, 
And never offer a precise reward — 
But this .' — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-dawu it is yours. 

Iden Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself ! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou loadstar of 
Tlie soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point duly north, like trembling needles. 
Tliou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 



More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre . 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchymist ! — 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

Iden. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream'd in a low garb. — 
But come, I'll serve thee ; thou shalt be as free 
As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 
I'll show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel !) 
Thou shalt be furnish'd, Werner, with such means 
Of flight, that if thou wert a snail, not birds 
Should overtake thee. — Let me gaze again ! 
I have a foster brother in the mart 
Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How many 
Carats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner, I will wing thee. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE 11. 
Stralenheim's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All's ready, my good lord : 

Stral. I am not e cepy. 

And yet I must to bed ; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit. 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber. 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky. 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy between man 
And man, an everlasting mist ; — I will 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear ? 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear more. 

Because an undescribable but 'tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and the young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they call him " Ulric." 

Stral. You think ! you supercilious slave ! what 
right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the name 
Of him who saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty. — 
Get hence ! " You think," indeed ! you who stood 

still 
Howling and drippling on the bank, whilst I 
Lay dying, and the stranger dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank him — and despise you. " You think .'" und 

scarce 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good nignt ! 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and temper. 

[ The scene closes 



372 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act III. 



SCENE III. 

The secret Passage 

G'alor, (solus) Four — 

Five — six houra nave I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That lioUovv tongue of time, wiiich, even wlien 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'Tis a perpetual knell. 
Though for a marriage feast it rings : each stroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funera' note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession ; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time hi the son's ear. 

I'm cold — 
I'm dark ; I've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses — and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
Their cursed pattering feet and whirling wings 
Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 
A light ! It is at distance, (if I can 
Measure in darkness distance ;) but it blinks 
As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 
The inhibited direction : I must on. 
Nevertheless, from curiosity. 
A distant lamp-light is an incident 
In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead me 
To nothing that may tempt me ! Else — Heaven aid 

me 
To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 
That corner's turn'd — so — ah ! no ! — right ! it draws 
Nearer. Hero is a darksome angle — so, 
Th'-Vs weather'd. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 
Into some greater danger than that which 
I have escaped — no matter, 'tis a new one : 
And novel perils, like fresh mistresses. 
Wear more magnetic aspects : I will on, 
And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
Which may protect mo at a pinch. — Burn still, 
Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
My stationary Will-o'-the-wisp ! — So ! so ! 
He ho ITS my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes 



SCENE IV. 
A Garden. 

Enter Werner. 

Wer. I could not sleep — and now tho hours at 
hand ; 
All's ready. Idensteiu has kept his word ; 
And station'd in the outskirts of the town. 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars hegin 
To pale in heaven ; and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor 
But not dishonor'd : and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-dying cankerworm, 
Which all the coming splendor of the lands. 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 



Can scarcely lull a moment. I mist find 
Some means of restitution, which would case 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery? — 
It must be done, however ; and I'll pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have naught of Stralenheim's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life, — and yet he sleeps as soundly 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows, 

Such as when Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 

The branches shake and some loose stones have 

fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric .caps down from the terrace 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Vlr. Stop! Before 

We approach, tell me 

Wer. Why look ycu so? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ! 

Vlr. Ah assassin? 

Wer. Insane or insolent ! 

Ulr. Reply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine I 

Wer. To what must I 

Answer ? 

Ulr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim ? 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. Wliat mean you? 

Ulr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim's chamber? and 

[Ulric pauses 

Wer. Proceed. 

Ulr. Z)iecil he not by your hand? 

Wer. Great God ! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father's innocent ! 
Embrace me '. Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, 

yes,— 
Yet say so. 

Wer. If I e'er, in heart or mind. 
Conceived deliberately such a thought, 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts — if e'er they glared a moment through 
The irritation of my opressed spirit — 
May heaven be shut foiever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

Ulr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'Tis horrible ! 'tis hideous, as 'tis hateful . — 
But what have I to do with this ? 

Ulr. No bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected, 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has, 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse mo, 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy I what unknown wooa 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

Ulr. My father ! I acquit you . 

But will the world do so ? will even tho judge, 
If But you must away this instant. 



Scene iv. 



WERNER. 



373 



No, 



Yet 



Ahl 



Wer 

I'll face it. Who shall dare suspect me 'i 

Ulr. 
You had no guests — no visiters — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. 
The Hungarian ! 

Ulr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 
Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

Ulr There I'll find him. 

[Ulric is going. 

Wer. It is too late : he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that hall 
.Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch'd the 

silent 
And favorable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him yester-even. 

Ulr. You reclosed 

The panel? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 
(And inner trembling for the avoided peril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a, discovery. 

Ulr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain. 

Ulr. That's well ; but had been better, if 
You ne'er had tum'd it to a den for [He pauses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst sar : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 

This is no hour to think of petty crimes, 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Why would you shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it ? 

A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety ,_ 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus : — you must 
Set out er ) dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the .nurderer, if 'tis possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Mo- 
loch 
Suspicion : two aew victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I rema ^ The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the cu.prit, and 

Ulr. Who seems ? Who else 

Can be so? 

Wei Not I, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son .' — doubted 

Ulr. And do you doubt of him 

The f xgitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime, (though not of such crime,) I, 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 
In Innocence's shadow, it may be, 
Because 'tis dusky 

Ulr And if I do so, 



What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away ! — I'll make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — be also is a partner in 
Your flight — moreover 

Wer. Fiy ! and leave my name 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as poorest, 
To bear the brand of bloodshed ? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave any thing 

Except our father's sovereignty and castles. 
For which you have so long panted and in vain ! 
What 7iame ? You have no name, since that you bear 
Is feign'd. 

Wer. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories. 

Though in tliis most obscure abode of men 

Besides, the search 

Ulr. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you heie 
As hen of Siegondorf : if Idenstein 
Suspects, 'tis but suspicion, and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years. 
Or crush'd, or rising slowly from the dust, 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is*inheeded 
Here, save as such — without lands, influence. 
Save what h'ath pcrish'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown, — a solitary grave. 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon. 
Is all he'll have, or wants. If / discover 
The assassin, 'twill be well — if not, believe me 
None else ; though all the full-fed train of menials 
May howl above his ashes, (as they did 
Around him in his danger on the Oder,) 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence ! hence ! I must not hear your answer. — Look ! 
The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer : — Pardon me that 
Am peremptory ; 'tis your son that speaks. 
Your long-lost, late-found sou. — Let's call my mo- 
ther ! 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me : I'll answer for the event as far 
As regards you, and that is the chief point. 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We'll meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — Hence ! 
And may your age be happy ! — I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's spe3d be with 
you! 

Wer. This counsel 's safe — but is it honorable ? 

Ulr. To save a father is a child's chief honor. 

[Exeunt 



374 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



ACT IV 

SCENE ', 

A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegendorf, near 
Prague. 

Enter Eiiic and Henrick, Retainers of the Count. 
Eric. So, better times are come at last ; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — botli 
A long desideratum 

Hen. Yes, for masters, 

It might bo unto those who long for novelt}', 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain'd 
His feudal hospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

Eric. Why, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. Tlie old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are you sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's boun- 
teous, 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpa^ its honeymoon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric — there's a knight ! 
Pity the wars are o'er ! 

Hen. Why so? 

Eric. Look on him ! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He's vefy youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 
Eric. That's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 
Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said. 

The wars are over: in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a well-supported pride, 
Which awes, but yet offends not? in the field. 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, gnash- 
ing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket ? 
Who backs a horse or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him? Whose plume nods knightlier? 
Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain) are such a sort of knaves 

As (Pauses.) 

Eric. What? 

Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living, 
like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 
Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave irou-visaged 
fellows, 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 



Ask that at Magdebourg — or for that matter 
Wallenstein either ; — they ai-e gone to 

Eric. Rect ; 

But what beyond 'tis not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. I wish they had left us something of their 
rest: 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with — God knows who : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Thau the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric— 

What has all this to do v>'*h. him? 

Hen. With him ! 

He might prevent it. As you say he's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 

Eric. You'd better ask himself. 

Hen. I would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil I you'll hold your tongTie? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 

Hen. 'Tis nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I mean nothing, — a mere 
sport 
Of words, no more ; besides, had it been otherwise. 
He is to espouse the gentle Baroness, 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress : 
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide ; sprinkled, as it were, 
With blood oven at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

Ulr. Go(>d morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are ord^r'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat the bushes, and the day looks premising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite? 
What courser will you please to mount? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recover'd 
The toils of Monday : 'twas a noble chase : 
You spear'd four with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

I had forgotten— let it be the gray, then. 
Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 

Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

Ulr. I leave that to Weilburg, our 

Master of the horse. [Exit Eri«. 

Rodolph ! 

Rod. My lord . 

Ulr. The news 

Is awkward from the — (Rodolph points to Henrick.) 

How now, Henrick? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with me before 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



375 



I mount. [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'Tis rumor'd that the column sent against them 
Is to he strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Rod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr I mean it — and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plaM. 

Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the chase, draw off the eighty men. 
Wliom Wolffe leads — keep the forests on your route : 
You icnow it well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

r'/r. We will not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success : 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this letter 

[Gives a letter. 
Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and WolfFo, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers round the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida? 

Ulr. Why, 

I do so — but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years. 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
Although 'twere that of Venus ; — but I love her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. I think so ; for I lovo 

Naught else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Rodolph ! 

Rod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The Baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 

Ulr. Perhaps my father wishes it ; and sooth 
'Tis no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off, 
And do as I have sai 1. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 'twas a most Aind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as littie kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

Rod. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not ? 

Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod I have heard it whisper'd there was something 
strange 
About his death — and even the place of it 



1 [Ida, the new personage, is a precocious girl of fifteen, 
m a great hurry to be married ; and who has very little to do 
in the business of the play, but to produce an effect by 



Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words? 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah ! here's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim.' 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

ida Not too early, 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me " cousin ?" 

Ulr. {syniling.) Are we not so ? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
It sounds so cold, as ii you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh'd our blood. 

Ulr. (starting.) Blood ! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay! doth it? 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rusats liKe a torrrent 
Even to your brow again. 

Ulr. (recovering himself.) And if it fled. 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which boats for you, sweet ccusin ! 

Ida. " Cousin" again. 

Ulr. Nay, then I'll call you sister. 

Ida. I like that name etill worse. — Would we had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. {gloomily.) Would we never had ! 

Ida, Oh heavens I and can you wish that ? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance. 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me arc so already ; 

But I can wait ! 

Ulr. Dear Ida ! 

Ida. Call me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's — 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 

[She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view my happiness, 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed ! 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud, (as is birth's prerogative ;) but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known each 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey, 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. Who says that 7 

Ida. What? 

Ulr. That he died alone ? 



fainting at the discoverv of the vUlany of her beloved, and 
partially touching on it in a previous scene.— £cZ. Rev.1 



376 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Ida The general rumor 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away 

Ulr. If they were near him, 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a deathbed. 
When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves? — They say he died of a fever. 

Ulr. Say ! 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

Ulr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep — I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him. 

Ulr. But ycju do not see his fact / 

Ida. (looking at him.) No ! Oh, my God ! do you ? 

Ulr. Why do you aslc ? 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer I 

Ulr. (agitatedly.) Ida, this is more childishness ; 
your weakness 
Infects nie, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed ! I have 

Full fifteen summers ! [A hugle sounds. 

Rod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida, (peevishly to Rodolpii.) Why need you tell 
him that? Can he not hear it 
Without your echo ? 

Rod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you cam it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from th'o chase to-day. 

Rod. You will not, 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall ! 

Ida Yes, or ba 

No true knight. — Come, dear Ulric ! yield to m 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy, 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Rode' oh. 

Rod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hom 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I'm the true chameleon, 
And live but on the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit — I'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I i jve all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida, Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will Iring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

laa. And will you not stay, then? You shall not 
go! 
Como ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr • Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. I do not wish 



To be so ; for I trust these wars are over, 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter Werner as Count Siegendorf 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 
With such brief greeting. — You have heard onr 

bugle ; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them. — You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to follow 
The chase with such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
Return'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
The nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of b'oth — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. (to Ida.) True, dear child. 

Though somewhat frankly said for a fair damsel. — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honors. , 

Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
But most in ours, that one should be found wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the yeaven 
Which gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our conntrj' ; 
And next, that wo are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. (aside.) Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey at onco. 

(Then aloud to a Servant.) 

Ludwig, dismiss the train without ! [Exit Ludwiq. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling.) You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself? But fear not ; thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg. You shall, 

Your harp, which by the way awaits you with « 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 

Ulric, you'll come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I'll sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes : 
I'll play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. And why not 

Old Tilly's? 

Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with 
> music, 

Could aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with yon alone. 

Ulr. My time 's your vassal. 
(Aside to Rcdolph.) Rodolph, honco! and do 

As I directed : and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



377 



Rod. Count Siegondorf, command you aught? I 
am bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. (starts.) Ah! — 

Where ? on lohat frontier ? 

Rod. Tlio Silesian, on 

My way — (Aside to Ulric.) — Where shall I say? 

Ulr (aside to Rodolph.) To Hamburgh. 

(Aside to himself.) That 
Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Rod. Count, to Hamburgji. 

Sieg. (agitated.) Hamburgh ! No, I have naught 
to do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 

Rod. Fare yo well. Count Siegendorf ! 

[Exit RoDOLPiL 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, who has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would reason with you on. 

Ulr. My lord, ho is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth. 
But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 

Ulr. So they will do of most men. Even the 
monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
The sneer of the last courtier whom he has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must bo plain. 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Rodolph : 
They say ho is leagued with the " black bands" who 

still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will you believe 

The world? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

Ulr. ■ In any case, 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 

Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you ; you refer to but 

My destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ;.you have seen to what the passions led me; 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
Quench'd them not — twenty thous::nd more, per- 
chance. 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for years, did Anguish make the dial) 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warn'd by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and you behold me ! 

Ulr. I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf, 
Lord of a prince's appanage, and honor'd 
By those he rules and those he ranks with. 

'Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou citll me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ! 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me — 
But if my son's is cold 1 

Ulr Who <Zare say that? 

Sieg. None else but I, who see it— feel it — 
keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 



48 



Your sabre in his heart ! But mine survives 
The wound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling : how should it bo so. 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents? 

Sitg. And did not / too pass those twelve torn 
years 

In a like absence? But 'tis vain to urge you 

Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance 
Let's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of iiigii name, 
But dark deeds, (uy, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true,) with whom thou consortest. 
Will lead thee — - 

Ulr. (impatient, /fj ^ I'll be led by no man 

Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope: at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
That thou -sliouldst wed the lady Ida — more 
As thou appoar'st to love her. 

Ulr I have said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more? 

Sieg. Ho says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blond, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly, 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness, 
(For Glory's pillow is but restless if 
Love lay not down his cheek there :; some strong 

bias. 
Some master fiend is in thy service to 
Misrule the morlal who believes him slave, 
And makes his every thought subservient ; else 
Thou'dst say at once — " I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her:" or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would I have answor'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you wed for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. Still 

Against your age and nature I Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your own example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist I 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 

Ulr. What matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ! 

Sieg. As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She's young — all beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness. 
Such as rounds common life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom ; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 
According to the Orient tale. She is 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheiir, your 
foe : 
I'll wed her, ne'ertheless ; though, to say truth, 



378 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act IV. 



Just now I am not violently transported 
In favor of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think 
twice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 'tis time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps : till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent? 

Ulr. I did, and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. 'Tis usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not / 

For any woman ; and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I'll give mine. 

Sieg. But 'tis your office 

To woo. 

Ulr, Count, 'tis a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have? You have forbid my stirring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer. 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles. 
And smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminine, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a world-winning battle — 
What can a son or man do more ? [Exit Ulrig 

Sieg. (soluf!.) Too much ! — 

Too much of duty, and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not: 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfil a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Ne'er left him, nor my eyes long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how ! — obedient, but with coldness ; duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious — 
Abstracted — distant — much given to long absence, 
And where — none know — in league with the most 

riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though, to do him justice, 
He never stoops down to their vulgar pleasures ; 
Yet there's some tie between them which I cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him — consult him — 
Throng round liim as a leader : h'.'t with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can I hope it 
After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood ? or — Oh I if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou walk these walls 
To wither him and his — who, though they slew not, 
Unlatch'd the door of death for thee ? 'Twas not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou wert our foe, 
And yet I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to awake with thine awakening ! 
And only took — Accursed gold ! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Nor part from thee ; thou earnest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee, 
Thou Tillaiious gold ! and thy dead master's doom, 



Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he were my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Atten. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, whom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. [Exit Attendant 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior Peace be with these walls, and all 

Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father ! 
And may thy prayer be heard I — all men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father ; 

Continue daily orisons lor us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood, 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of uv.telievcrs, 
Where there is everlasting wail and wo. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worm which dieth not I 

Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from 
one, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church. 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[SiEGENDORF offers the gold which he had taken 
from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 'tis because I know too well 
Refusal would offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours. 
Which has of old endow'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 'tis fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. {faltering.) For — for — the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'Tis from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret ! I have none • but, father, he who's 
gone 
Might have one ; or, in shor he did bequeath — 
No, not bequeath — but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who's gone was not my friend, but 
foe, * 

The deadliest and the stanchest. 

Prior. Better still 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to tho last. 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



37d 



As he did me. I do not love him new, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 'tis not my gold 

Prior. WTiose then? You said it was no legacy. 

Sieg. No matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'Tis yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it? 

Sieg. No ; but there's worse than blood — eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did he who own'd it die in his bed ? 

Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge. 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death was fathomlessly deep in blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know — but — he was stabb'd i' the 

dark, 
And now you have it — perish'd on his pillow 
By a cut-throat ! — Ay ! — you may look upon me ! 
/ am not the man. I'll meet your eye on that 

point, 
As I can one day God's. 

Prior. Nor did he die 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours? 

Sieg. No ! by the God who sees and strikes ! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Wiio slew him? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected. 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowledge, 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 

Sieg. (eagerly.) Oh! ami? — say! 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieg. Fatlier I I have spoken 

The truth, and naught but truth, if not the whole : 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood, 
I did not !- -nay, once spared it, when I might 
And could — ay, perhaps, should, (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attacks of over-potent foes :) 
But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 
For, as I said, though I be innocent, 
I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 
As if he had fallen by me or rnine. Pray for me. 
Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted I You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
I feel it is not. 

Prior. But it will be so, 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow. 
In which you rank amidst our chiefest nobles. 
As well as your brave son ; and smooth your as- 
pect ; 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopp'd, let blood you shed not rise 



A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorst unto the guilty 

[Exeunt 



ACT V. 

SCENE I. 



A large and magnificent Gothic Hall in the Castle 
of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies, Banners, 
and Arms of that Family. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, attendants oj Count 
Siegendorf. 

Arn. Be quick ! the count will soon return : the 
adies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for? 

Meis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
([f such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Arn. Go to I my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
In these dull pageantries. 

Arn. Begone ! and rail 

V/ithin. [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf and Ida 
Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven bo praised, the show is over ! 

Ida. How can you say so ! never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs, 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights, 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces. 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the tombs, 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, • 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes; the world" 
At peace ! and all at peace with one another ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embracing Josephine. 

Jos. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Ida. Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love ; and never may it throb 
With aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 

How should it? What should make us grieve? I hate 
To hear of sorrow : how can we be sad, 
Who love each other so entirely? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child! 

Ida. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No ; I but envy, 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I'll not hear 



380 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



A word against a world which still conta'ns 

You and my Uiric. Did you ever see 

Au;5ht like him ? How he tower'd amongst them all ! 

How a!I eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster — 

Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 

Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 

I dare be sworn that they grow still, nor e'er 

Will wither. 

Jos. You will spoil him, litlie flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him — I fear him. 

Jos. Why so? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him. 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times, 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There 's, for instance, 
The young Count Waldorf, who scarce once withdrew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him. 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept ? and yet methought, 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above an, these stiff and heaA'y jewels, 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with you. 

Enter Count Siegendorf, in full dress, from the 
solemnity, and Ludwig. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is making everywhere ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg. Where 's Ulric ? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train. 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 

Enter Ulric, splendidly dressea. 

Sieg. {to Ludwig.) ■ See they cease not 

Their quust of him I have described. [Exit Ludwig. 

Oh, Ulric ! 
liow liave I long'd for thoe ! 

Ulr. Your wish is grar ted— 

Behold me '. 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr Whom? Where? 



Sieg. The Hungarian, who slew Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even my name. 
Ulr. What name ? 



Sieg. 

Ulr. 

No more : 

Sieg 



Werner ! 'twas mine 

It must be so 
forget it. 

Never I never! all 
My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will be not engraved upon my tomb, 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. To the point — the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Listen ! — The church was throng'd ; the 
hymn was raised ; 
" Te Deum" peal'd from nations, rather than 
From choirs, in one great cry of " God be praised" 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years. 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose. 
With all the nobles, and as I look'd down 
Along the lines of lifted faces, — from 
Our banner'd and escutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of lightning, (for I saw 
A moment and no more,) what struck me Bightloss 
To all else — the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick ; and when I recover'd from the mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw him not. The thanksgiving 
Was over, and we march'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sieg. When we reach'd the Muldau's bridge. 

The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barks mann'd with revellers in their best garbs, 
Which shot along the glancing tide below. 
The decorated street, the long array. 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loud farewell to its great doings. 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round. 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. • You saw him 

No more, then? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man : 
But still I saw him not ; but in hia stead 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Sieg. My eye forever fell 

Upon your dancing crest ; the loftiest 
As on the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes, 
Which overflow'd the glittering stieets of Prague 

Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much ; for 1 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I heard in a deep, low voice. 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — " Werner J" 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him ! I turn'd — and saw — and fell 

Ulr. And wherefore ? Were you seen ? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
Seeing my faintness, ignorant of the cause : 
You, too, were too remote in the proce.ssion 
(The old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 



Scene i 



WERNER. 



381 



Ulr. But I'll aid you now. 

Sieg In what 1 

Ulr. In senrching for this man, or When he's 

found 
What shall we do with him ? 

SiefT. I Know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ! nor can be 
Uuravell'd till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Attcn. A stranger to wait on 

You excellency. 

Sieg Who? 

Attcn. Ho gave no nama 

Sieg. Admit him, ne'ertheless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gabor, and 
afterwards exit. 

Ah! 

Gah. 'Tis, then, Werner ! 

Sieg. {haughtily.) The same you knew, sir, by 
that name ; and you I 

Gab. (looking round.) I recognise you both : father 
and son, 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or yours, 
Have lately been in search of me : I am here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found j^ou : you 
are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as [He pauses. 

Gab. Give it utterance, and then 

I'll meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gab. First, who accuses me? 

Sieg. , All things. 

If not all men : the universal rumoi*— 
My own presence on the spot — the place — the 

time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on ?ne only ? 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name. 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain ! 

Who play'st with thine own guilt ! . Of all that 

breathe 
Thou best dost know the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 

slander, 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Further than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gab. 'Tis fals.; ■, 

Sieg. Who says so ? 

Gab. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gab. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sieg. Name him ! 

Gab. He 

IMay have more names than one. Your lordship 

had so 
Once on a time. 

Sieg- If y)u mean me, I dare 

Your utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ! 

I know the assassin 



Sieg. Where is he? 

Gab. {pointing to Ulric.) Beside you ! 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gabor ; 
SiEGENDORF interposes. 
Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you shall not ba 
slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 
[He turns to Ulric. 
Ulric, repel this calumny, as I 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It will refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose himself. 
Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 
Sieg. {first to Gabor, and then looking at Ulric.) 

I hear thee. 

My God ! you look 

Ulr. How? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the gr.'ii.en. 

Ulr. {composes himself.) It is nothing. 
Gab. Count, you are bound to hear me. I came 
hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. When I knelt down 
Amiast the people in the chnrchj drcam'd not 
To find the beggai y Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes; but you have call'd mo, 
And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir 

Gab. Ere I do so, 

Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I — as poor as ever 5 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
The baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought, — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach nt» 
less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels liimsejf the guilty one amongst us. 
I speak of you. Count Siegendorf, because 
I know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can proceed — dare you protect me? 
Dare you command me ? 

[Siegendorf _/irsi looks at the Hungarian, and 
then at Ulric, who has unbuckled his sa- 
bre, and is drawing lines with it on the 
fioor — still in its sheath. 
Ulr. {looks at his father and says) 

Let the man go on ! 
Gab. I am unarm'd, count — bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. {offers it to him contemptuously.) 

Take it. 
Gab. No, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are both unarm'd — I would not choose 
To wear a steel which may be stain'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. {casts the sabre from him in contempt.) 
It — or some 
Such other weapon, in my hands — spared yours 
Once when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

Gab. True— 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose — to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 

Ulr. Proceed. 



382 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Act v. 



The tale is doubtless worthy the relater. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[To SlEGENDORF. 

Sieg. (takes ?iis son by the hand.) My sou ! I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much : I began 
Life early — and am what the world has made me 
At Frankfort on the Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 
(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 
To hear related a strange circumstance 
In February last. A martial force, 
S^nt by the state, had, after strong resistance, 
Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 
Marauders from the hostile camp. — They proved. 
However, not to be so — but banditti, 
Whom either accident or enterprise 
Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 
Which skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 
Many amongst them were reported of 
High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 
At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers. 
And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 
Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 
1 know no more. 

Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ? 

Gab. Amongst them there was said to be one man 
Of wonderful endowments: — birth and fortune. 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman. 
And courage as unrivaU'd, Were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumor ; and his sway. 
Not only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft. 
Such was his influence : — I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of the mine — 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
This prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Sieg. And did you so ? 

Gab. You'll hear. Chance favor'd me : 

A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together — it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them. 
And show them as they are — even in their faces: 
Tlie moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
" This is the man !" though he was then, as since, 
Witli the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err'd, and watch'd him long and nearly ; 
I noted down his form — his gesture — features, 
Stature, and bearing — and amidst them all, 
Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could discern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. (smiiing.) The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And may sound better. — He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
As she doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides. 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
Was to be tix'd by him. — There I was wrong 

Sieg. And may not be right new. 

Gab. I follow'd him. 

Solicited his notice — and obtain'd it — 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 



Together, — and together we arrived 

In the poor town where Werner was conceal'd, 

And Stralenheim was succor'd Now we are on 

The verge — dare you hear further? 

Sieg. I must do so— 

Or I have heard too much 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his itation — and if not 
So high, as now I find you, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the most high of worldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you — you refused it 

Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you, 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you owe me something, 

Though not for that ; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That / had robb'd him. 

Sieg. I conceal'd you — 1, 

Whom and whose house you arraign, reviving vipei 

Gab. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 
You, count, have made yourself accuser — judge: 
Your hall 's my court, your heart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and III be merciful ! 

Sieg. You merciful I — 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gab. I. 'Twill rest 

With me at last to be so. You conceal'd me — 
In secret passages known to yourself. 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmerj 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light : 
I follow'd it, and reach'd a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber,^where, 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
I look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim ! — 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him ! — Wretch ! 

Gab. He was already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw none else ? You did not see the— — 

[He pauses from agitation. 

Gab. No, 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, was not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. (to Ulric.) Then, my boy ! thou art guilt- 
less still — 
Thou bad'st me say / was so once — Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gab. Be patient I I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember, — or 
If not, your son does, — that the locks were changed 
Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
Which led to this same night : how he had enter'd 
He best knows — but within an antechamber. 
The door of which was half ajar, I saw 
A man who wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh I God of fatliers ! 



Scene i. 



WERNER. 



383 



Gah. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
RssembUng them— behold them m Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Js not now what it then was ; — but it was so 
Wiien I first charged him with the crime — so lately. 

Sicg This is so [end ! 

Gab. {interrupting him.) Nay — but hear me to the 
Noto you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Botray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Weis vengeance : but though arm'd with a short 

poniard 
(Having left my sword without) I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning — either in address or force. 
I turn'd, and fled — i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber where you slept: if I 
Had found j'ou waking, Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as VV^erner slept that night. 

Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams I and such 
brief sleep. 
The stars had not gone down when I awoke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father — 
And now my dream is out I 

Glib. 'Tis not my fault 

If I have read it. — Well ! I fled and hid me — 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vaui, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign I 
You sought me and have found me — now you know 
My secret, and may weigh its worth. 

Sieg. {after a pause.) Indeed ! 

Gab. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gab. • You shall know it 

At once : — When you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
My purse — you would not share it : — I'll be franker 
With you : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial pov ers — you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes. 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and scarce 
true: 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I would have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well what I have said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ? 

Gab {casts his eyes on Ulric, who is leaning 
against a pillar.) If I should do so? 

Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw into 
This tower. [Opens a turret door. 

Gab. {hesitatingly.) This is the second safe asylum 
You have offer'd me. 

Sieg. And was not the first so ? 



1 [" Gal. I nave yet ^n additional security— I did not enter 
Prague a solitary individual ; and there are tongues without 
Ihat will speak for me, although I should even share the fate 



Gab. I know not that even now — but will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not o...er Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will wag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision !' 

Sieg. I will be so. — 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these walls, but it extends no further. 

Gab. I'll take it for so much. 

Sieg. {points to Ulric's sabre still upon the ground.) 
Take also that — 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gab. [takes up the sabre.) I will ; autj so provide 
To sell my life — not cheaply. • 

[Gabor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg. {advances to Ulric.) Now, Count Ulric ! 
For son I dare not call thee — What say'st thouT 

Ulr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ! 

Ulr Most true, father 

And you did well to listen to it : what 
We know, we can provide against. He must 
Be silenced. 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villany. 

Ulr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so? 

Ulr. As Stralenheim is. Are you bo dull 

As never to have hit on this before ? 
When we met in the garden, what except 
Discovery in the act could make me know 
His death ? Or had the prince's houseiiold been 
Then summon'd, would the cry for the police 
Been left to such a stranger? Or should I 
Have loiter'd on the way ? Or could ijou, Werner, 
The object of the baron's hate and fears, 
Have fled, unless by many an hour before 
Suspicion woke ? I sought and fathom'd you, 
Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 
Perceived you were the latter ; and yet so 
Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 
At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide ! no less 

Than common stabber ! What deed of my life, 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Ulr. Father, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
For family disputes. While you were tortured. 
Could / be calm ? Think you that I have heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — You 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself; 
For whom or what else did you ever teach it? 

Sicg. Oh ! my dead father's curse ! 'tis working 
now. 

Ulr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down ! 
Ashes are feeble foes : it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole. 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 



of Stralenheim. Let your deliberation be short "— " Sieg. 
My promise is solemn, sacr ?d, irrevocable : it extent-'s cot 
hovkever, beyond these wal Is." — Lee.] 



384 



BYRON S WORKS. 



Act v. Scenk i. 



Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, yet 

Remember who hath taught me once too often 

To listen to him ! Who ])roclaim'd to me 

That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? 

That passion was our nature ? that the goods 

Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 

Who show'd me his humanity secured 

By his nerves only? Who deprived me of 

All power tc vindicate myself and race 

In Open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 

(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 

Himself — a. felon's brand ! The man who is 

At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 

He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 

That I should act what you could think 7 We have 

, done 

With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 

Upon effects, not causes. Stralenhoim, 

Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown, 

I would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 

Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 

Was a rock in our way whicli I cut through. 

As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 

And our true destination — but not idly. 

As stranger I preserved him, and he owed me 

His life : when due, I but resumed the debt. 

He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 

I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 

The torch — you shov/'d the path ; now trace me that 

Of safety — or let me ! 

Sieg. I have done with life 1 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
life- 
Familiar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
No more to learn or hide : I know no fear. 
And have within these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture 

things. 
You stand high v.'ith the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ; — leave the rest to me ; 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 
Sieg. (solus.) Am I awake ? are these my father's 
halls? 
And yon — my son ? My son ! mine I who have ever 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's ! — Ulric — he hath partisans, 
It seems : I might have guess'd as much. Oh fool ! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

^Exit into the turret, closing the door after him. 



SCENE II. 

The Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf 

Gah. WHio calls? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf I Take these, and fly ! 

Lose not a moment ! 

yTears off n diamond star and other jewels, and 
thrusts them into Gabor's hand. 



Gab. What am I to do 

With these ? 

Sieg. Whate'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 

And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gab. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Fly ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers — nay, even of these very walls. 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Fly ! 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so? 

Farewell, then ! Recollect, however. Count, 
You sought this fatal interview I 

Sieg. I did : 

Let it not be more fatal still ! — Begone ! 

Gab. By the same path I enter'd ? 

Sieg. Yes ; that's safe still : 

But loiter not in Prague ; — you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well — 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Farewell. [Exit Gabor. 

Sieg. (solus and listening.) He hath clear'd the 
staircase. Ah ! I hear 
The door sound loud behind him I He is safe ! 

Safe ! — Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower; in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons 
drawn. 

Ulr. Dispatch I — he's there ! 

Lud. The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. (recognising Siegendorf.) You here, sir ! 

Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike I 

Ulr. (seeing him stripped of his jewels.) Where is 
the ruffian who hath pluuder'd you ? 
Vassals, dispatch in search of him ! You see 
'Twas as I said — the wretch hath stripp'd my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom .' 
Away ! I'll follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric 
What's this? 
Where is the villain? 

Sieg. There are two, sir : which 

Are you in quest of? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sieg. He's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

Ulr. Then fare you well ! 

[Ulric is going. 

Sieg. Stop ! I command — entreat — implore ! Oh, 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 

Ulr. Wliat ! remain to bo 

Denounced — dra^g'd, it may be, in chains ; and all 
By your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
Selfish remorse, and temporizing pity, 
That sacrifices your whole race to save 
A wretch to profit by our ruin ! No, count, 
Henceforth you have no son ! 

Sieg. I never had one ; 

And vs'ould you ne'er had borne the useless name . 
Where will you go? I would not send you forth 
Without protection. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



385 



Ulr. Leave that unto me 

I am not alone ; nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains ; a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
Swords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieg. The foresters I 

With whom the Hungarian found you first at Frank- 
fort ! [tell 

Ulr. Yes — men — who are worthy of the name I Go 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
With Wallenstein ! 

Enter Josephine and Ida. 

Jos. What is't we hear? My Siegendorf! 

Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 

Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father 

Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 



What 



That you have given birth 



Jos. 

Means my good lord ! 

Sieg. 
To a demon ! 

Ida. {taking Ulric's hand.) Who shall dare say 
this of Ulric? 

Sieg. Ida, beware ! there's blood upon that hand 

Ida. {stooping to kiss it.) I'd kiss it off, thoug;h it 
f were mine. 

Sieg. It is so 1 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God! 

And I have loved this man ! 

[Id\ falls senseless — Josephine stands speech- 
less -with horror. 

Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

Them both ! — My Josephine ! we are now alone ! 
Would we had ever been so ! — Ail is over 
For me ! — Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 
Thy curse hath cog it deeper for thy sou 
In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS: 

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.' 



Virginibus puerisque canto. — Horace, lib. iii Ode 1. 
M>Jt' Sp lis fxdX' aivu, fi^Tt Ti vtlKti. — Homek, Iliad, x. 249 
He whistled as he went, for want of thought.— Dryden. 



TO 

THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK. EARL OF CARLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC. 
THE BECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN," 

THE AUTHOR 



PREFACE.^ 

In submitting to the public eye the following collec- 
tion, I have not only to combat the difficulties that 
writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur 
the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the 
world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, 
more usefully employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours 
of a young man who has lately completed his nine- 
teenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a 
boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
Some few were written during the disadvantages of 



1 [First published in 1807 ] 

2 [Isabella, the daughter of WiUiam, fourth Lord Byron, 
(great-great uncle of the Poet,) becanne, in 1742, the wife of 
Henry, fourth Earl of Carlisle, and was the mother of tho 
filth Earl, to whom this dedication was addiessed. Tins 



illness and depression of spirits: under the former in- 
fluence, " Childish Recollections," in particular, 
were composed. This consideration, though it cannot 
excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm 
of censure. A considerable portion of these poems 
has been privately printed, at the request and for the 
perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial 
and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle 
is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be 
estimated, yet, " to do greatly," we must " dare great- 
ly ;" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings 
in publishing this volume. " I have passed the Ru- 
bicon," and must stand or fall by the " cast of the 



lady was a poetess in her way. The Fairy's Ans7:er tc Mrs 
Greville's " Prayer of Indifference, " in Pearch's CoJettionj 
is usually ascribed to her.] 

3 [This Preface was omitteC in the second edition ] 



49 



380 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a 
murmur ; for, though not without solicitude for the 
fato of these effusions, my expectations are by no 
means sanguine. It is probable that I may have 
dared much and done httle ; for, in the words of 
Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please 
our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to 
bo a little biased in our favor, and another to write 
what may please everybody ; because they who have 
uo connection, or even knowledge of the author, will 
be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth of 
this, however, I do not wholly subscribe : on the con- 
trc^ry, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be 
treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess 
any, will be liberally allowed : their numerous faults, 
on the othei hand, cannot expect that favor which has 
been denied to others of maturer years, decided char- 
acter, and far greater ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less 
have I studied any particular model for imitation : 
some translations are given, of which many are para- 
phrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a 
casual coincidence with authors whose works I have 
been accustomed to read ; but I have not been guilty 
of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing en- 
tirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be an 
Herculean task, as every subject has already been 
treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is 
not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments 
of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, 
urged me " to this sin :" little can be expected from 
so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it 
must be, is all I shall derive from these productions ; 
and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, 
or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where 
I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in 
my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on 
the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, 
had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a 
residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with 
genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advan- 
tages. But they derive considerable fame, and a 
few not less profit, from their productions ; while I 
shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly 
without the latter, and in all probability with a very 
slight share of the former. I leave to others " virum 
volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear 
with patience " dulce est desipere in loco." To the 
former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope 
of immortality, and content myself with the not very 
magnificent prospect of ranking amongst " the mob 
of gentleman who write ;" — my readers must deter- 
mine whet. 3" I dare say "with ease," or the honor 
of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue of Royal 
and Noble Authors," — a work to which the Peerage 
is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names 
of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are there- 
by rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
shadows several voluminous productions of their il- 
lustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 



1 The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received 
the meed of public applause, to which, by their Intrinsic 
worth, they were well entitled. 

a [The passage referred to by Lord Byron occurs in Bos- 
wcU's Life of Jolinson. vol. viii. p. 91, ed. 1S35. Dr. John- 
M>u's leliT to Mrs. Chapone, criticising, on the whole 
fevoreUy, Ih'^ Earl's tragedy of " The Father's Revenge," 
is inserted in he same volume, p. 242.] 



first and last attempt. To the dictates of young am- 
bition may be ascribed many actions more crii.iinal 
and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the 
contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, 
at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbalie, 
from my situation and pursuits hereafter, tliat I shouM 
6ver obtrude myself a second time on the public ; 
noi, even, in the very doubtful event of present 
indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future 
trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. 
Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,' 
" That when a man of rank appeared in the character 
of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsome- 
ly allowed,"^ can have little weight with verbal, and 
still less with periodical censors ; but were it otherwise, 
I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and 
would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous 
criticism, than triumph in honors granted solely to a 
title. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A ^OUNG LADY. 

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AKD VERY DEAR TO HIM.' 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom. 
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 

That clay, where once such animation beam'd ; 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal. 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep ? Her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign. 
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear. 

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear. 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 

1802.1 



3 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more foi 
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection ; but ao 
it was written at an earlier period than the rest, (being com- 
posed at the age of fourteen,) and his first essay, he pre- 
ferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in ita 
present state, to making either addition or alteration. 

* ["My first dash into poetry was as early as 1 800. Itwastlio 
ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Paikei 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



387 



TO fi .' 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and n- J in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined 

And though unequal is thy fate. 
Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet. 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 

Since worth of rank supplies the place 

November, 1802. 



TO D ." 

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 

Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast forever. 

True, she has forced thee from my breast. 
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 

When life again to dust is given, 
On-thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 

Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 

February, 1803. 



(daughter and grand-daughter of the two Admirals Parker,) 
one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long 
forgotten the verse ; but it would be difficult for me to forget 
her — her dark eyes— her long eyelashes— her completely 
Greek cast of face and figure : I was then about twelve — 
she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or 
two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her 
spine, and induced consumption. Her sister Augusta, (by 
some thought still more beautiful.) died of the same mala- 
dy ; and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met 
with the accident which occasioned her death. My sister 
told me, that when she went to see her, shortly before 
her death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, Margaret 
colored, throughout the paleness of mortality, to the eyes, 
to the great astonishment of my sister, who knew nothing 
of our attachment, nor could conceive wliy my name should 
affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her illnesi; — 
being at Harrow and in the country — till she was gone. 
Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy— a very 
dull one. I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the 
transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her 
temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She looked 
as if she had been made out of a rainbow— al,l beauty and 
peace." — Byron Diaiy, 1821 ] 

' [This little poem, and some others in the collection, 
refer to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of his 
tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic 
attachment, of earlier date than any of his school friend- 
ships.] 

2 [Lord Delawarr. The idea of printing a collection of 
his Poems first occurred to Lord Byron in the parlor of that 
cottage, which, during his visit to Southwell, had become 
his adopted home. Miss Pigot, who was not before aware 
of his turn for versifying, had been reading alcud the Poems 
of Burns, when young Byron said, that "h.- too, was a 
poet sometimes, and would write down for her some verses 
of his own which he remembered." He then, with a pencil, 
vyrote these lines, " To D — ." A facsimile of the first four 
lines of this pencilling fronts p. 1.] 

3 [This poem appears to have been, in its original state, 
intended to commemorate tlie death of the same lowly-born 
youth, to wl:om the affectionate verses given in the opposite 
column were addresse 1 : — 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.' 

'AoT^p Trpiv nev eXa/zirtf hi ^lao'tcriv fwof. — Laeetius 

Oh, Friend ! forever loved, forever dear ! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honoi'd b or , 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death .' 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sigla 
Thy comrade's honor ana thy fweud's delight. 
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Hero wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief *oo deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No marbib marks thy couch of lowly sleep. 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheor, 
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
But, who with me shall hold thy former place ? 
Thine image, what new friendship can efface ? 
Ah ! none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 
Time will assuage an infant brother's wo ; 
To all, save one, is consolatioii Auown, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 



1803 



" Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," &c. 

But, in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this pas- 
sage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank 
of his young companion, is omitted ; while, in the added 
parts, the introducti<m of such language as — 

" What though thy sire lament his failing line," 

seems calculated to give an idea of the youth's station 
in life, wholly diflferent from that which the whole tenor 
of the original Epitaph warrants. " That he grew more 
conscious," says Mr. Moore, " of his high station, as lie 
approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish 
to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may 
have been a result of that feeling." The following is a 
copy of the lines as they first appeared in the private 
volume : — 

" Oh, Boy ! forever loved, forever dear ! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to tliy parting breath, 
While thou wast struggling in the i>angs of death ! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 
Could youth and virtue cla'm a short delay. 
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight. 
Thy comrade's honor, and thy friend's deliglit 
Tkous^h low thy lot, since in a cottage born, 
No titles did thy humble name adorn. 
To me, far dearer luas thy artless love 
Than ail the joys wealth, fame, and friends could pro oe 
For thee alone 1 lived, or wish'd to live , 
Oh God ! if impious, this rash word forgivo ! 
Heart-broken now, 1 wait an equal doom, 
Content to join thee m thy turf-clad tomb , 
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest, 
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast • 
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head. 
Will yet receive me mouldering with the 'lead : 
This life resign'd, without one parting '.^n. 
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie I 
Together share the fate to mortals given: 
Together mix our dust, and hope for heave n."'] 



388 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A FRAGMENT. 

When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 

Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 

When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 

Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 

Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns 

To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 

No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; 

My epitaph shall bo my name alone ;' 

If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 

Oh ! may no other fame my deeds -''.pay ! 

That, only that, shall single out the spot ; 

By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 1803. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.' 

" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days* 
Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and 
the Dlast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." 

— OSSIAN. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds 
whistle ; 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay : 
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the 
way. 

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,' 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain, [rattle, 



' [Of the sincerity of this youthful aspiration, the Poet 
has left repeated proofs. By his will, drawn up in 1811, he 
directed, that "no inscription, save his name and age, 
should be written on his tomb ;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus 
to Mr. Murray :— " Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa 
cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more 
splendid monuments at Bblogna ; for instance— 
' Martini Luigi 

Implora pace.' 

Can any thing be more full of pathos ? I hope whoever 
may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put 
over me."] 

2 [The pri -'-y of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sher- 
wood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and 
dedicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of 
Henry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by 
a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the 
other poss.'.ssions of the Byron family. The favorite upon 
whom they were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the 
gallant soldier who fought by the side of Richmond at Bos- 
worlh, and is distinguished from the otlier knights of the 
.same Christian name, in the family, by tlie title of " Sir 
John Byron the Little, with the great beard." A portrait 
of this personage was one of the few family pictures with 
which the walls of the abbey, while in the possession of the 
Poet, were decorated.] 

3 [There being no record of any of Lord Byron's ancestors 
having been engaged in the Holy Wars, Mr. JMoore suggests, 
that the Poet may have had no other authority for this notion, 
than the tradition which he found connected with certain 
strange groups of heads, which are represented on the old 
panel-work in some of the chambers at Newstead. In one 
of these groups, consisting of three heads, strongly carved 
and projecting from the panel, the centre figure evidently 
represents a Saracen or Moor, with a European female on 
one side of him, and a Christian soldier on the other. In a 
second group, the female occupies the centre, while on 
either side is the head of a Saracen, with the eyes fixed 
earnestly upon her. Of the exact meaning of these figures 
there is nothing known ; but the tradition is, that they refer 
to a love adventure of the age of tlie Crusades.] 

4 [" In the park of Hor&eley," says Thoroton, " there was 
a castle, som^ of the ruins of which are yet visible, called 
Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de 
Bunir.'s successors."] 

» [Two of the famalv of Byron are enumerated as serving 



No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 
Raise a flame iu the breast for the war-laurell'd 
wreath ; 

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers ; 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy f 
For the safety of Edward and England they fell 

Mj^ fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
How you fought, how you died, still her annals can teU. 

On Marston,* with Rupert,' 'gainst traitors contendiiig, 
Four brothers tnrich'd with tlieir blood the bloak 
field ; 

For the rights of a monarch their country defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty yeal'd.* 

Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 

Abroad, or at home, your roiiejmliunce imparting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ue'or can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish ; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace .your renown : 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish : 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with yoiu 
own ! • 1803. 



with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III., and 
as among the knights who fell on the glorious fieldof Cressy.j 

6 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of 
Charles I. were defeated. 

' Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. 
He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II 

8 [Sir Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low 
Countries ; and, in the Great Rebellion, he was one of the 
first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle ol 
Edgehill, he was made colonel-general of Cheshire and 
Shropshire, and governor of Cliester. " He was," says Cla- 
rendon, " a person of great affability and dexterity, as well aa 
martial knowledge, which gave great life to the designs ol 
the well affected ; and, with the encouragement of some gen- 
tlemen of North Wales, he raised such a power of horse and 
foot, as made frequent skirmishes with the enemy sometimes 
with notable advantage, never with signal loss."— In 1643, 
Sir John Byron was Created Baron Byron of Rochdale in tin 
county of Lancaster; and seldom has a title been bestowe 
for such high and honorable services as those by which ht. 
deserved the gratitude of his royal master. Through almost 
every page of the History of the Civil Wars, we trace his 
name in connection with the varying fortunes of the king, 
and fin(> him faithful, persevering, and disinterested to the 
last. " Sir John Biron," says Mrs. Hutchinson, " afterwards 
Lord Biron, and all his brothers, bred up in arms, and valiant 
men in their own persons, were all passionately the king's." 
Wc find also, in the reply of Colonel Hutchinson, when 
governor of Nottingham, to his cousin-german Sir Richard 
Byron, a noble tribute to the chivalrous fidelity of the race. 
Sir Richard, having sent to prevail on his relative to sur- 
render the castle, received for answer, that " except he 
found his own heart prone to such treachery, he might con- 
sider there was, if nothing else, so much of a Byron's blood 
in him, that he should very much scorn to betray or quit a 
trust he had undertaken."— On the monument of Richard, 
the second Lord Byron, who lies buried in the chancel of 
IIucknal-Tokard church, there is tt 3 following inscription: 
— " Beneath, in a vault, is interred the body of Richard 
Lord Byron, who, with the rest of his family, being seven 
brothers, faithfully served King Charles the First in the civil 
wars, who suifered much for their loyalty, and lost all their 
present fortunes ; yet it pleased God so to bless the humble 
endeavors of the said Richard Lord Byron, that he re- 
purchased part of their ancient inheritance, which he left 
to his posterity, with a laudable memory for his great piety 
and charity."] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



389 



LINES 

WniTTKN IN " LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN 
ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED 
ON FACTS." 

'■'• AwAV, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simple hearts ; ~ 
And you will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS . 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 

From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 

Exist but in imagination, — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

For he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 

With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 

Thou'lt there descry that elegance, 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

Julv, 1804. 



ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 
DYING.i 

[Animula ! vagnla, blandula, 
Hospes comesque corporis, 
Qufe nunc abibis in loca — 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos 1] 

An! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humor gay. 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms. 
Securely vievps thy matchless channs, 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
That n.juth, from whence such music flows. 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembhng with a thousand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
My limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread. 
With deadly languor droops my head. 



1 [This and several httle pieces that follow anpear to be 
iriigraents of school exercises done a/, Harrow. 



My ears with tingling echoes ring. 
And life itself is on the win"-. 
My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath. 
And feels a temporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd. 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 

By Death's* unequal hand alike controU'd 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move . 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

" Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — lAh. 4. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast yoiur fickle bosom pleaso? 

Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain. 

That I might live for love and you again: 

But now I scarcely shall Dewail my fate ; 

By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS 

[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c ] 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head. 
Nor let your wings with joy be spicad. 
My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
For he was gentle, and so true. 
Obedient to her call he flew. 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom movea. 

And softly fluttering here and there. 
He never sought to cleave the air. 
But cherup'd oft, and, free from care^ 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return. 
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! cursed be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no eartlily power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
Thou art the cause of all her wo. 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS 



Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 



"^ The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unecual, as 
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. 



390 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Naught should my kiss from thine dissever; 
Still would we kiss, and kiss forever ; 
E'en though the number did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavor : 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never ! 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

[Justum et tenacem propositi v.Tum, &c.] 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamors can control ; 
No threal'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main. 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above. 
With all his terrors there unfurl'd. 

He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an expiring world. 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd. 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. 



FROM ANACREON. 

fGAo) Xsyuv ArpctSas, k, t. X.] 

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell. 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
V^'hen Atreus' sons advanced to war. 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown. 
My lyre recurs to love alone : 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung , 
My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
To tell the tale my heart must feel : 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
Li songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



FROM ANACREON. 

[MtiTovvKnatj ttoS' woais, k. t. X.] 

TwAS now the hour when Night had <lrivbu 

Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seem'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep. 

Forgot *Q smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this jone hour, the Paphian boy. 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my bless'd repose ?^ 

" Alas !" replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

" A hapless infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering baby who can fear?" 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe. 

But felt for all the baby's wo. 

I drew the bar, and by the light, 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 

Hio bow across his shoulders flung. 

And thence his fatal quiver hung, 

(Ah ! little did I think the dart 

Would rankle soon within my heart.) 

With care I tend my weary guest. 

His little fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing. 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring ; 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm. 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipp'd, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ? 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF 
^SCHYLUS. 

[M)j5a//' b TtdvTa vifiuiv, k.t. X] 

Great Jove, to whose almighty thron 
Both gods and mortals homage pay, 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown. 
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 

My voice shall raise no impious strain 
Gamst him who rules the sky and azuro '.nam. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



891 



IIow difFerent now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Ilesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushinff beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor }'et thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless 
frown'd.^ 

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. 



TO EMMA. 



Since now the hour is come at last. 

When you must quit your anxious lover ; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past. 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe, 

Which bids us part to meet no more ; 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well ! we have pass'd some happy hours, • 
And joy will mingle with our tears ; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height. 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell ; 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 
We hngering look a last farewell, 

O'er fields through which wo used to run. 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss. 
Forgot to scare the hovering fliea 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes 

See still the little painted bark. 

In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elja I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved. 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; 

This is of love the final close. 

Oh God ' tlie fondest, last adieu ! 



} ["My first Harrow verses, (that is, Enghsh, as exer- 
cises,) a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of 
^schylnS; were receivad by Dr. Drury, my grand patron 



TO M. S. G 

Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows ! 

Yet is the daring wish repress'd ; 
For that, — would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searchmg eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear ; 

Yet I conceal my love, — and why? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine. 
United by the priest's decree : 

By any ties but those divine. 

Mine, my beloved, thou lae'er shalt be 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 

With joy I court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart. 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; 

Rather than such a sting impart. 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
Morfe than I liere shall dare to tell ; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 

Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach — but thy disgrace*. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free. 
No matron shall thy shame reprove ; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me. 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAROLINE 

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes. 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs. 
Which said far more than words can say! 

Though keen the grief thy tears express'd, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast ^ 
Throbb'd v/ith deep sorrow as thine own 



(our head master) but coolly. No one had, at that time the 
least notion that I should subside into poesy." — Byron 
Diary. 



392 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But M'hen our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 

The tears that from my eyehds flow'd 
Wore lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame ; 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In signs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE. 



When I hear you express an affection so varm. 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze. 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining. 
Prove nature a prey to decay qnd disease. 

'Tis thii^, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my 
features. 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree. 
Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, 

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake no't, swoet skeptic, the cause of emotion, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover inVade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, toon or late shall o'ertake us, 
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy 
glow. 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead iu earth's bosom laid low, — 

Oh ! then Set us drain, while wc may, draughts of 
pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow ; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss iu full measure. 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

1805. 



1 [Lord Strangford's translations of Camoens' Amatory 
Poems, Verses, and Little's Poems, are meiiiioned by Mr 
Moore as having been at this period the lavoritc study of 
Lord Byron. 1 

2 [" The latter years of Camoens p-esent a incrrnful pic- 
ture, not merely of irdividual ca.aini-.v, but of n.' ional m- 
gratitiide He whose sBst years had l)een devote i to the 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrows 7 
Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from tlijs 
clay? 

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
But brings, with now torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss ; 

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 

bright'ning. 

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream 

could assuage, [lightning, 

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its 

With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing. 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
LifeTjeams not for us with one ray that can cheer; 

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ; 
In the grave is our hope, for iii life is our fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
Since, in life, love and friendship forever are fled? 

If sgain in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.* 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize, 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never can despise 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
The old and disappointed maid ; 

Or pupil of the prudish school. 
In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
Like his, may love be thy reward. 

But not thy hapless fate the same" 



service of nis country, he who had taught her literary fame 
to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and wlio seeniea 
born to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lu- 
sian heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, 
a wretched dependant on casual contribution One friend 
alone remained tc smooth hi^ downward path, and guide hid 
steps to the grav 3 with gentleness and consolation. It was 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



393 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 

'A BapSiToi Se xop^'^^i 

'Eflura fiovi'ov ^X£i. Anacreon 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. 

Ye rhvmersj s^hcse bosoms with fantasy glow, 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love ! 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art ! 

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- 
prove, 
I court the eff'usions that spring from the heart. 

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes. 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can moTj^ : 

Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 

What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? 

Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth. 

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
pass'd — 

For years ffeet away with the wings of the dove — 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT 
PUBLIC SCHOOL.* 

Where are those honors, Ida ! once your own, 
When Probus^ fiU'd your magisterial throne ? 



Antonio, his slave, a native of Java, who had accompanied 
Camoens to Europe, after having rescued him from the 
waves, when shipwrecked at the mouth of the Mecon. 
Tins faithful attendant was wont to seek alms throughout 
Lisbon, and at night shared the produce of the day with his 
pool and broken-hearted master. But his ir jr.dship was 
employed in vam. Camoens sank beneath the pressure of 
penury and disease, and died ij. an almshouse ear./ in the 
year 1579. — Strangford.] 

1 [In Mtrch, 1805, Dr. Drury retired from his situation 
of head-master at Harrow, and was succeeded by Dr. 
Butler.] 

5 [" Dr. Drurj', whom I plagued sufficiently, was the best, 
the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had ; and I 
look upon him still as a father." — Byron Diary.] 

3 [" At Harrow I was a most unpopular boy, but led lat- 
terly, and have retained many of my school friendships, and 
till my dislikes— except to Dr. Butler, whom I treated rebel- 
Uously, and have been sorry ever since." — Byron Diary. — 
The reconciliation which took place between him and Dr 
Butler, before his departure for Greece, in 1809, is, says Mr. 
Moore, " one of those instances of placability and piiable- 
ness with which his life abounded. Not content with this 
, private atonement to the Doctor, it was his intention, had 
nc published another edition of the Hours of Idleness, to 
substitute, for the offensive veises against that gentleman, 



As ancient Rome, fast felling to disgi-ace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Caesar's place. 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus^ holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause. 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida I soon must stamp your doom : 
Like her o'eii; rown, forever lost to fame. 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 

July, 1805 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.* 

Dorset !* whose early steps with mine have stray'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend. 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command f 
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
The gift of riches, and the pride of power ; 
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control. 
Though passive tutors,' fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, " that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ;" 
Believe them not ; — they point the path to sharne, 
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 



a frank avowal of the wrong he had been guilty of in giving 
vent to them."] 

* In looking over my papers to select a few additional 
poems for tins second edition, I found the above lines, which 
I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1605, a 
short time previous to my departure from Harrow. They 
were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who 
had been my frequent companion in some rambles through 
the neighboring country : however, he never saw the lines, 
and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found 
them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I 
have now published them, for the first time, after a slight 
revision. 

6 [George-John-Frederick, fourth Duke of Dorset, born 
November 15, 1793. This amiable nobleman was killed by 
a fall from his horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 
22, 1815, being on a visit at the time to his mother, the 
duchess-dowager, and her second husband, Charles Earl of 
Whitworth, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.] 

6 At every pubhc school the junior boys are completely 
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in tho 
higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, 
no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period, they com- 
mand in turn those who succeed 

7 Allow me to disclaim any personal allusion?, even the 
most distant : I merely mention generally what 's too often 
the weakness of preceptors. 



394 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Turn to the few in Ida's earljr throng, 

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 

Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth. 

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 

Ajsk thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear; 

For Will I know that virtue lingers there. 

Ym ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
Hut now new scenes invite me far away ; 
Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, wild. 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favorite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 
Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While naught divides thee from the vulgar dead. 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head. 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 
Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep, unn(6ticed as the gloomy vaults 
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread. 
In records destined never to be read. 
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
Exalted more among the good and wise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue. 
As first in rank, the first in talent too : 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest sou. 

Turn to the annals of a former day ; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 
And call'd, proud boast I the British drama forth.' 
Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Nine ; 
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
Far, far dis'"nguish'd from the glittering throng. 
The pride c princes, and the boast of song.'' 
Such v/ere thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 
Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 



1 r" Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was bom in 1527 
While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy 
of Gorboduc, which was played before Queen Elizabeth at 
Whitehall, in 1561. His tragedy, and his contribution of the 
Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the 
" Mirror for Magistrates," compose the poetical history of 
Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was 
created Eari of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at 
the council table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain." 
Campbell ] 

2 [Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637, and 
died in 1TU6. He was esteemed the most accomplished 
man of his day, and alike distinguished in the voluptuous 
court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He 
Dehaved with considerable gallantry in the sea-fight with 
the Dutch in 1665 ; on the day previous to which he is said 
to have composed his celebrated song, To all you Ladies now 
at Land. His character has been drawn in the highest col- 
ors by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.] 

"I have jist been, or rather ought to be, very much 



Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were 

mine: 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow-'s hue, 
And gild their pinions as the mogients flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd avi'ay. 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell 
Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere, 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate. 
May one day claim our suifrage for the state. 
We henct may meet, and pass each other by, 
With fain regard, or cold and distant eye. 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or wo. 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 
If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd strain, — 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fato 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.' 

1805. 



FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRI.\GE OF MISS CHA- 
WORTH. 

Hills of Annesley ! bleak and barren. 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring. 
Howl above thy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling. 

Former favorite haunts I see ; 
Now no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.* 

1805. 



shocked by the death of the Duke of Dorset. We were at 
school together, and there I was passionately attached to 
him. Since, we have never met, but once, 1 think, since 
1805 — and it would be a paltry affectation to pretabd that I 
had any feeling for him worth the name. But there was a 
time in my life when this event would have broken my heart ; 
and all I can say for it now is — that it is not worth breaking. 
The recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt 
now, but could not, set me pondering, and finally into the 
train of thought which you have in your hands."— iJyron Let- 
ters, 1815. — The Verses referred to were those melancholy 
ones, beginning, — " There's not a joy the world can give, 
like those it takes away."] 

* [The circumstances which lent so peculiar an interest to 
Lord Byron's introduction to the family of Chaworth, a e 
sufficiently explained in the " Notices of his Life." " The 
young lady herself combined," says Mr Moore, " with the 
many worldly advantages that encircled her. much personal 
beauty, and a dispcsition the most amiable and attaching. 
Though al .eady fu] y alive to her charms, itwas at thisptricxi 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



395 



GRANTA. A Medley. 

'Apyvp/utj \6yxaicn /xcixov Koi jravra Kparj/cratf 

Oh ! could Le Sage's' demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St. Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof 'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight. 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
Who canvass there with all tlieir might, 

Against the next elective day.^ 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie' 

All lull'd iu sleep, a goodly number: 

A race renown'd for piety, 

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber 

Lord H ,* indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom, — now and then. 

They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal : 
Each hopes that one may be his lot, 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, unheeded and unseen, 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet early rise& 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honors of his college. 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan precisely metres attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic : 



(1804) that the young poet seems to have drunk deepest of 
that fascination whose effects were to be so lasting; six short 
weeks which he pr -?ed in her company being sufficient to 
lay the foundation oi s. feeling for all life. With the summer 
holidays ended this dream of his youth. He saw Miss Cha- 
worth once more in the succeeding year, and took his last 
farewell of her on that hill near Annesley, which, in his 
poem of ' The Dream,' he describes so happily as ' crowned 
with a peculiar diadem.' " In August. 1805, she was married 
to John Musters. Esq. ; and died at Wiverton Hall, in Feb- 
ruary, 1832, in consequence, it is believed, of the alarm and 
danger to which she had been exposed during the sack of 
Colwick Hall by a party of rioters from Nottingham. The 
unfortunate lady had been in a feeble state of health for 
several years, and she and her daughter were obliged to 
take shelter from the violence of the mob in a shrubbery, 
where, partly from cold, partly from terror, her constitution 
sustained a shock which it wanted vigor to resist.] 

' The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the 
demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and 
unroofs the houses for inspection. 

» [On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry 



Who reads false quantities in Seale,' 

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 

In barbarous Latln^ doom'd to wrangle : 

Renouncing t, reiy pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter'd sage. 

The square of the hypotiienuae * 

Still, harmless are these occupationSs 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared with other recreations. 

Which bring together the imprudent ; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight. 

When vice and infamy combine, 
When drunkenness and dice invite, 

As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay: 
In humble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exulta;ion in their trial. 
Detracts most argely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'Tis mom : — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,* 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'Tis hush'd: — what sounds are these I hear? 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song. 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croakinsr sinners. 



Petty and Lord Palmerston were candidates to represent 
the University of Cambridge in parliament.] 

3 [In the private volume, the fourth and fifth stanzas ran 
thus : — 

" One on his power and place depends, 
The other on— the Lord knows what ! 
Each to some eloquence pretends, 
Though neither will convince by that. 

" The first, indeed, may not demur ; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men," &c.] 

4 [Edward-Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke. His lord- 
ship died in 1824.] 

5 Scale's publication on Greek Metros displays considerable 
talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expoctedin so difficult 
a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. 

•J Xhe Latin of the schools is of the canine species, tnd not 
very intelligible. 

' The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hy- 
pothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a 
right-angled triangle. 

8 On a saint's day, the students wet j surplices m chapel. 



390 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If David, when his toils were ended, 

Had heard these blockheads slug before him, 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
. In furious mood he would have tore 'em 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken. 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear 

But if I scribble longer now. 

The deuce a soul will stay to read 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
'Tis almost, time to stop, indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires! 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires: 

The reader 's tired, and so am I. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE 
AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

Oh ! mihi preetcritos referat si Jupiter annos. — Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 

Whe-re science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last ;* 

WTiere fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported. 

The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought -^ [sortf d. 

The school where, loud wam'd by the bell, we re- 
To pour o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd. 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone' I lay ; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd. 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators sur- 
rounded. 
Where, as Zanga,* I trod on Alonzo o'orthrown ; 



1 [" My school-friendships were with me passions, (for I 
was always violent;) but I do not know that there is one 
which has endured (to be sure some have been cut short by 
death) till now."— iiyron Diary, 1821.] 

» [" At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost 
but one battle out of seven." — Ibid.'} 

3 [They show a tomb in the churchyard at Harrow, com- 
manding a view over Windsor, which was so well known 
to be his favorite resting-place, that the boys called it " By- 
lon's Tomb ;" and here, ihey say, he used to sit for hours, 
wrapped up in thought.] 

< [For the display of his declamatory powers, on the 
Epeech-days, he selected always the most vehement pas- 
sages ; such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, 
and Lear's address to the storm.] 



While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossop'' himself was outshone* 

Or, as Lear, T pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived ; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits" and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you: 

Your pie.L.6ures may still be in fancy possess'd. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,'' 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through die course of the years wl ich await me 
Some new sceno of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate mc 
" Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew !" 



TO M . 

On ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
With bright but mild aff'ection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam. 

We must admire, but still despair ; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone. 

She fear'd that, too divine for earth. 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, ^ 
Lest angels might dispute the prize, 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes 

These might the boldest sylph appal. 
When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 

'Tis said that Berenice's hair 

In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou vvouldst so far outshine the sevea 



6 Mossop, a cotemporary of Garrick, famous for his per- 
formance of Zanga. 

6 [" My grand patron, Dr. Drury, had a great notion that 1 
should turn out an orator, from iny fluency, my turbulence, 
my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my action." 
— Byron Diary.] 

' [In the private volume the two last stanzas ran — 
" I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness. 
Of tears, as of reason, forever was drain'd ; 
But the drops which now flow down this bosom o' sadness, 
Convince me the springs have some moisture retaiii'd 
" Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection 
Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long Ueiid, 
In torrents the tears of my ^'. armest affection, 
The last and the fondest I ever shall shed."] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



397 



For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 

E'en suns, which systems now control, 

Would twinkle dimly through their sphere,' 



1806 



TO WOMAN. 

Woman ! experience might have told me. 

That all must love thee who behold thee : 

Surely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest pronf'ses are naught : 

But, placed in all thy charms before me. 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh memory ! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing ; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion 's over ! 

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How throbs the pulse when first wo view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from mider hazel brows I 

How quick we credit every oath. 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 

When lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will forever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."^ 



TO M. S. G. 



When I dream that you lovo me, you'll sursly forgive ; 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your afTection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 

They tell lis that slumber, the sister of death, 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 

If this be a foretaste of heaven I 

All ! frown not, swet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem mo too nappy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smilte. 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient I 
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile. 

To awake will bo torture sufBcient. 



' "Two of the fairest stars m all the heaven, 
Having some business, do intreat her eyes. 
To twinkle in tlieir spheres till they return." — Shaks. 

^ The last line is almost a literal translation from a Span- 
ish proverb. 

' COf this " Mary,'' who is not to be confounded with the 
nencss of Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen, all that has 
been ascertained is, that she was of an humble, if not equiv-- 



TO MARY, 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE ' ^ 

This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms. 
Revives my hopes, and bids mo live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The .. -eeks which spnuig from beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace — ah, no 1 that eye, 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire. 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retii* 

Here I behold m beauteous hue ; 

But where's the beam so sweetly straving,* 
Which gave a lustre to its blue. 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playiuff? 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me. 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be 

Save her who placed thee ne.xt my neart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill 
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; [cheer; 

In life's last conflict 'twill appear. 
And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 



Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged. 
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow r^o cares have cross'd ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older. 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age. 

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love ! 
. And now new thoughts our minds engage, 
At least I feel disposed to stray, love I 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 

I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same. 
Caprice must be my only reasoji. 



ocal, station ;n life,— and that she had long light golden 
hair, " of which," says Mr. Moore, " the Poet used to show 
a iock, as well as her picture, among his friends. "J 

4 [In the private volume — 

But Where's the beam of soft desire 1 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
Love, only love, could o'er inspire ] 



398 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I do not, love ! easpect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not • 
Warm was the passion of my youth, 
. One trace of dark deceit it leaves not 

No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 

For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
And — though our dream at last is ended— 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
The forgo of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may pi-ove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two 
IMies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a 
Bullet hissing near them ; to one of whom the following 
stanzas were addressed the next morning.J' 

Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms. 

And hurtling" o'er thy lovely head. 

Has fdl'd that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Vcx'd to behold such beauty here, 

Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
Diverted from its first career. 

Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 

The bull obey'd some hell-born guide ; 

But Heaven, with interposing power, 
In pity turn'd the death aside 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 

Upon that thriliuig bosom fell ; 
Whicli I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 

Extracted from its glistening cell: 

Say, what dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne. 
What punishment wilt thou decree? 

■ Might I perform the judge's part, 

The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 

It only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou shalt be all in all to me. 



1 [The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beau- 
tiful lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Hou- 
bon.] 



But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
Naught shall thy dread decree prevent , 

Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 

Aft, 6' ati fit (fitvyu. — Anacueon. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 

Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent 
dew, 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife. 
Or prunes them forever, in love's last adieu ! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart. 
In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu I 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
breast, 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's repress'd, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh I mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs ae 
they grew ; 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth. 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? 

Yet why do I ask? — .o distractioB a prey, 

Thy reason has perish'd with love'e last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew ; 

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in phrensy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapp'd la 
steel I 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few. 
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel. 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

Youth flies; life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blL5t J 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu I 



2 This word is used by Gray, in his poem to the Fatal 
Sisters : — 

" Iron sleet of arrowT^ shower 
Hurtles through the darken'd air." 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



399 



In thi3 life of probation for rapture divine, 

Aslrea declares tliat some penance is due ; 
From him wlio has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
' Must mj-rtlft and cypress alternately strew : 
His myrtle, ai. emblem of purest delight ; 
His cypress the garland of love's last adieu ! 



DAM^TAS. ' 

In law an infant,* and in years a boy, 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ; 

Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin, 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul. 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane.'' 



TO MARION. 

Marion ! why that pensive brow? 

What disgust to life hast thou? 

Change that discontented air ; 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'Tis not love disturbs thy rest. 

Love's a stranger to thy breast ' 

H'e in dimpling smiles appears 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 

Or bends the languid eyelid down, 

But shuns tlie cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire, 

Some will love, and all admire ; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

Naught but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And flying off in search of reason. 

Brings prudence back in proper season. 



' In law every person is an infant who has not attained 
Vhe age of twenty-one. 

2 [" When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the age of 
seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a 
Qogree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow — wretched at 
going toCambrulge instead of Oxford— wretched from some 
wivate domestic circumstances of different kinds ; and, 
consequently, about as unsocial as a vvolf taken from the 
troop."— yjjary. Mr. Moore adds, " The sort of life which 
young Byron led at this period, between the dissipations of 
London and of Cambridge, without a home to welcome, or 
even the roof of a single relative to receive liim, was but 



All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 

Were form'd for better things than sneering 

Of smoothing compliments divested, 

Advice at least 's disinterested fl> 

Such is my artless song to thee. 

From all the flow of flattery free ; 

Counsel like mine is like a brother's : 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, unskill'd to cozen. 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not 

This warning, though it may delight not ; 

And, List my precepts be displeasing 

To tho.«e who think remonstrance teasing, 

At once I'll tell thee our opinion 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

Howe'er we gaze witii admiration 

On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 

Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 

Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 

Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 

These cannot fix our souls to love : 

It is not too severe a stricture 

To say they form a pretty picture ; 

But wouldst thou see the secret chain 

Which binds us in your humble train. 

To hail you queens of all creation, 

Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR 
BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT 
IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.' 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
In firmer chains our hearts confine. 
Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense love orations. 
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it, 
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
Then wherefore siiould we t-gh and whine, 
With groundless jealousy repine. 
With silly whims and fancies frantic, 
Merely to make our love romantic ? 
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 
And fret with self-created anguish, 
Or doom the lover you have chosen, 
On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 
In leafless shades to sue for pardon. 
Only because the scene 's a garden ? 
For gardens seem, by one consent. 
Since Shakspeare set the precedent. 
Since Juliet first.declared her passion 
To form the place of assignation.^ 



little calculated to render him satisfied either with himself 
or the world. Unrestricted as he was by deference to any 
will but his own, even the pleasures to which he was 
naturally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, for 
want of those best zests of all enjoyment — rarity and re- 
straint "] 

3 [See ante, p. 397, note.] 

•■ In the above little piece the author has been accused by 
some candid -iiders ol introducing the name of a lady from 
whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this 
was written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in "the 
tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a IriAing 



400 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oh ! would someonodem muse inspire, 
And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 
Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
He surely, in commiseration. 
Had changfd the place of declaration. 
Ill Italy I've no objection • 
Warm nights are proper for reflection ; 
But here our climate is so rigid. 
That love itself is rather frigid 
Think on our chilly situation, 
And curb this rage for imitation ; 
sThen let us meet, as oft we've done, 
Boneath the influence of the sun ; 
Or, if at midnight I must meet you. 
Within your mansion let me greet you : 
There we can love for hours together. 
Much better, in such snowy weather, 
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
Thut ever witness'd rural loves ; 
Then, if my passion fail to please. 
Next night I'll be content to freeze ; 
No more I'll give a loose to laughter, 
But curse my fate forever after.' 



OSCAR OF ALVA." 

A TALE. •^ 

How sweetly shines through azure skies. 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more. 

But often has yon rolling moon 

On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd : 

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath. 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow. 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
She sav7 the gasping warrior low ; 

While many du eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plaiu. 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They bless'd her dear propitious light ; 

But now she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race. 

And gray her towers are seen afar ; 



alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in 
a garden of their own creation, during the month of De- 
cember, in a village where the author never passed a winter. 
Such has been the candor of some ingenious critics. We 
would advise these liberal commentators on taste and 
arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare. 

1 Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure 
has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in 
a quotation from hu admired work, " Carr's Stranger in 
France."—" As we were contemplating a painting on a 
large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered 
whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who 
seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after hav- 
ing attentively siirveyed it through her glass, observed to 



No more her heroes urge the chase. 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

Bdt who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man. 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 

A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 
It rises hoarsely through the sky. 

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs. 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But there no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone (he sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer. 
The pibroch raised its piercing note •? 

To gladden more their highland cheer. 
The strains in martial numbers float : 

And they who heard the war-notes wild 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly pass'd. 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last. 

Nor. soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow. 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind. 
The boys in childhood chased the roe. 

And left their hounds in speed behind 

But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
The_> mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it streamed along the gale ; 

Biit Allan's locks were bright and fair. 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth , 
Allan had early learn'd control. 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 



her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that 
picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear, ' that 
the indecorum was in the remark.' " 

2 The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story 
of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of SchL- 
ler's " Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also bears some 
resemblance to a scene in the third act of " Macbeth." 

3 [Lord R/ron falls into a very common error, that of mis- 
taking pibroch, which means a particular sort of tune, for 
the instrument on which it is played, the bagpipe. AJmost 
every foreign tourist, Nodier, for example, does the same. 
The reader will find this little slip noticed in the article 
from the Edinburgh Review appended to these pages.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 401 


Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear 
Was sliiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 


Tliree days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 


■WTiile Allan's soul belied his form. 

Unworthy with such charms to dwell ; 

K3en as the lightning of the storm. 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 


" Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of Heav'a 
Restore the prop of sinking age ! 

Or if that hope no more is given. 
Yield his assai^u to my rage. 


From high Sonthannon'o distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 


" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God I I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 


And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 
And Angus on iiis Oscar smiled: 

It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvou's child. 


" Yet he may live, — away, despair! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear : 

God ! my impious prayer forgive. 


Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 


" What, if he live for me no more, 
I sink forgotten in the dust. 

The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 

Alas ! can pangs like these bs just ? 


See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 

Each youth his varied plaid assumes. 
Attending on their chieftain's call. 


Thus did the hapless parent moum, 
Till Time, which soothes severest wo, 

Had bade serenity return, 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 


It is not war their aid demands. 

The pibroch p ays the song of peace ; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 


For still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear ; 

His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 


But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 


Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
Ag^n had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 


At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
" Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 

« Is he not here?" the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade : 


For youthful Allan still remain'd, 
And now his father's only joy ; 

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd. 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 


" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 


She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's care. 


" Oh, no !" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
" Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? 


And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
And he would name their nuptial day. 


" Oh, search, ye chiefs i oh, search around ! 

Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haslj, nor dare attempt reply." 


Slow roll'd the moons, but bless'd at last 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling pass'd. 
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 


All is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murmuring gale. 

Till night expands her dusky wings ; 


Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 


It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain. 

It sounds through morning's misty light, 
Bnl. Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 


Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate cf AJ.va's halls 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 



51 



402 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But who is lie, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms ill tlie midst of general mirth? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

Tlio blue flames curdle o'er the hearth 

DarK is the robe which wraps his form, 
And tall his plume of gory red ; 

His voice is like the rising storm, 
But light and trackless is his tread 

'Tis noon of night, ihe pledge goes round,- 
The bridegioom's health is deeply quaff'd ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Annfus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tondeSr bosom blush'd 

" Old man !" he cried, " thia pledge is done ; 

Tiiou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me : 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 

" Alas !" the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
Tliis aged heart v;as almost broke. 

" Thrice lias the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my siglit ; 

And Allan is my last resource. 

Since martial Oscar's deatii or flight." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stem, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : 

" Tliy Oscar's fate I fain would leam ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return; 

Perchanee the chief has only rcved ; 
For him thy beltane yet may burn.* 

" Fill high the bowl the table round. 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
Pledge me departed Osca/? health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy I alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a sou like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

Bnl why does Allan trembling stand? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead. 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 



1 Bsltane Tree, a Ilig'iland festival on the first of May, 
heil near f.rcs lighted fur the occasion. iBcal-tain means 



The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to tasto ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

' And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here? 
If thus afFection's strength prevails. 
What might we not expect from fear?" 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 

" Would Oscar now could share our mirtli " 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 

" A murderer's voice !" the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 

The stranger's gone, — amidst the crew 
A form was seen in tartan green, 
• And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 
His plume of sable stream'd on high ; 

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low the knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground, 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 

The thunders through the welkin ring, [storm, 
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the 

Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel •j'^ased, 

Who lies upon the stony f.oor? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast. 

At length his life-pulse throbs ojce more. 

" Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes:" 

His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh I never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale : 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 



the fire of Baal, and the name still preser^ es the jrimeval 
origin of this Celtic superstition.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



403 



Ambition- nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart: 

While Envy waved her burning brand, 
And pour'd her venom round his heart 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low. 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move, 
She bade his wounded pride rebel ; 

Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Whicli rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twihght gloom ; 
Oh I tliat is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 

Which held liis clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave. 

For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard. 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied liand, 

His harp in shuddering chords would break 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air: 

A djing father's bitter curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there 



THE EPISODE OF NISrS AND EURYALUS, 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE J5NEID, LIB. IX. 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood. 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 

Well skiird in fight the quivering lance to wield, 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field: 

I'r'om Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 

And sought a foreign home, a distant gra' e. 

To watch the movements of the Dauniat, host, 

With him Euryalus sustains the post; 

No lovelier mipi' adorn'd tlie ranks jf I'roy, 

And beardless oloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 

As yet a novice in the martial strife, 

'Twas his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share — 

A soul lieroic, as his form was fair: 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 

In peace, in war, united still they move ; 

Priendship and glory form tlieir joint reward ; 

AlJ now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

" What god," exclaim'd the first, '• instils this fire ? 
Or, In itself a god, what great desiro ": 



My laboring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with ihis can ill accord, 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy lirnb ? 
Where confidence and ease tlie watch disdain, 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my tliought: — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief: 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine, 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine,) 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found ] 
Which pass'd, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
And lead .(Eneas from Evander's halls." 



With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy. 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy: — 
" These deeds, my Nisus, shall thou dare alone? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war! 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd iEneas through tlie walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear. 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath : 
The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, 
Thy heart beats .fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olyniius' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak ti'e truth, 
And clasp again the conu'ade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Siiould lay the friend who ever loved tliee low. 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me ; 
Whose manly arm may snatch me baok by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie. 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared. 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
" In ■ ain you damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; " it scorns control ! 
Hence, let us haste !" — their brother guards arose. 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wii'.g. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the k;:i^ 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And luU'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 



404 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Save where the Dardan leaders niglitly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Efch lean'd upon the lance he well could wield^ 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer sometliing to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 



" With patience" (thus Hyrlacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam. 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke. 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak I 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow. 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight. 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night 
Then shall iEneas in his pride return, 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream. 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 



Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, — 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, bo yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of eE.ch bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd: 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we be.stow, which you may not despise ? 
Our deities tne first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth; 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
iFaieas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates who my country love ! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown 
My sire secured them on that fatal day. 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 
Tw) massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave : 



But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down. 

When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown, 

The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 

Which Turnus guides with more than mortal epced, 

Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 

I pledge my word, irrevocably pass'd : 

Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive r'araes, 

To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 

And all the realms which now the Latins sway 

The labors of to-night shall well repay. 

But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 

Are near my own, whose worth my heart revert*, 

Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 

Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 

Without thy aid, no glory shall be mir.o; 

Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 

Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 

In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy. 



To him Euryalus: — " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 
But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart . 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line. 
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
Nor Troy nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now: 
Do thou, m)' prince, her failing age sustain. 
In thee her much loved child may live again ; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
Faster tht-n all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 
Such love was his, and such had been his wo. 
" All thou hasfask'd, receive," the prince replied; 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's' style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now, by n y life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
To thee I J. 'edge my full, my firmest troth. 
All the rewa-ds which ojice to thee were vow'd, 
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows 



1 The mother of lulus, lost on the niglit when Troy wus 
taken. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



405 



Ami'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 

To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 

More tlian a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 

lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 

His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale 1 



The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the night. 
Through sleeuing foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When sliall the sleep of many a foe be o'er? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with anns, are seen ; 
And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between : 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labor share: 
Hero lies our path ; lest any baud arise. 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dtjf, 
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe. 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting 

breast : 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
Could not avert his own imtimely fall. 
Nest Remus' armor-bearer, hapless, fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expire?., the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 
And, ladt, his lord is number'd with the dead : 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
From the swoH'n veins the blackening torrents pour ; 
Staiu'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire. 
And gay Serranua, fill'd with youthful fire ; 
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd ; 
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd. 
And till Au-ora's dawn his skill display'd- 

In slaughter d fold, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls: 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he reams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Yet wakeful Rhassus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast behind a jar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow. 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Now where Messapus dwelt thej' bend their way. 
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Bravo Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm. 
Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm . 



" Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last- 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 



With silver arms, with various art emboss'd. 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd. 
They leave regardless I yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps, they bend, 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 



Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay. 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led. 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night. 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 
" Stand, stragglers ! stand ! why early thus in arms? 
From whence, to whom ?" — He meets with no reply ? 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread, 
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 



With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene ; 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede. 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze. 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
" O God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left !" 
Listening he runs — above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare ? 
Ah ! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 
On Luna's orb he cast his phrensied eye : — 
" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou doigu'st to rove ; 



40G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd. 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing djirt he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze. 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven. 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes; 
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Buraing with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
" Thou youth accursed, thy life shall pay for all !" 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals. 
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies 
" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest! 
He cv uld not — durst not — Ic ihe guile confess'd ! 
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend: 
Spare, spare, yo chiefs ! from him your rage remove ; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."' 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earlli inclines his plume-clad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air. 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
Tlius, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 



But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
In vain beneath unnumbcr'd wounds he bleeds. 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies. 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found. 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond aftection proved — 
I ying, revenged the fate of him ho loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace. 



Celestial pair I if aught my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future day shall see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome ; 



» Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted 
CV I'.nn for the daugliler of Creon, king of tluil city. Tlie 
iboriis from v\ tiich tins is taken here addresses iVIedea ; 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES 

['EpajTEf iiirtp fjicv .iyav, K r. A.] 

When fierce conflicting passions urgo 

The breast where love is wont to glow. 
What mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human wo? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 

Can rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, the guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before 



But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possess'd, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast: 
If thus thou comest in disguise. 

Fair Venus I from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given f 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whoso creeping venom, sure and slow. 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Yd racking doubts ! ye jealous fears I 

With others wage internal war ; 
Re])entance, source of future tears, 

From me bo ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all the hours be wiug'd with joy. 

Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May ^with some fond lover sigh. 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die. 

My native soil ! beloved before. 
Now dearer as my peaceful home, 

Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
• A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 

This very day, this very hour, 

Miiy I resign this fleeting breath ! 

Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 
A doom to me far worse than death. 

Have I not heard the exile's sigh ? 

And seen the exile's silent tear, 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah ! hapless dame !' no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores. 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 
To fair afTe-'.tion's truth unknown. 

Bids her he fcridly loved depart, 
Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 



though a considerable liberty is taken wUh the origin.al, by 
expanding the idea, as also in some other pans of the trans- 
lation. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



407 



Who ne'er unlocks with silver key^ 
The milder treasures of his soul, — 

May such a friend he far from mo, 
And •ceau's storms between us roll ! 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION. 

Hioii in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus" his ample front sublime uproars : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god. 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapp'd in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproaeli to luckless fools, 
♦uskiU'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an Englisli line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers blec, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of Franco : 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the law of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made. 
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame. 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo I no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. -^ 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' AthEiN'ian's^ glowing style, or Tally's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd: 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 



I The original is " Kuda^Hv avoi^avTi K'XtjSa (ppcvdv," lite- 
ally, " disclosing the bright key of tlie mind." 

" No reflection is here intended against the person men- 
tioned under the n;une of Magnus. He is merely represent- 
ed as performing an unavoidable function of his office. In- 
deed, such an attempt could only recoil upon himself; as 
that gentleman is now as much distinguished by his elo- 
quence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his 
situation, as he whs in his younger days for wit and con- 
viviality —[Dr. William Mansel was, in 17y0, appointed to 
the headship of Trinity College, by Mr. Pitt. While a 
bachelor of arts, he distinguished himself as the author of 
several jcu.-r d'cspril. Dr. Jowett, of Trinity Hall, having 
amused both himself and the public, by a pretty little fairy 
garden, with narrow gravel w;ilks, besprinkled with shells 
and pellucid pebbles, and enclosed by a Chinese railing. 
Dr. Mansel wrote the following lines tliereon : — 
'•■ A little garden, little Jowett made, 
And fenced it with a little palisade ; 
If you would know the taste of little Jowett, 
This little garden won't a little show it." 
He was indebted to the influence of his pupil, the late Mr 
Perceval, for his subsequent promotion, in 1808, to the see 
of Brislo', He is supposed to have materially assisted in 
tlie " Pursuits of Literature." His lordship died at Trinity 
Lodge, in June, 1E20.J 

5 Demosthenes. 



No borrow'd grace of action must be seen 
The slightest motion would displease the Dean •,* 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must ill one posture stand, and ne'er look up ; 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Grauta's sluggirii shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy bank supino they lie 
Unknown, unhonor'd live, unwept for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls. 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls: 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts afTecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Person's^ note. 
More than the verso on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour f 
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head. 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 

1806. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again", 
Remembrance wil' 'hy form retain. 
I would not say, "I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 



« [In mo.'t colleges, the fellow who superintends the 
chapel service is called Dcan.'i 

6 The present Greek professor of Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge ; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, 
perhaps, justify their preference, fin a letter written in 
1818, Lord Byron says : — " I remember to have seen Porson 
at Cambridge, in the hall of our college, and in private par- 
ties ; and I never can recollect him exc'ept as drunk or bru- 
tal, and generally both : I mean in an evening , for in the 
hall, he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vicemaster's , 
— and he then and there appeared sober in his demeanor , 
but I have seen him, in a private party of undcr-graduates, 
take up a poker to them, and heard him use language as 
blackguard as his action. Of all the disgusting brutes, 
sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the most bestial, 
as far as the few times I saw him went. He was tolerated 
in this state amongst the young men for his talents ;-as the 
Turks think a madman inspired, and bear with him. He 
used to recite, or rather vomit, pages of all languages, and 
could hiccup Greek like a Helot : and cerlainljr Sparta 
never shocked her children with a grosser eiiliibition than 
this man's intoxication."] 

" Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his 
place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) 
the honor of representing the University. A fact so glaring 
requires no comment. [Lord Henry Petty is now (1S3G) 
Marquess of Lansdowne.] 



408 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more repress'd ; 
In vain I check tlie rising siglis, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 

And tells a tale it never feels: 

Deceit the guilty lips impart ; 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress. 

Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, Pll say. 

Thy form appears through night, through day ; 

Awake, witli it my fancy teems ; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray. 

For breaking slumbers of delight. 

Which make me wish for endless night. 

Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 

Shall joy or wo my steps await. 

Tempted by love, by storms beset, 

Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas I again no more we meet. 

No more our former looks repeat ; 

Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 

The dictate of my bosom's care : 

" May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 

That anguish never can o'ertake her ; 

That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 

But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ' 

Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 

To be, by dearest ties, related, 

For her each hour new joys discover. 

And lose the husband in the lover ! 

May that fair bosom never know 

What 'tis to feel the restless wo. 

Which stings the soul with vain regret, 

Of him who never can forget !'" 



1 ll' liese verses were written at Harrowgate, in Aug. 1 806.] 

2 [The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord Byron 
by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical 
talents first introduced him to the young poet's acquaint- 
ance, and for whom he appears to have entertained, subse- 
quently, a sentiment of the most romantic friendship.] 

3 [In a letter to Miss Pigot, of Southwell, written in June, 
1807, Lord Byron thus describes Eddlestone :— " He is ex- 
actly to an hour two years younger than myself, nearly my 
height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light 
locks. My opmion of his mind you already know ; I hope 
£ shall never have occasion to change it." Eddlestone, on 
leaving his choir, entered into a mercantile house in the 
metropolis, and died of a consumption, ui 1811. On hearing 
of his death, Lord Byron thus wrote to the mother of his 
fair correspondent :— " I am about to write to you on a siliy 
subject, and yet I liannot well do otlierwise. You may re- 
member a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to 
Miss Pigol, indeed gave to her, and now 1 am about to make 
the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave 
it to me, when I was very y\>ung, is dead, art* though a long 



THE CORNELIAN.^ 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever; 

With lustre only once it shone. 
And blushes modest as the givoi ' 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me ; 

Yet still the simple gilt I jirizc, — 
For I am sure the giver loved me 

He ofTer'd it with downcast look. 
As fearful that I might refuse it ; 

I told him when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
And ever Since I've loved a tear 

Still, to adorn his humble youth. 

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 

The flowers which yield the moi=t of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

Had Fortuito aided Nature's care, 

For once forgetting to be blind. 
His would have been an ample share. 

If well proportion'd to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen. 
His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 

Her countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain'd to give thee rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE rERFORMANCE OF " TIIE 
WHEEL OF fortune" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.* 

Since the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 



time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial 
I possessed of that person, (in whom 1 was very much in- 
terested,) it has acquired a value by this event 1 could have 
wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, 
Miss Pigot should have preserved it, 1 must, under these 
circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be 
transmitted to me, and 1 will replace it by something she 
may remember me by equally well. As she was always so 
kind as to feel interested in the fate of him who formed the 
subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver 
of that cornelian died in May last, of a consumption, at the 
age of twenty-one, — making the sixth, withm four months, 
of friends and relations that 1 have lost between May and 
the end of August." — The cornelian heart was returned ac- 
cordingly ; and. indeed. Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron, 
that he had left it with her as a deposite, not a gift. It is 
now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh ] 

4 [" When I was a youth, I was reckoned .a good actor. 
Besides Harrow speeches, in which 1 shone, 1 enacted Pen- 
ruddock, in the ' Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram Fickie, 
in the farce of ' The Weallieroock,' for three nights, m 
some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1606, wilii great 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



409 



Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 

Which stanip'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 

Since now to please with Durer scenes we seek, 

Nor dare to call the bJLisl. rorn Beauty's cheek ; 

Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 

And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 

Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 

Others appear more conscious of defect: 

To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 

In all the arts of scenic action old ; 

No Cooke, no Kerable, can salute you here 

No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 

To-night you throng to witness the debut^ 

Of embryo actors, to the Drama new: 

Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 

Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one j)oor trembler only fear betrays. 

Who Ivopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ; 

But all our dramatis personae wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard. 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward: 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 

While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 

The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts naught avail, 

Should, after all, our best endeavors fail. 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THK FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN 
A MORNING PAPER. 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death. 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue. 
We give the palm where Justice points its due," 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE 
FOLLOWING REPLY. 

Oh factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
What though our " nation's foes" lament the fate, 
With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him v'l -se meed exists in endless fame? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power. 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
For noble spirits " war not with the dead :" 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 



applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer play 
was also of my composition. The other performers were 
young ladies aiid gentlemen of the neighborhood ; and the 
whole went off with great effect upon our good-natured 
audience."— Byron Diary, 1821.] 

1 [This prologue was written by the young poet, between 
stages, on his way from Harrowgate. On getting into llie 
carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, " Now, 
rigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play ;" and before thcv 



He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state 

When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd. 

Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd. 

He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplieo, 

With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; 

Not one great people only raise his urn. 

All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 

" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 

To give the palm where Justice points its due ;" 

Yet let not canker'd Calumn^ assail. 

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 

Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 

Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep ; 

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan. 

While friends and foes alike his talents own; 

Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 

Nor e'en to Pitt the p... lot's palm resign ; 

Which Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask 

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.'' 



THE TEAR. 



" O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortiis ex ammo ; quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies movo, 
When Truth in a glance should appear. 

The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 
But the test of affection 's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling cya 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below. 

Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt. 

And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale. 

Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
As he bends o'er the wave vi'hich may soon bo his grave. 

The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride. 

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear. 
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid. 

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth !' seat of Friendship and 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, [Truth, 

Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turii'd, 
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 



reached Mansfield he had completed his task, — interrupting, 
only once, his rhyming revery, to ask tlie proper pronuncia- 
tion of the French word " de.bul," and. on being answered, 
exclaiming, " .\y, that will do for rhyme to ' new.'' " The 
epilogue, which was from tiie pen of the Rev. Mr. Bechor, 
was delivered by Lord Byron.] 

2 [The "illiberal improm|rtu" appeared m the Moniing 
Post, and Lord Byron's " reply"' in the Morning Chronicle. 

3 Harrow. 



52 



410 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, 

My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
III the shade of }ier bower I remember tlie hour 

She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possess'd, may she hve ever bless d ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign wliat I once thought was mine.^ 

And forgiy) her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, 

This hope to my breast is most near: 
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, 

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 
And my corse shall recline on its bier, 

As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow the splendor of wo. 

Which the children of vanity rear; 
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name ; 

All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26th, 1806. 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. 
PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain. 

Why thus in despair do you fret? 
For mouths you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 

Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love ? for a time seem to rove ; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile. 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, 

They think all our homage a debt: 
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 

And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain. 

And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 

That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, fioivi i'alse pride, your pangs sho deride. 

This wliimsical virgin forget ; 
Some other admire, who will melt with your lire, 

And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore some twenty or more, 

And love them most dearly ; but yet. 
Though my heart they iiithral, I'd abandoi' them all 

Did they act like your blooming coquette 

No longer repine, adopt this design, 

And break through her slight-woven net 

Away with despair, no longer forbear 
.To fly from the captious coquette. 

'Fht-U quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend, 

Ere quite with her snares you're beset: [smart, 

Ije&t your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27th, 1806. 



TO THE SIGHING STREPIION. 

Youu pardon, my friend, if mj' rhymes did offend, 

Your pardon a thousand times o'er : 
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, 

But I swear I will do so no more. 

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, 

No more I your folly regret ; 
She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known 
From your verses, wha^ else she deserved ; 

Your pain seem'd so great, pitied your fate. 
As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce ; [met," 

Since the " world you forget, whei. "our lips oiiQp havo 
My counsel will get but abuse. 

You say, when " I rove, I know nothing oi ove ;" 

'Tis true, I am given to range : 
If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, 

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance. 

To humor a whimsical fair ; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, 

Or drive mo to dreadful despair. 

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, 

To mix in the Piatonists' school.; 
Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure. 

Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast — 

AVhom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 

Now, Strephon, good-by ; I cannot deny 

Your passion appears most absurd ; 
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 

For it only consists in the word. 



TO ELIZA' 



Eliza, what fools are tho Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's fiituie existeneo , 

Could tiiey see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect. 
And this doctrine would meet with a genera 
resistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense. 
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; 

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven 

Yet still, to increase your calamities more. 

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit. 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst four! — 
With souls you'd dispense ; but this last who cculd' 
bear it? 



1 r^Iiss EHzabeth Pigot, of Southwell, to wliom sevcroi 
of Lord Byron's earliest letters were addressed. J 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



411 



His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
Stiil I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

" Though women are angels, yet ':'ediock's the 
devil." 



LACHIN Y GAIR.' 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me tlie rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are tiiy mountains. 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing foun- 
tains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;" 
On chieftains long pcrish'd my memory ponder"d, 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover"d glade. 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story. 

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices. 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch ua Garr. 

" Ill-starr'd,' though brave, did no visions foreboding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your catjse?" 
Ah I were you destined to die at Culloden,'' 

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;' 
The pi'oroch resounds, to the piper's loud number. 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 



1 Lochia y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch 
na Qarr, towers proudly pre-ernineiU in the Northern High- 
lana^ near Inverc;tuld. One of our modern tourists men- 
tions 11 as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britam. 
Be this as it may, it is cenaiiily one of the most .sublime 
and picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." Its ap- 
pearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seal of 
eternal snovvs. Near Lachin y Gair 1 spent some. of the 
early part of my life, the recollection of which has given 
birth to these stanzas. 

2 This word is erroneously pronounccu plad : the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the 
orthography. 

3 I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," 
many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, 
better known by liie name of the Pretender. This branch 
was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the 
Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the 
Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of 
Scotland. By her he left four sous: the third, Sir William 
Gordon, I have the honor to claim as one of my progenitors. 

•< Whether any perished in the battle of CuUoden, I am 
not certain ; bul, as many fell in the insurrection, I have 
used the name of the principal action, '^ pars pro lolo." 

6 A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle 
of Braemar. 

« [In " The Island," a poem written a year or two before 
Lord U>u)n's death, we have these lines- 



Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left yoUj 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again: 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England I thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved o'er the mountains avar: 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic I 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr! 



TO ROMANCK 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys. 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance. 

Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youtii : 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And jet '*'s hard to quit the dreams 

Whicii haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems. 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign. 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend 
Nor find a sylph iif every dame, 

A Pylades' in every friend? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
Confess that woman 's false as fair. 

And friends have feeling for — themselves 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey. 

No more on fancied pinions soar 
Fond fool I to love a sparkling eye. 

And think that eye to truth was dear; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 



" He who first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lauds which are not mine. 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apeniune, 
Revered Parnassus, and behelil the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the ileep : 
But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall ; 
The infant rapture stih survived the boy. 
And Loch na Garr with Ida look'd o'er Troy, 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian iriount, 
And Highland linns with Caslalie's clear fount." 
"When very young," (he adds m a note,) "about "^ight 
years of age. after an attack of the scarlet fever at .-Vherdeen, 
I was removed, by medical advice, into the Highlands, and 
from this period I date my love of mnuntaiiious countries. 
I can never forget the efl'ecl, a few years afterwards, in Eng- 
land, of the only thing I had knig seen, even in miniature, 
of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. Afler I returned to 
Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sun- 
set, with a sensation which I cannot describe,"] 

' It is hanlly necessary to add, that Pylades was the com- 
panion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships 
which, wilh those of Achilles and Patruclus, Nisus and Eu- 
ryalus, Damon and Pylhias, have been handed down to pos- 
terity as remarkable instances of aUachnients, v\ Inch in all 
probability never existed beyond the imagination of tho 
poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist. 



412 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Romance! disgusted with deceit, 

Fur from thy motley court I fly, 
Wliere AfFectatiou holds her seat, 

Aud siciily Sensibility : 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Wiio turns aside from real wo, 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir, 

To mourn " swain forever gone, 
Who once could glow with eqnal fire, 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose reariy tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and phrensy glow; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, - 

Apostate from your gentle train? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening laife is seen. 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

AJas ! must perish altogether. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES 

SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT 
ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER. TOO WARMLY 
DRAWN. 

" But if aiiy old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
Should condemn me for pnnting a second edition; 
If good Madam Squnitum my work should abuse, 
May I venture to give her a nac of tny muse ?" 

New Bath Guide 

Candor compels me, Bechek I' to commend 

The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 

Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 

Fi -Ti me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 

For this wild error which pervades my strain, 

I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain? 

The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart : 

Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 

Precepts of prudenr :urb, but can't control, 

The fierce emotions oi the flowing soul. 

When Love's dolirinm haunts the glowing mind, 

Limping Decorum lingei-s far behind : 



1 [Thi, Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the 
well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the 
amelioration of the condition of the po'ir. In this gentleman 
che youthtul poet found not only an lionest and judicious 
cniic, but a sincere friend. To liis care the superintendence 
of thd second edition of " Hours of Idleness," during its 
progress through a country pres.s, was intrusted, and at his 
sugg(>stion several corrections and omis.sions were made 
"I must return you," savs Lord Byron, in a letter written 
in Fel ruary, 1808, " my jest acknowledgments for the in- 
terest you have taken in me and my poetical bantlings, and 



Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstripp'd and vannuish'd in the mental chaw. 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of iO\e 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let thr-so whoso sou's contemn the pleasing powei 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song. 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
Whose labor'd iii»es in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to " taint " 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile. 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er bo " tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment her bosom with unholy fires. 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light efFtisions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud: 
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26, 1806. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.' 

" It is the voice of years that are gone ! thev roll before 
me with all their deeds."— Ossian. 

Newstead ! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome ! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's' pride ! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloistei'd tomb, 

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 

Hail 'to thy pile ! more honor'd in thy fall 

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate 

No mail-clad serfs,* obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross* demand; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chief's retainers, an immortal bali^; , 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 

Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea'e clime. 



I shall ever be proud to show how much I esteem the admcc 
and the adviser."^ 

2 As one poem on this subject .s already printed ?hc ai- 
thor had, originally, no intention of inserting the foi owing. 
It is now added at the particular request of some friends 

3 Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the naurdt-r of 
Thomas a Becket. [See ante, p. 388, note.] 

■I This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, "The 
Wild Huntsman ;" synonymous with vassal. 
6 The red cross was the badge of the crusadcis. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



418 



But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief ; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay: 
In thee tiie wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Yes . in thy gloomy cells r.iid shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ; 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 

Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl ; 

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grarfl exhales ai murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay, 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their v/avering wings extend 
Soon as the gloaming' spreads her waning shade, 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mary- paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the gothic walls. 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Henry^ the kind gift recalls. 

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their bless'd -ibodo. 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain. 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High crested banners wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abl>'?7 once, a regal fortress* now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers. 
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow, 

And dart destruction i : sulphureous showers. 

Ah vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 

Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave ; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 



' As " gloaming," the .Scottish word for twilight, is far 
more poetical, and has been recommended by many emi- 
nent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters 
to Ifurns, I have ventured to use iton account of its harmony. 

2 The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

3 At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. be- 
stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. [See ante, p. 
38S, note.'] 

* Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war be- 
tween Charles I. and his parliament. 

^ Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high 
commands in the royal army. The former was general in 
chit:t 111 Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to 



Not imavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
Uncouquer'd still, his falchion tliere he wields, 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, t: sxivb. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him' from th' unequal strife, 

In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life. 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland' fell. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given. 
While dying groans their painful requiem c. jnd, 

Far different incense now ascends to heaven. 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse.. 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with hor^o, 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, 
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould • 

From rufhaii fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
Raked from repose in search for buried gold 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre. 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire. 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
Retire ; the clamor of the fight is o'er ; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway. 
And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court: 
What satellites declare her dismal reign I 

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of nnarchy from Britain's skies J 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring breath ; 
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones. 

Loathing' the offering of so dark a death. 

The legal ruler" now resumes the helm. 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm. 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 



James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhanoy James II. ; 
the latter had a principal share in many actions. 

6 Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accom- 
plished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newbury, 
jharging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry. 

1 This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred 
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Crom- 
well, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans 
and the cavaliers : both interpreted the circumstance into 
ui^-ine interposition ; but whether as approbation or con- 
demnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to decide 
I have made such use of the occurrence as suiied tae suo- 
ject of my poem. s Charles II. 



414 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 

Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
Again the master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals, wit'iin Vhy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale. 

And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! 

The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake ;' 
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. 

Ah happy days ! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed. 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene s thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay I 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ; 

Thv vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
T!iy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views ihem but to 
weep. 



' [During the lifetime of the fifth Lord Byr m, there was 
found in this lake— where it is supposed to have been 
thrown for concealment by the monks— a large brass eagle, 
in the body of which, on Us being sent to be cleaned, was 
discovered a secret aperture, concealing within it a number 
of ancient documents connected witli the rights and priv- 
ileges of the foundation. At the sale of the old Lord's ef- 
fects, in ITTC, this eagle was purchased ty a watchmaker of 
Noltinghaiu ; and it now forms, through the liberality of 
Sir Richard Kaye, an appropriate ornament of the fine old 
church of Southwell.] 

2 [" Come what ma v," wrote Lord Byron to his mother, in 
March, 18(ii), " iN'ewsiead and I stand or fall togetlier. I 
have now lived on the spot ; I have fixed my heart upon it ; 
and no pressuro, present or future, shall induce me to barter 
the last vestigeof our inheritance. I have that pride within 
me which will erable me to supportdifficulties. I can endure 
privations; bir ^ould I obtain, in e.xchange for Newstead 
Abbey, the first foriuiie in the country, I would rejert the 
proposition. Set your mind at ease on that score ; I feel 
like a man of honor, and I will not sell Newstead."] 

" [" We cannot," says the Critical Review for September, 
1807, "but hail, with somelliing of prophetic rapture, the 
hope conveyed in llie closing stanza — 

'Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,'" &c.] 

, * [The reader who turns from this Elegy to the stanzas 
"escnptive of Newstead Abbey and the surrounding scenery, 
in the thirteenth canio of Don Juitn, cannot fail to remark 
how frequently the lending thoughts in the two pieces are 
the same ; or to be delighted and instruc'ed, in comparing 
tr.e juvenile sketch wiih the bold touches and mellow 
coloring of the master's picture.] 

6 I These verses were composed while Lord Byron was 
sufiering under severe illness and depression of spirits. " I 
was laid," he says^ " on my bacli, when that schoolboy thing 



Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow 

Pride, liope, and love forbid him to forget. 
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded dcmes 
Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great ; 

Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate 

Haply thy sun, .^merging, yet may shine, 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray f 

Hours splendid as the past may still be thme, 
And bless thy future as thy former day.* 



ChT[LDISH RECOLLECTIONS.' 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chilld the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of wo. 
Bid shuddering Nature sh"iuk beneath the blow. 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
W'hilo Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 
Het less the pang when, through the tedious hour 
Remembrance sheds around her genial power. 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form. 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 



was written, or rather, dictated— expecting to rise no more, 
my physician liaving taken his sixteenth fee." In the private 
volume the poem opened with the following lines : — 

" Hence ! thou unvarying song of varied loves. 
Which youth commends, muurer age reproves ; 
AVliich every rhyming bard ropeats by rote, 
By thousands echo'd to the seif-same note ! 
Tired of the dull unceasing, copious strain, 
My soul is panting to be free again. 
Farewell I ye nymphs propitious to my verse. 
Some other Dainon will your charms rehearse ; 
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss. 
Or dwell m rapture on your nectar'd kiss. 
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight, 
jVo more entrance my senses in delight ; 
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow. 
Alike are tasteless, and unfeeling now. 
These to some happier lover I resign — 
The memory of those joys a'one is mine. 
Censure no more shall branu my humble name. 
The child of passion and the fool of fame. 
Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 
1 rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen. 
World I I renounce thee I all my hope 's o'ercast; 
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh 's the last. 
Friends, foes, and females, now alike adieu ! 
Would I could add remembrance of yon too! 
Yet though the future dark and cheerless gleams^ 
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams, 
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years. 
Ere yet. my cup, impoison'd, flow'd with tears; 
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway. 
The past confounding with the present day. 

" Alas I in vain I check the maddening thought , 
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought: 
My soul lo Fancy's," &c. &c., as at Ime 29.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



415 



Thus, wliilo the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The siui of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Thoui:jh sunk tlie radiance of his former blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway. 
The past confounding with the present day. 



Oil does iiiy heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields. 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except ia dreams ; 
S*mo who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge tlie same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
'iu dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.* 
Ida ! bleps'd spot, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I joiii'd thy youthful train ! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful choir ; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game. 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace 
The social smile of every welcome face ; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo. 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe. 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship pass'd: — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth I when, nurtured in my breast. 
To love a stranger, friendship made me bless'd ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein • 
When all wo feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years. 
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 



1 [The next fifty-six lines, to— 

" Here first remember'd be the joyous band, ' 
were added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.] 

^Dr. Butler, then heati-master of Harrow school. Had 
Lord Byron published another edition of these poems, it 
appears, from a loose sheet in his handwriting, to have been 
his intention, insieiid of llie passage beginning — " Or, if my 
muse a pedant's portrait drew," to insert— 

" If once my inuse a harsher portrait drew, 
Warm wi'tli lier wrongs, and deem'd the likeness true. 
By cooler judgment taught, her faults she owns, — 
With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones."] 

3 [When Dr. Drnry retired, in 1805, three candidates pre- 
sented themselves for the vacant chair, Messrs. Drury, 
Evans, and Butler. "On the first movement to which this 
contest gave rise in the school, young VVildman," says 
Aloore, '• was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while 
Byron lield himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to 
have f.im as an ally, one of the Drury faction said to Wild- 
maj. — ' Byron, I know, will not join, because he does not 
c'.yjcse to ant second to any one ; but, by giving up the 
Icadurijhip to him. you may at once secure him.'" This 
VVlldinan accordingly did, and Byron took the command.] 

* [Instead of this couplet, the private volume has the fol 
lapsing ib'i: lines:— 



When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 

His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 

Instructs his son from candor's path to shritik. 

Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 

Still to assent, and never to deny — 

A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 

And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 

Would lose his opening prospects for a word? 

Although against that word his heart rebel. 

And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Away with themes like this . not mine the task 
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or frcn shame, 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the ^ame, 
Wani'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,' 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Po.Mrosus"- virtues are but known to few ; 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And ho v/ho wields must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall. 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again. 
Soon must her early song forever cease. 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous hand, 
Who hail'd me chief,^ obedient to command ; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
Nor shrunk beneath the rpstart pedant's frown, 
Or nil the sable glories of his gown ;■* 
Who, thus transplanted from his futhei'ii school — 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise. 
The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
Probus,^ the pride of science, and the boast, 
To Ida now, alas! forever I'ost. 
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page. 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 



" Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown, 
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown ; 
By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace, 
Adding new terror to his sneering face."] 
5 Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired 
from his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty- 
five years at Harrow; the last twenty as head- master ; an 
office lie held with equal honor to himself and advantage to 
the very extensive school over whicli he presided. Pane- 
gyric would here be superfluous : it would be useless to 
enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A con- 
siderable contest took place between three rival candidites 
for his vacant chair : of this I can only say. 

Si mea cum vestris valnissent vota, Pelasgi! 
JN'on foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hajres. 
[Such was Byron's parting eulogy on Dr. Drury. It may be 
interesting to see by the side of it the Doctor's own account 
of his pupd, when first committed to his care: — " I took," 
says the Doctor, " my young d/sciiile into my study, and 
endeavored to bring him forward by inquiries as to his for- 
mer amusements, employments, and associates, but with 
little or no effect ; and I soon found that a wild mountain 
colt had been submitted to iiiy maiiagemi nl. But thuro 
was rnind in his eye. His manner and temper soon con 
vinced me, that he might be led by a silken string to apomt, 
rather than by a cable ;— and on that principle acted "i 



416 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Retired at 'iist, his small yet peaceful seat, 
From earniiig''s labor is tfee bless'd retreat. 
PoMPo;j5 fills his mag-isterial chair; 
PoMpns',"^ governs, — but, my muse, forbear:' 
Contempt, in silence, he the pedant's lot ; 
Hie name and precepts be alike forgot ! 
Si. more his mention shall my verse degrade, — 
Tj him my tribute is already paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary branches 
crovs^n'd. 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
There Science, from her favor'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
To ner awhile resigns her youtliful train, 

j Wht move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 

I In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue ; 

j Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Fhish'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 

I II "ival bands, between the wickets run, 
Drive o er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But tnese with slower steps direct their way, 
Wiierc Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
Anu arbors shade them from the summer heat : 
Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
Som-i 'ough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
Witn frolic quaint their antic jests expose. 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : 
" 'Tvvas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought. 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
Hero have we fled before superior might. 
And here rcnew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
Here mingling view the i.ames of sire and son — 
The one long graved, the other just begun : 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire :* 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monurnental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in moi:,Tnful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that xj Jo their nameless grave. 



> [To this passage, had Lord Byroi. published another 
edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to give tlie 
follov.'ing turn : — 

" Another fills his magisterial chair ; 
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care ; 
Oh I may like honors crown his future name : 
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."] 
5 [During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the 
schoolroom from being burnt down, by pointing cut to the 
Doys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the 
walls.] 

3 [Lord Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course 
of life while at Harrow—" always cricketing, rebelling, 
rowing, and in all manner of mischiefs." One day, in a fit 
of defiance, he tore down all the gratings from the window 
of the hall ; and when called upon by Dr. Butler to say why 
he had committed this violence, answered, with stern cool- 
nets, " because they darkened the room."] 

* [This description of what the young poet felt in IS06, on 
encountering m liie world any of his former schoolfellows, 



And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former placo 
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe. 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law J 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power. 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though, sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd f 
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell. 
And here he ftdter'd /^rth his last farewell ; 
And here one night alioad they dared to roam, • 
While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home ;" — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
O.ur first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret. 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd face. 
Some old companion of my early race. 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found : 
The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles v/ere dear, 
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near* 
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise. 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumplied over love.* 

Yet, why should I alono with such delight. 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Eudear'd to all in childhood's verj' name? 



falls far short of the page in which he records an accidental 
meeting with Lord Clare, on the road between Imola and 
Bologna in 1S21 "This meeting," he says, " annihilated 
for a moment all the years between the present time and the 
days ot Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, liKe 
rising from the grave, to me. Clare too was much agitated 
— more in aypearance than was myself; for I could feel his 
heart beat to his fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse 
of my own which made me think so. We were but five min- 
utes together, and on the public road ; but I hardly recollect 
an hour of my existence which could be weighed against 
them."— We may also quote the following interesting sen- 
tences of Madame Guiccioli :—" In 1822, (says she,) a few 
days before leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the 
garden of the Palazzo Lanfranchi. At this moment a servant 
announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancholy 
diffused over Lord Byron's face gave instant place to the 
liveliest joy ; but it was so great, that it almost deprived him 
of strength. A fearful paleness came over his cheeks, and 
his eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his f.-iend. 
his emotion was so great that he was forced to sit down."] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



417 



Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will bo doubly dear, 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone. 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ?' 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
What sister's gentle kiss has press'd my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the vieiions to my heart are press'd, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — but ah I no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
What then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand. 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alonzo !'^ best and dearest of my friends. 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise ; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 



1 [It has been reserved for our own time to produce one 
distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a 
bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell, and we 
trust to soothe, afflictions of no ordinary description ; afflic- 
tions originating probably in that singular combination of 
feeling, which has been called the poetical temperament, 
and whici has so often saddened the days of those on whom 
it has been conferred. If ever a man could lay claim to that 
character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its 
imbounded range of enjoynent, and its exqtiisite sensibility 
of pleasure and of pain, it must certainly be granted to Lord 
Byron. His own tale is paUly told in two lines of Lara : 

" Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself— that heritage of wo !" 

SiK Walter Scott.] 

2 [The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, 
brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died 
of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 14th, 1811. 
— "Of all human beings," says Lord Byron, "I was, perhaps, 
at one time, the most attached to poor Wingfield. I had 
known him the better half of his life, and the happiest part 
of mine." On hearing of the death of his beloved school- 
fellow, he added the following stanzas to the first canto of 
Childe Harold :— 

" And thou, my friend I — since unavailing wo 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
I'ride might forbid ev'n Frien ship to complain: 
But thus unlaureU'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, savu the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slam, 
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 

Vv'^hat hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ' 

' Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most, 

Dear to a heart where naugnt was left so dear I 

Tho igh to my hopeless days forever lost. 

In Uruarns deny me not to see thee heie ;" &c.] 



53 



Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely bless'd, 
Oft have we drain'd tho font of ancient lore ; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more 
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall : 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil^ 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the gre«n declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows here ; 
In every element, unchanged, the same. 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus,' the harbinger of childish joy ; 
Forever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet witlj breast of such materials r.iade — 
Anxious to ; ease, of pleasing half afraid j 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
The rustic's musket aiin'd against my life :* 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe. 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and haflled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay ?^ 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus!" on me thy claims are justly great: 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 



3 [The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Chuvi^^i, 
Oxford ; who died Dec. 8, 1612, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged 
twenty-four. " His mind," says a writer in the Gent. I\lag., 
"was comprehensive and perspicuous ; his affections warm 
and sincere. Through extreme aversion to hypocrisy, he 
was so far from'assuming the false appearances of virtue, 
that much of his real excellence was unseen, whilst he was 
eager to acknowledge every fau.t into which he was led. 
He was an ardent fnend, a stranger to feelings of enmity, 
he lived in good faith towards men, and died with hope in 
God."] 

4 [The "factious strife" here recorded, was accidentally 
brought on by the breaking up of school, and the dismissal 
of some volunteers from drill, both happening at the same 
hour. On this occasion, it appears, the butt-end of a musket 
was aimed at Byron's head, and would have felled hirr, to 
the ground, but for the interposition of Tatteisall.J 

6 [In the private volume : 

" Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize — 
A life unvvorthy such a sacrifice."] 

6 [John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare, born June 2, 
1792. His father, whom he succeeded J;m. 28, 1802, was for 
nearly twelve years Lord Chancellor of Ireland. See ante, 
p. 416, note. His Lordship is now (1632) Governor of Bom- 
bay. " I never," says Lord Byron, in 1821, " hear the word 
' Clare,' without a beating of t'le heart even now ; and I 
write it with feelings of 180J 4-5, ad infinitum." Of the 
tenaciousness with which he cl ing to all the kindly impres- 
sions of his youth, there can be no stronger proof than the 
interesting fact, that after his death almost all the notes and 
letters which his principal school favorites had ever ad- 
dressed to him were found preserved carefully aintmg his 
papers. The following is the endorsement upon one of them : 
■ — " This and another letter were written ;)t yarrow by my 
then and, I hope, ever beloved friend. Lord Clare, when we 
were both schoolboys : and sent to my study in consequence 
of some childish misunderstanding, — the only one which 



418 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To theo alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efForts of my lennrthcn'd sonp^.' 
Well canst thou boaf5t, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo tliese perfeotions sliine, 
Lycus ! th V father's fame will soon bo thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
Wliat may wo hope from genius thus refined I 
Wiien time at length matures thy growing years, 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow pt^rs ! 
PruQcnco and sense, a spirit bold and free. 
With honor's soul, united beam in theo. 

Shall fair Euryalus'' pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not nnwortliy sprung: 
What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart; 
Yet at the mention does tiiat heart rebound. 
And palpitate, responsive to tlio sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I'll tliink wo are so still.' 
A form unmatch'd in nature's f)artial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in theo behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these bo given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy scat. 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit: 
T'he courtier's supple bow and sneering smile. 
The flow of compliment, tlio slippery wile. 
Would make that breast with indignation burn. 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 



ever arose between us. It was of short duration, and I re- 
tain this note solely for the purpose of s\ibmitting it to his 
perusal, that we may smile over the recollection of the in- 
significance of our first and last quarrel."] 

1 [In the private volume, the following lines conclude this 
chara 3ter : — 

" Forever to possess a friend in thte, 
Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me. 
Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone, 
To '•uder passions and to hate unknown ; 
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteofis form, 
Was gentle, but inifit to stem the storir. 
That face, an inde.\ of celestial worth, 
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth. 
Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding glooip, 
I sat reclined upon our favorite tomb, 
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'crflow 
With kind compassion for thy comrade's wo ; 
Or when less mournful subjects form'd our themes, 
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes, 
Oft hast thou .5 «3rn, in friendship's soothing tone, 
Whatever wish was mnie must be thine ovvn."3 

2 [George-John, fifth Earl Delawarr, born Oct. 2fi, 1791 ; 
succeeded his father, John-Richard, July 28, 1795. This 
ancient family have been barons by the male line from l.'J'ia ; 
their aiR-cstor, Sir Thomas West, having been summoned to 
parliament, as Lord West, the IGth Edw. II. We find the 
following notices in some hitherto unpublished letters of 
Jjord Uyron :— "Harrow, Oct. 25, 1804.— I am happy enough 
and comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but 
select. Among the principal I rank Lord Delawarr, who is 
very amiable, and my particular friend." " Nov. 2, 1804. — 
Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the 
most gooil leinpered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. 
To all which he a'' Is the quality (a good one in the eyes of 
women) of being remarkably handsoine. Delawarr and my- 
self are, in a manner, connected ; for one of my forefathers, 
in Chitrles the First's time, married into their family."] 

3 [It is impossible to peruse the following extract of a letter 
addrc-.scd to Lord Clare, in February, 1807, without acknow- 
icdgug tl.e noble candor and conscientiousness of the writer, 
— " Y m will be astonished to hear I have lately written to 
Delawarr, loi the purpose of explaining (as far as possible, 



The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; — 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon'' stand ; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scone, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race hegun. 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side wo pass'd our first career. 
Thus side by side wo strove for many a year: 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
Wo neither conquer'd in the classic strife :g. 
As speakers^ each supports an equal name, 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame: 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride. 
Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, 
Yet candor's self compels mo now to own. 
Justice awards it to my friend alone. 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes forever dear. 
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear : 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell," 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song,' 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
Or when my first harangue received applause," 
His sage instruction the primeval cause. 
What gratitude to him my soul possees'd 
Wiiile hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast ! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is duo, who made that fame my own.* 

_» . 

without involving some old friends of mine in the business) 
the cause of my behavior to him during my la.st residence 
at Harrow, which you will recollect was rather en cavalier. 
Since that period I have discovered he was treated with in- 
justice, both by those who misrepresented his conduct, and 
by me in consequence of their suggestions. I have, there- 
fore, made all the reparation in rny power, by apologizing for 
my mistnke, though with very faint hopes of success, llow 
ever, I have eased iny own conscience by the atonement, 
which is hiimilialing enough to one of my disposition ; yet I 
could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, 
even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done 
all that could be done to repair the injury."] 

4 [Edward Noel Long, Esq. — to whom a subsequent poem 
is addressed. Sec p. 424.] 

6 [This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the 
school where the author was educated.] 

6 rThus in tlje private volume— 

" Yet in the retro.?peetion finds relief, 
And revels in the lUXury of grief."] 

' [" I remember that my first declamation astonished Dr 
Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) 
and suddo'i compliments before the declaimers at our first 
rehearsal.''- -liyron Diary.'] 

8 [" I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's at- 
titude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his com- 
position. All who spoke on that day adhered, as usual, to 
the letter of their composition, as in the earlier part of his 
delivery did Lord Cyron. But, to my surprise, he sudden- 
ly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness 
and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he sliould fail in 
memory as to the conclusion. There was no failure ;— he 
came round to the close of his composition without discover- 
ing any impediment and irregularity on the whole. I ques- 
tioned him, why he had altered his declamation ? I'.e de- 
clared he had made no alteration, and did not know, m 
speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed 
him, ami from a knowledge of his temperament am convinced, 
that, full>' impressed with the sense and substance of the fut>- 
jcct, he was hurried on to expressions and colorings more 
striking than what his pen had expressed."— Dr. Druby ] 

9 [lu the private volume the poem concludes thus ; — 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



419 



Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 

Thefio young effusions of my early days, 

To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 

The song might perish, but the themo might live. 

Yet why for him the needless verse essay? 

His honor'd name requires no vain display : 

By every son of grateful Ida blcss'd, 

It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 

A fame beyoud the glories of the proud. 

Or all tlio plaudits of the venal crowd.' 

Ida. ! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ■ 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain I 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
And brood in secret o'er those houne of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ. 
While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine. 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside. 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell nio, ye hoary few, who glide along, 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, 
Are swept forever from this busy world ; 



" When, yet a novice in the mimic art, 
1 feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart- 
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage, 
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage — 
The praise of Probiis made me feel more proud 
Tluui all the plaudits of the list'nmg crowd. 

" Ah ! vain endeavor in this childish strain 
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain I 
What can avail this fruitless loss of time, 
To measure sorrow in ajingling rhyme ! 
No social solace from a friend is near, 
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear. 
I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye : 
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh. 
Adieu, thou world I thy pleasure 's still a dream, 
Thy virtue but a visionary theme ; 
Thy years of vice on years of folly roll. 
Till grinning death assigns the destined goal, 
Where all are hastening to the dread abode, 
To meet the judgment of a righteous God ; 
Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng, 
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along ; 
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing, 
Cursed by reflection's deep corroding sting ; 
But not that mental sting which stabs within. 
The dark avenger of nnpvmish'd sin ; 
The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch 
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch ; 
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies — 
His mind ihe rack from which he ne'e." can rise. 
Tor ine, w hate'er my folly, or my fear. 
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here : 
No dread inlernal haunts my hours of rest. 
No dreams of injured innocence infest ;* 
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft, 
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left. 
Slander'-i impoison'd breath may blast iny name, 
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame ; 
Deceit may chill the current of iny blood, 
And freeze ail'ection's warm impassion'd flood ; 
Presaging horror darken every sense ;— 
Even here will conscience be my best defence. 



.* [" I am not a Joseph," said Lord Byron, in 1821, " nor a 
Scipio ; but I can safely affirm, that I never in my life se- 
duced any woman."] 



Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 

While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 

Say if remembrance days like these endears 

Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 

Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 

So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of vo? 

Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son. 

Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter Won, 

Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 

(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,) 

Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 

As those where Youth her garland twined for you? 

Ah, no I amidst the gloomy calm of age 

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page ; 

Peruse the record of your days on earth. 

Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 

Still lingering pause above each checker'd leaf, 

And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; 

Where Passion o'er the themo her mantle throw, 

Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 

Traced by the rosy fiug«r of the morn ; 

When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, 

And Love, without his pinion,^ smiled on youth. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTI- 
TLED "THE COMMON LOT."' 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
Yet some shall never bo forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond the grave. 

My bosom feeds no ' worm which ne'er can die :'t 
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by. 
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile, 
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile : 
No more with former bliss my heart is glad ; 
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad : 
From fond regret no future joy can save ; 
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave." 

1 [" To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, " Lord Byron lias left 
on record a tribute of art'ection and respect, which, like the 
reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will kmg asso- 
ciate together honorably the names of the poet and the mas- 
ter." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to 
the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he siiys, " My preceptor 
was the best and worthiest friend I ever posses.sed, whose 
warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late 
—when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but follow- 
ed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect 
record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, 
lest it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with 
gratitude and veneration— of one who would more gladly 
boast of having been his pupil, if by more closely following 
his injunctions, he could reflect any honor upon his instruc- 
tor." We extract the following from some unpublished let- 
ters of Lord Byron : — 

" Harrow, Nov. 2, 1804. There is so much of the gentle- 
man, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry in his char- 
acter, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his 
instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best 
master we ever had, and at the same time respected and 
feared." "Nov. 11, 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. Heisnever 
violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him ;— not 
however, through fear ; but the respect I bear him makes 
me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."] 

2 " L'Amiti6 est I'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. 
[See a subsequent poem, under this title.] 

3 Written by James Montgomery, author of " The Wan- 
derer m Switzerland," <fec. 



ft " We know enough even of Lord Byron's pri vote history 
to give our warrant that, though his youth may ha'e shared 
somewhat too largely in the indiscretions of those left too 
early masters of their own actions and fortunes, falsehood 
and malice alOne car. impute to him any real cause for hope- 
less remorse, or gloomy melancno.y.' — iSm W. Scott J 



420 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Unknown the re^on of his bhlh," 
The hero' rolls the tide of war ; 

Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or wo, 

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all : 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
That will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 

Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye "evives. 
Still beaming through the lover's strain 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away, 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 

Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay. 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose. 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foeS; 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 

The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
Yet falls at length a useless fane ; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 

Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave ; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the boudag : )f the grave. 



1806 



TO A LADY 

MIO PRESENTEl THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND 
WIrlCH BOUND HER TRESSES. 

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair. 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
Lik? reUcs left of saints above. 



■ No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of 
Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more 
modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, 
Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c. are familiar to every 
historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are 
known to a very small proportion of their admirers. 

2 [The true reason of the haughty distance at which Byron, 
both at this period and afterwards, stood apai i, f>-nm his more 
opulent neighbors, is to be found (says Mr. Moore; " in liis 



Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 

'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee 
From me again 'twill ne'er depart. 

But mingle in the grave with me. 

The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this ; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss: 

This will recall each youthful scene. 
E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 

In gently waving ringlet curi'd, 
By the dear bead on which you grew, 

I would not lose you for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adorn 

The polish'd brow where once you she: e, 

Like rays which gild a cloudless mor\. 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

1806. [First pub:ished, 183-2.3 



REMEMBRANCE. 

'Tis done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 

No more with Hope the future beams ; 
My days of happiness are few ; 

Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast. 

My dawn of life is overcast, 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu I — 
Would I could add Remembrance too I 

1806. fFhst published, 1832.J 



LINES 



ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T- BECHER, ON HIS ADVISI.NO 
THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETV. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind ; — 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 

But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: 
I will not descend to a world I despise. i 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require. 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; 

When infancy's years of probation expire, 

Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth 

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd. 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — 

At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd. 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress ' 



moL'tifying consciousness of thp inat equacy of his own 
means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel 
his own •inferiority by persons to whom, in every other re- 
spect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently 
expostulated with him on this unsociableness ; anc one of 
his friendly remonstrances drew fo';th these lines, so re- 
markably prefiguring the splendid nur>t with which Lord 
Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to operi upon ttio 
world.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



421 



Oil ! 'hus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
Bidrf me live but to hope for posterity's praise. 

Could I soar w ith the phoenix on pinions of flame, 
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 

Fcr the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

Wliat censure, what danger, what wo would I 
brave ! [breath I 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their 
Their glory illumines tlie gloom of their grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 

Why search <"or delight in the friendship of fools ? 

I hs^ e tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 

111 friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 

To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an houi; 

If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown ; 
To me what is title ? — the hantom of power ; 

To me what is fashion 1 — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
Then why should I live in a hateful control? 

Why waste upon folly the days, of my youth ? 

1806. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSOn's OSSIAN.* 

Dear are the days of j'outh ! Age dwells on their 
remembrance through the mist of time. In the twi- 
light he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts 
his spear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly did 
I raise the steel before my fathers !" Passed is the race 
of heroes! Bu their fame rises on the harp; their 
souls ride on the wings of the wind ; they hear the 
sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in 
their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. The gray 
stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from 
eddying tempcivs : he tolls his form in the whirlwind, 
and hovers on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to 
Eingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. 
Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear : but 
mild was the eye of Calmar ; soft was the flow of his 
yellow locks : they streamed like the meteor of the 
night. No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, de- 
stroyer of heroes ! Equal were their swords in battle ; 
but fierce was the pride of Orla: — gentle alone to 
Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. 
Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused 
his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. 
Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to 
the aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies : 



1 It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though 
considerably varied in: the catastrophe, is taken from " M- 



but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
sons of Lochlin slept : their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. 
Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post 
of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their speare 
were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs • they 
stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray 
were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king 
Age withered not his powers. " Sons of Morven," 
said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the foe. But 
where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in 
the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our coming. Who 
will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the 
chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes ; 
but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of 
war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who will arise ?" 

" Son of Trenmor! mine l5 *he deed," said dark- 
ritred Orla, " and mine alone. What is death to 
nW I love the sleep of the mighty, but 'ittle is 
the aanger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will 
seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise ti e song 
of bards ; and lay me by the stream of Lii&ar." — 
" And shalt thou fall alone ?" said fair-haired Cal- 
mar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of 
Oithona ! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I 
see thee die, and not lift the spear ? No, Orla ! ours 
has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of 
shells^-ours be the path of danger: ours has been 
the cave of Oithona ; ours be the narrow dwelling on 
the banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of 
Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be darkened 
in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
dwells in his hall of air : he will rejoice in his boy ; 
but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son 
in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter 
on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. 
Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the steel of 
Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the 
dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of 
Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the de- 
stroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! Live to raise 
my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood 
of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave 
Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the 
voice of Calmar. . My ghost shall smile on the notes 
of praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, " could I 
raise the song of death to my friend ? Could I give 
his fame to the winds ? No, my heart would speak 
in sighs : faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. 
Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. One 
cloud shall be ours on high : the bards will mingle the 
names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps 
are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak 
dim twinkles through the night. The northern star 
points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on 
his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they 
frown in sleep ; their shields beneath their heada 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires 
are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed ; 
but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel 
the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the 
journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, 
meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens 
through the shade. His spear is raised on high. 
" Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" 
said fair-haired Calmar : " we are in the midst of 



sus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already 
given in the piesent volume. 



422 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



foea, Is this a time for delay ?" " It is a time for 
vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. " Mathon 
of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his spear ? Its point 
is diiTi with the gore of my father. The blood of 
Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him 
sleeping, son of Mora ? No ! he shall feel his wound : 
my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. 
Rise, Mathon, rise ! The son of Conna calls ; thy 
life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
sleep ; but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering 
ciiiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" 
said dark-haired Orla. " Mathon is mine. I shall 
die in joy : but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through 
the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of 
Mathon is cleft ; his shield falls from his arm : he 
shudders in his blood. He rolls by the side of the 
blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall : his wrath rises : 
his we«pon glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear 
pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wouikI, 
and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll th.o waves 
of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so 
pour the men of Lochlin on tlie chiefs. As, breaking 
the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of the 
north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered 
crests of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear 
of Fingal. He strikes his shield ; his sons throng 
around ; the people pour along the heath. Ryno 
bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arm.s.; Oscar 
shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on 
the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death ! many 
are the widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in its 
strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; 
but the sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. 
The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do not 
awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a 
chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they 
mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Cal- 
mar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one 
stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy 
Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame. 
It glares in dca^h unclosed. His hand is grasped in 
Cafmar's ; but Calmar lives ! he lives, though low 
" Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine 
t :> heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet 
bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor- 
ven w".h Orla," said the hero. "What were the 
chase to me alone? Who should share the spoils of 
battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough was thy 
soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It 
glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of 
light. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang 
in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood : but it 
could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise 
the song when I am dark I" 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When 
Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. 
The winds gave our barks to Morven: — the bards 
raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? 



1 I feai Laing's later edition has completely overthrown 
every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the 
translation of a series of poems complete in themselves ; 
v»u', while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the 
woik remains undisputed, though not without faults— par- 
twjularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The 



His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, tho 
brown chief of Oithona. Ho was u»matched in war. 
Peace to thy soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. 
Nor thine, Calmar I Lovely wast thou, son of blue- 
ej'ed Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword It 
hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek 
around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It 
dwells on the voice of tho mighty. Thy name 
shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy 
fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on tho arch 
of the rainbow ; and smile through the tears of tho 
stonn."^ 



L'AMITlfi EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Daj's of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead._ 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One firm record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

" Friendship 'f Love without his wings I' 

Through few, but deeply checker'd years, 

What moments have been mine ! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears. 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast. 
My soul, enraptured with tho past. 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship ! that thought is all thine own, 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale. 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave. 

Which tells the common talc ; 
Round this uuconscious schoolboys stray. 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings • 
But here wliene'cr my footsteps move. 
My silent tears too plainly prove, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings 1" 

Oh Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 

But these are now decay'd ; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind. 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away ! delusive power. 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

Unless, indeed, without thy Vi'ings. 

present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers 
of the original as an attempt, however inferior, wJiich 
evinces an attachment to their favorite author. 

2 [See ante, p. 419, note. We insert this poem here on 
account of the date of its composition. It was not, how- 
ever, included in the publication of ie07._, 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



423 



Seat of my youth ! thy distant spire 

Recalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

My Lyons 9 wherefore dost thou weep? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep. 

But, oh, 'twill wake again.^ 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

In one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left the wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my lieart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break. 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your worth a lasting love ensures, 

Unfetter'd in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue. 

Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, wo, my friends, can ne'er forgot, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells vith lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart aud not whose icricy slugs ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

[First pubhshed, 1832.] 



1 Harrow. 2 [The Earl of Clare.— See p. 416 ] 

3 [The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare, 
an epistle containing this passage :—" I think by your last 
letter that you are very much piqued with most of your 
friends ; and, if I am not much mistal^en, a little so with 
me. In one part you say, ' tliere Is little or no doubt a few 
years, or months, will render us as politely indltlerent to 
each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time 
together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me ; and I have no 
doubt — at least I hope — you wrong yourself."! 

* [It is diflicult to conjecture for what reason, — but these 
stanzas were not included in the publication of 1807 ; though 
fowwill hesitate to place them higher than any thing given in 
that volume. " Written when tlie author was not nineteen 
years of age, this remarkable poem shows," says Moore, 
" Low early the struggle between natural piety and doubt 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE* 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 

Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou seest my soul is dark within ; 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from mo the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path 01 .'uth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; • 

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless thrcne.' 

Shall man condemn his race to nell. 
Unless they bend in pompous form? 

Toll us that all, for one who fell. 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or wo? 
Shall reptiles, grovellingon the ground, 

Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those who live for self alone, 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear ; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak. 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear 1 

Thou who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of aether's space ; 

Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : — 



began in his mind." In reading the celebrated critique of 
the Edinburgh Review on the "Hours of Idleness," the 
fact that the volume did not include tliis poem, ought to be 
kept in mind.] 

6 [The poet appears to"have had in his mind one of Mr, 
Southey's juvenile pieces, beginning,— 

" Go, thou, unto the house of prayer, 
I to the woodlands will repair." 
See also Childe Harold, canto iii. st. 91— 
" Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of carth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak 
Uprear'd of human hands," &.C.1 



424 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tliou, who in wisdom placed me hero, 

Wlio, vvlieu tliou wilt, can take mo heuce 

All I whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

^Vhatever weal or wo betide. 
By th)' command I rise or fall, 

In thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust 's restored, 

My sou] shall float on airy wing. 
How shall thy glorious name adored 

Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 

But, if this fleeting spirit share 

With clay the grave's eternal bed. 

While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit tlie dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past. 
And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring life may fly at last. 

Becember 29, 1806. 
[First pubhshed, 1830.J 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.' 

Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico. — Hor. 

Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm, 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow. 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood. 
Some lurking envious fear intrude. 
To check my bosom's fondest thought. 

And interrupt the golden dreanr, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught. 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Our raptured visions as before. 
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion- — 
Age will not every hope destroy. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring : 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers. 



» [This young gentleman, who was with Lord Byron toth 
at Har ;w and Cambridge, afterwards entered the Guards, 
and se-v'jd with distinction in the expedition to Copen- 
hagen Ae was drowned early in 18(10, when on his way 
M join '-he army in the Peninsula ; tlie transport in which 
he sailed being run foul of in the night by another of the 



Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control. 
Confines the current of the scil. 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted needless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's wo. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yA delays, 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrcnc o'er: 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I'll think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is pass'd. 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast. 

When luU'd by zephyj to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now without a theme to choose. 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown ; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone. 

And Mary 's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which roU'd on me, 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to flee ; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays, 
His beams alike to all displays, 
And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her. 
Whose sun displays a general summer J 
Thus faint is every former flame. 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low. 

The aid which once improved their light, 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches ail their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a boy and girl remembers. 
While all the force of love expires, 

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon. 
And clouds obscure the watery moon. 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse ; 



,'onvoy. " Long's father," says Lord Byron, " wrote to me 
to write his son's epitaph. 1 promised— but I liad not the 
heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being 
as rarely remains long m this world ; with talent and ac- 
complishments, too, to make him the more regretted."— 
Byron Diary, 182L] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



425 



For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere you silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend. 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ;' 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We'll mingle in the festive crow ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away, 
And ail the flovv of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower. 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



TO A LADY.^ 



On ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear'd a token. 

These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken.' 

To thee these early faults I owe. 
To thee, the wise and old reproving: 

They know my sins, but do not know 
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure. 
And all its rising fires could smother ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by thee upon another 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy. 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 

My heart uo more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid. 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy,waste of years. 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, 

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures- 



' [The two friends were both passionately attached to 
Harrow : and sometimes made excursions thither together, 
to revive 'heir schoolboy recollections.] 

2 [Mrs. Musters. See ante, p. 394.] 

3 [" Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had 
been shed by our fathers— it would have joined lands broad 
and rich — it would have joined at least one heart, and two 
persons not ill matched in years, (she is two years my elder,) 
and — and — and— wAai Iils been the result V— Byron Diary, 
1821 ] 

* [" Our meetings," says Lord Byron, in 1822, " were stolen 
onojj, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to 
tnosc o( my mother was the place of aur interviews. But the 



54 



If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
This cheek now pale from early riot, 

With passion's hectic ne'er had fiush'd. 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ;* 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys : 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
In spite of every vain endeavor, — 

And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
To know that thou art lost forevp' 



I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 

I WOULD I were a careless child. 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild. 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon^ pride 

Accords not with the frceborn soul. 
Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take back this name of splendid sotmd ! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design'd for me ; 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man mast cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss : 
Truth I — wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

[ loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled ; 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul. 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still.' 



ardor was all on my side. I was serious ; she was volatile : 
she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed 
at me as a boy ; she, however, gave me her picture, and that 
was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, per- 
haps the whole tenor of my life would have been different."] 
6 Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either 
Lowland or English. 

6 [The " imagination all compact," which' the greatest poet 
who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge jf bis 
brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, 
indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor liope, 
where hope is lost to reason : butihedclusivep easurearismg 
from these visions of imagination resembles that of a cliild, 



426 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, thoiirrh neitlier friends nor foes. 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelinfjs still the same, 
And I will fly the midnisrht crew. 

Where boist'roiis joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now. 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid wo, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or, seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
Mv breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
01;«! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest ! 
Tlien would I cleave the vault of heaven. 

To fleo away, and be at rest.' 



WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER- 

W^HEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark 
heath. 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow !^ 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath. 

Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd belov.',' 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear. 

And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 

Need I say, my sweet Mary,^ 'twas centred in you? 



whose notice is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a 
sunbeam has Riven momentary splendor. He hastens to the 
spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his 
curiosity and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. 
.Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagination. 
His mcy over-estimates the object of his wishes, and plea- 
sure, I'aine, distinction, are alternately pursued, attained, and 
despised when in his power. Lil«e the enchanted fruit in 
the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose 
their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the 
adventurer's hand, and all that remains is regret for the time 
lost in the chase, and astonishment at the hallucination un- 
der which it was undertaken. The disproportion between 
hope and possession, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled 
to those whom nature has endoived with the powerof gilding 
a distant prospect by the rays of imagination. These reflec- 
tions, though trite and obvious, are in a manner forced from 
us by the poetry of Lord Byron, — by the sentiments of weari- 
ness of life and enmity with the v.'orld which they so frequent- 
ly express,— and by the smgular analogy which such senti- 
ments hold with well-known incidents 7! his life.— Sir W. 
Scott.] 

1 " And I said. Oh ! that I had wings like a dove : for then 
would I fly away, and be at rest."— Pso/m Iv. 6. This verse 
also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our 
language. 

2 Morven, a lofty n<?)untain in Aberdeenshire. " Gormal 
of snow," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossiau. 

3 This will not appear extraordinary to those who have 
been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means un- 
common, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, &c. 
to perceive, between tlie summit and the valley, clouds pour- 
iag down rain, arid occasionally accompanied by lightning, 
while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, 
perfectly secure from its eiTects. 

4 [In Lord Byron's Diary for 1813, he says,—" I have been 
thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff. How very odd that 
I should have been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl, at 



Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new : 
And few were my wants, for my Welshes were bless'd : 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was wit!; 
you. 

I arose with the dawn : with my dog as my guide, 

From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 
I breasted the billows of Dee's* rushing tide, 

And heard at a distance the Highlandi.:'s song: 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repise. 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose. 

For the first of iny prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more ; 
As the last of my race, I must wither alone. 

And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
Ah ! splendor has raised, but embitter'd, my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew : 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;" 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that cndear'd the rude scene ; 
When, haply, soine light-waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long-flowing ringlets of gold. 

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once oiore 
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow :' 



an age when I could neither feel passion, nor know the 
meaning of the word. And the effect I My mother used 
always to rally me about this cliildish amour ; and, at last, 
many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one day; 
' Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Miss 
Abercromby, and your old sweetheart, Mary Duff, is married 
to a Mr. Cockburn.' [Robert Cockburn, Esq. of Edinburgh.] 
And what was my answer? I really cannot explain or ac- 
count for my feelings at that moment ; but they nearly 
threw me into convulsions — to the horror of my mother, and 
the astonishment of everybody. And it is a phenomenon in 
my existence (for I was' not eight years old) which has 
puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it." — Again, 
in January, 1815, a few days after his marriage, in a letter 
to his friend Captain Hay, the poet thus speaks of his child- 
ish attachment : — " Pray tell me more— or as much as you 
like, of your cousin Mary. 1 believe I told you our story 
some years ago. I was twenty-seven a few days ago, and I 
have never seen her since we were children, and young 
children too; but I never forget her, nor ever can. You 
will oblige me with presenting her with my best respects, 
and all good wishes. It mav seem ridiculous— but it is, at 
any rate/ I hope, not offensive to her nor hers— in me to 
pretend to recollect any thing about her, at so early a period 
of both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nurseries :— 
but it was a pleasant dream, which she must paixlon me for 
remembering. Is she pretty still? I have the most perfect 
idea of her person, as a child ; but Time, I suppose, has 
played the devil with us both. "J 

s " Breasting the lofty surge." — SHAKspE.4.nE. The ^ee 
is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls 
into the sea at New Aberdeen. 

6 Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, 
not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. 

' [Inthespringof 1807, on recovering from a severe illness. 
Lord Byron had projected a visit to Scotland. The plan was 
not put into execution ; but he thus adverts to it, in a letter 
dated in August, and addressed to his fair correspoodent ol 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



427 



But whilo these soar above me, unchanged as before, 
Will Mary be there to receive me? — ah, no ! 

Adieu, then", ye hills, where my childhood was bred. 
Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 

No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 

Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with 
you? 



TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR.- 

Oii ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true ; 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 

The attachment of years in a moment expires : 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion. 

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable faes. 

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together. 
And bless'd were the scenes of our youth, I allow : 

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 

No more with affection shall memory blending, 
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 

When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending. 
And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear George, for I still m.ust esteem you — 
The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem 
you. 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
With me no corroding resentment shall live : 

My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, 

That botli mav be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 

You knew rne unalter'd by years or by distance, 
Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affijction no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection. 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 

For tfie present, we part, — I will hope not forever ; 

For time and regret will restore you at last: 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, 

I ask no atonement, but days hko the past. 



Southwell—" On Sunday I set off for the Highlands. A 
friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edin- 
burgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed m a tandem 
through the western parts to Inverary, where we shall 
purchase shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible 
to vehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire a 
vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, 
if we have time and favorable weather, mean to sail as far 
as Lielanu, only three hundred miles from the northern ex- 
tremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. I mean to collect 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE 

" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor, et caricomitis ne abscedat imago." Val Flag. 

Friend of my youth ! when young we roved, 
Like striplings, mutually beloved. 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy houra 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I've known, 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, adieu ! 

IVIy pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes ic be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes if gretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 
. And we may meet — ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How scan, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or wo, 
' Though near, alas ! distinctly flow. 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear. 

And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in difl'crent channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals ; 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have (piitted every amorous poet. 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he, who sang before all, — , 
He who the lore of love expanded, — 
By dire reviewers should be branded. 

As void of wit and moral.'^ 



all the Erse traditions, poems, &c., &c., and translate, or 
expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next 
spring, under the denomination of ' The Highland Harp,' or 
some title equally picturesque. What would you say to some 
stanzas on Mount Hecla 1 They would be written at least 
with /ire."] 

1 fSee ante, p. 418.] 

2 These stanzas were written soon after the appear.ince of 
a severe critique, in a northern review, on a new publication 
of the British Anacreon.— [See EdinburghReview, July, 1807, 



428 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And yet, while Ijpauty's praise is thine, 
liannonious favorite of the Nuie ! 

Repiiio not at thy lot. 
Tliy Koothiii;^ lays may still bo read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I innst yield those worthies merit, 
Who chasten, with unsparin<r spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those wiio write them ; 
And though myself may bo the next, 
By critic sarcasm to bo vex'd, 

I really will not fight them.' 

Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner. 
■He who offends at pert nineteen. 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very hardon'd sinner. 

Now, Clare, I must return to you ; 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear('lare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from loft to riglit ! 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould bo your fato 
To add one star to royal state ; — 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign. 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound. 
Where specious rivals glitter round. 

From snares may saints preserve you ; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care. 

But those who best deserve you ! 

Not for a moment may you stray 
JVom truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no dc^liglits decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footste])s move, 
Your smiles bo over smiles of love, 

Your tears bo tears of joy I 

Oh ! if yon wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow ; 
Be still as yon were wont to bo. 
Spotless as you've been known to me, 

Be s[iil as you are n^> v.^ 



article on " Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas 
Little, Esq."] 

1 A bard (horresoo referens) defied his reviewer to mortal 
combat. If tliis x^xaiuplc becomes prevalent, our periodical 
censors must l)c dipjicd in the river Styx : for wliat else can 
secure them from the numerous host of their enraged as- 
sailants ? 

» ['• Of all I have ever known. Clare has always been the 
least altered in every tiling from the excellent qualities and 
!;ind aHeclions which attached me to him so strongly at 
ic!i0v)l. I [.hould hardly have thought it possible for society 
(.)r the world, as it is called) to leave a being witli so little 
of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak from personal 



And though some trifling share of praise. 
To cheer my last declining days. 

To mo were doul)lv dear ; 
Wiiilst blessing your beloved name, 
I'd waive at once a poet's fame, 

To prove a propliet hero. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN 
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.^ 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh. 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
Where now alono I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod ; 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, 
Ijiko me, the happy scones they knew belure: 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill. 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
But, ah I without the thoughts which then were 

mine : 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blaot.. 
Invite the bosom to recall the past. 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
" Take, whilst thou can, a lingering, last farewell !" 

When fato shall chill, at length, this fevcr'd breast 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought, 'twould sootho my dying hour, — 
If aught may sootho when life resigns her power, — 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to 

die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Hero might I sleep where all my hopes arose. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
Forever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where onco my childhood play'd ; 
Wrapp'd by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved ; 
Biess'd by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, 
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those in early days allied. 
And miromembcr'd by the world beside. 

September 2, 1807 



[The "Lines written beneath an Elm at Harrow,'' v>ctc 
the last in the little volume printed at Nt^oark in 1S07. The 
reader is referred to Mr. Moore^s Notices, for various in- 
teresting particulars respecting the impression produced on 
Lord Byron's mind by the celebrated Critigue of his juvenile 



experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him 
from others, during absence and distance."— Byron Diary, 
1821.] 

3 [On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822, 
Lord Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, 
"where," he says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, "I once 
hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he adds, "a 
spot in tlie churchyard, near the footpath, on the brow of the 
hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large 
tree, (bearing the name of Peaehie, or Pcacliey,) where 1 
used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This v»as my 
favorite spot ; but as I wisli to erect a tablet to her memory, 
the body had better be deposited in the church;"— w\^ it 
was so accordingly.] 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



429 



performances, put forth in the Edinburgh Review,— a journal 
which, at that time, possessed nearly undivided influence and au- 
thority. 'Die Poet's diaries and letters afford evidence that, in 
hi.s latter days, he considered this piece as the work of Mr. (now 
Lord) Brougham ; but on what grounds he had come to that con- 
elusion he nowhere mintions. It forms, however, from whatever 
pen it may have proceeded, so impor.ant a link in Lord Byron'' s 
bte'ary liistory, that we insert it at length.] 

ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, 
FOR JANUARY, 1808. , 

Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, original and translated. 
«y George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. New- 
ark, 1807. 

riiE poesy of this young lord belongs to the nlass •which 
neither pods nor men are said \i permit. Indeed, we do 
not recollect to have seen a quantity of verse uith so few 
deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His 
effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get 
above or below the level, llian if tliey were so mncli stag- 
nant water. As an extenuation of this ofl'ence, tlie noble 
author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We h^e 
it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume ; it 
follows his name like a favorite part of his style. Much 
stress is laid upon it in the preface ; and the poems are con- 
nected v/ilti this general statement of iiis case, by particular 
dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. 
Now, the law upon tlie point of minority we hold to be per- 
fectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; 
no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. 
Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for 
the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain 
quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, 
it is liighly probable that an exception would be taken, were 
he to deliver/or poc<ry the contents of this volume. To this 
he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary 
tender of tlie article, he hath no riglit to sue, on that grounci, 
for the price in good current praise, should the goods be un- 
marketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, 
we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in 
reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a 
view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. 
He possibly means to say, "See liow a minor can write! 
This poem was actually composed by a young man of eigh- 
teen, and this by one of only sixteen !'' But, alas ! we all re- 
member the poetry of Cov/Jey at ten, and Pope at twelve ; 
and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that 
very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving 
school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this 
to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it happens 
in the life of nine men in ten who arc educated in England ; 
and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron. 
His other plea of privilege our autlior rather brings for- 
ward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does 
allude frequently to his family and ancestors — sometimes in 
poetry, sometimes in notes ; and, while giving up his claim 
on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. 
Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an au- 
thor, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In 
truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give 
Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, besides our de- 
sire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, 
and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his oppor- 
tunities, which are great, to belter account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to as.sure 
him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when 
accompanied "^y the presence of a certain number of feet, — 
nay, alUiough (which does not always happen) those feet 
should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately 
upon the fingers, — is not the whole art of poetry. We woulJl 
entreat him to believe, that a certani portion of liveliness, 
somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem, and 
that a poem in the present day, to be ret.'., must contain at 
i least one thought, eii her in a littio degree different from the 
ideas of loriner writers, or dilfercntly expressed. We put it 
to his can(l()r, whether there is any thing so deserving the 
name ot poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806 , 
and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so 
uninteresting tolas ancestors, a youth of nineteen should 
publish it :— 

" Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu'! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imijarting 
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 

" Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret : 

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 



" That fame, and that memory, still will he cherisn ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown , 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own." 

Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing better 
than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's 
volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what 
the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons 
(ii3 he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) 
lire odious. Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have 
kept out the ten hobbling stanzas, " On a distant View cl 
th'd Village and School of Harrow." 
" Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied. 
How welcome to me your i;?'»--fading remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, ii.ougli hope is denied." 
In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, " On a 
Tear," might have warned the noble author off those pre- 
mises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as t'-e 
following : — 
" Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused ir a Tear. 
" The man doom'd to sail with '.he blast of the gale, 
Through billows Atlantic tc steer. 
As he bends o'er the wave, whicii may soon be his grave., 

The green sparkles bright with a Tear." 
And so of instances in which former poets have failed. 
Thus we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, 
during his nonage, "Adrian's Address to his Soul," when 
Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our read- 
ers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it. 
"Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay I 
To what unknown region borne 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humor gay. 
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 
However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and 
imitations are great favorites with Lord Byron. We have 
them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing 
them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print 
them after they have had their day and served their turn? 
And why call the thing in p. 7'J (see p. .300) a translation, 
where two words (ScXu) \cyciv) of the original are expanded 
into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, (see Hid.) where 
pcaovvKTiaii Tcod' wpaig is rendered by means of six hobbling 
verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good 
judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species 
of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criti- 
cising some bit of the genuine Macphcrson itself, were we 
to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, 
the following beginning of a " Song of Bards" is by his lord- 
ship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can compre- 
hend it. " What form rises on the roar of clouds ? whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His 
voice rolls on the thunder ; 'tis Orla, the brown chief of 
Oilhona. He was," &c. After detaining this " brown chief" 
some time, the bards conclude by giving him their advice to 
"raise his fair locks;" then to "spread them on the arch 
of the rainoow ;" and " to smile through the tears of the 
storm." Of this kind of thing there are no less than nine 
pages ; and we can so far venture an opinion in their favor, 
that they look very like Macpherson ; and we are positive 
they are pretty nearly as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists ; but Ihey 
should " use it as not abusing it ;" and particularly one who 
piques himself (though indeed at the ripe uge of nineteen) 
on being " an infant bard,"— (" The artless Helicon I boast 
is youth'') — should either not know, or shoultt seem not to 
know, so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem 
above cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, we have an- 
other of eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced 
with an apology, " he certainly had no intention of inserting 
it," but really "the particular request of some friends," 
&c. tec. It concludes with five stanzas on himself, "the 
last and youngest of a noble line." There is a good deal 
also about his maternal ancestors, in a poam on Lachin y 
Gair, a mountain where he spent part of his youth, and 
might h;ive learned that pibroch is not a bagpipe, any more 
than duet means a fiddle. 

As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume 
K) immortalize his employments at school and college, we 
cannot possibly dismiss it without presenting the reader 
with a specimen of these ingenious eifusions. In an ode 
with a Greek motto, called Granla, we have tiie following 
magnificent stanzas : — 



430 



BYRON'S WORKS 



" There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for college prizes 
Sits pormg by the midnight lamp. 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

" Who reads false quantities in Sele, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle. 
Deprived of many a wholesome meal, 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle : 

"Renouncing every pleasing page, 
From authors of historic use. 
Preferring to the letter'd sage, 
The square of the hypothenuse 

" Still harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless studenc, 
Compared with other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent." 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college 
I salmody as is contained in the following Attic stanzas :— 

" Our choir would scarcely be excused 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners 

" If David, when his toils were ended. 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him. 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em 1" 

But, whatever judgment may be passed on the poems of 
this noble minor, it seems we must take them as we find 
thom, and be content ; for they are the last we shall ever 
have from him. He is, at best, he says, but an intruder into 
the groves of Parnassus : he never Lived in a garret, like 



thorough-bred poets ; and " though he once roved a care- 
less mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he has not 
of late enjoyed this advantage. Moreover, he expects no 
profit from his publication ; and, whethtr it succeeds or not, 
" it is highly improbable, from his situation and pursuits 
hereafter," that he should again condescend to become an 
author. Therefore, let us take what we get, and be tharJi- 
ful. What right liave we poor devils to be nice ? We are 
well off to have got so much from a man of this lord's sta- 
tion, who does not live in a garret, but "has the sway" of 
Newstead Abbey. Again, we say, let us be thankful ; and, 
with honest Sancho, bid God bless the giver, nor look the 
gift horse in the mouth * 



* [The Monthly Reviewers, in those days the next ir. ;. ir- 
culation to the Edinburgh, gave a much more favorable 
notice of the " Hours of Idleness." " These compositions 
(said they) are generally of a plaintive or an amatory cast, 
with an occasional mixture of satire ; and they display both 
ease and strength— both pathos and fire. It will be expected 
that marks of juvenility and of haste should be discovered 
in these productions ; and we seriously advise our young 
bard to fulfil with submissive perseverance, the duties of 
revision and correction. We discern, in Lord Byron, a de- 
gree of mental power, and a turn of mental disposition, 
which render us solicitous that both should be well culti- 
vated and wisely directed, in his career of life. He has 
received talents, and is accountable for the use of them. 
We trust that he will render them beneficial to man, and a 
source of real gratification to himself in declining age. 
Then may he properly exclaim with the Roman orator, 
' non lubet mihi deplorare vitam, quod multi, et ii docti, 
saepe fecerunt ; neque me vixisse poenitet : quoniam ita vixi, 
ut non frustra me natum existimem.' "—Lord Byron repaid 
the Edinburgh Critique with a satire— and became himself 
a Monthly Reviewer.^ 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS: 



A SATIRE.* 



'' I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."— Shakspeabb 

" Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true, 
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." — Pope. 



PREFACE.' 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged 
me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I 
were to be "' turned from the career of my humor 
by quibbles quick, iud paper bullets of the brain," 
I should have corapi.dd with their counsel. But I 
am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by re- 
viewers, with or without arms. I can safely say 
that I have attacked none personally, who did not 
commence on the offensive. An author's works are 
public property: ho who purchases may judge, and 
publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I 
have endeavored to commemorate may do by me 



1 [The first edition of this satire, which then uegan with 
what is now the ninety-seventh line, (" Time was, ere yet," 
&c.,) appeared, in March, lb09. A second, to which the 
author prefixed his name, followed in October of that year ; 
and a third and fourth were called for during his first pil- 
grimage, in 1810 and 1811. On his return to England, a fifth 
edition was prepared for the press by himself, with con- 
siderable care, but suppressed, and, except one copy, de- 
stroyed, when on the eve of publication. The text is now 
printed from the copy that escaped ; on casually meeting 
with which, in 1815, he reperused the whole, and wrote on 
the margin some annotations, which also we shall preserve, 
—distinguishing them, by the insertion of their date, from 



as I have done by them I dare say tliey will suc- 
ceed better in condemning my scribblings, than in 
mending their own. But my object is not to prove 
that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others 
write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I 
expected, I have endeavored in this edition to make 
some additions and alterations, to render it more wor- 
thy of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's 
Pope were written by, and inserted at the request 
of, an ingenious friend of mine,' who has now in 
the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition 



those affixed to the prior editions. The first of these MS 
notes of 1816 appears on the fly-leaf, and runs thus :— " The 
binding of this volume is considerably too valuable for the 
contents ; and nothing but the consideration of its being the 
property of another, prevents me from consigning Ihis mis- 
erable record of misplaced anger and indiscriminate acri- 
mony to the flames."] 

2 This preface was written for the second editicn, and 
printed with it. The noble author had left tins country 
previous to the publication of that edition, aii'l is not yet 
returned.— A'o/c to the fourth edition, 1811.— [" He is, and. 
gone again." — Lord B. 1816.] 

3 [Mr. Hobhouse. See post, p. 436, note.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



431 



they are erased, and some of my own substituted in 
their stead ; my only reason for this being that which 
I conceive would operate with any other person in the 
same manner, — a determination not to publish with 
my name any production, whiqh was not entirely and 
exclusively my own composition. 

With' regard to the real talents of many of the 
poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or 
alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the 
author that there can be little difference of opinion in 
the public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each 
has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom 
his abilities are overrated, his faults overlooked, and 
his metrical canons received without scruple and with- 
out consideration. But the unquestionable possession 
of considerable genius by several of the writers here 
censured renders their mental prostitution more to be 
regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, 
laughed at and forgotten ; perverted powers demand 
the most decided reprehension. No one can wish 
more than the author that some known and able wri- 
ter had undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. GifFord 
has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence 
of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, 
in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe 
his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable 
an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his 
treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered ; 
as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery 
can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the 
present prevalent and distressing rabies for rhyming. 
— As to the Edinburgh Reviewers,^ it would indeed 
require a Hercules to crush the Hydra ; but if the 
author succeeds in merely " bruising one of the heads 
of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer in 
the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.^ 



1 [Here the prefacD .,0 the first edition commenced.] 

2 [" I well recollect," said Lord Byron, in 1821, "the ef- 
fect which the critique of the Edinburgh Reviewers on my 
first poem, had upon me— it was rage and resistance, antl 
redress ; but not despondency nor despair. A savage review 
is hemlock to a sucking author, and the one on me (which 
produced the English Bards, &c.) knocked me down — but I 
got up agam. That critique was a master-piece of low wit, 

'a tissue of scurrilous abuse. I remember there was a great 
deal of vulgar trash, about people being ' thankful for what 
they could >; .-t,' — 'not lookmg a gift horse in the mouth,' 
and such staole expressions. But so far from their bullying 
me, or deterring me from writing, I was bent on falsifying 
their raven predictions, and determined to show them, 
croak as they would, that it was not the fast time they 
should hear from me."] 

3 [" The severity of the criticism," as Sir Egerton Brydges 
has well observed, " touched Lord Byron in the point where 
his original strength lay : it wotmded his pride, and roused 
his bitter indignation. He published ' English Bards and 
Scotch Reviewers,' and bowed down those who had hither- 
to held a despotic victory over the public mind. There was, 
after all, more in the boldness of the enterprise, in the fear- 
lessness of ihe attack, than in ns intrinsic force. But the 
moral effect 1 if the gallantry of the assault, and of the justice 
of the cause, made it victorious and triumphant. This was 
one of those lu'^ky developments which cannot often oc- 
cur ; and which hxed Lord Byron's fame. From that day 
he engaged Ihe public notice as a writer of undoubted 
talent and energy both of intellect and temper ] 

* Imit. — 

" Semper ego auditor tantum 1 nunquamne reponam, 
Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri V — Juv. Sat. I. 

5 [" Hotir.ie Fitzgerald." — " Right enough ; but why notice 
such a mountebank. "—Byron, 1816.] 

6 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the 
" Small Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on 
the Literary Fund : not content with writing, he spouts in 
person, after the company have imbibed a rea.sonable quan- 
tity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.— 



ENGLISH BAEDS, ETC. 



Still must I hear ?■* — shall hoarse Fitzgerald' baw 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall," 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub mo scribbler, and denounce my muso ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ' 
The pen ! foredoom'd to aid the niental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again. 
Our task complete, like Hamet's' shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me : 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream* 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who naught beside obey ; 



[For the long period of thirty-two years, this harmless 
poetaster was an attendant at the anniversary dinners of the 
Literary Fund, and constantly honored the occasion with 
an ode, which he himself recited with most comical dignity 
of emphasis. He was fortunate in having for his patron 
Viscount Dudley and Ward, on whose death, without a will, 
his benevolent intentions towards the bard were fulfilled by 
his son, the late Earl Dudley, who generously sent him a 
draft for 50007. Fitzgerald died in 1S29. Of his numerous 
loyal efiusions only a single line has survived its author; but 
the characteristics of his style have been so happily hit off 
in the " Rejected Addkesses" — (a work which Lord Byron 
has pronounced to be " by far the best thing of the kind 
since the Rolliad,")— that we cannot resist the temptation 
of an extract : — 

" Who burnt (confound his soul 1) the houses twain, 
Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane 7 
Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork, 
(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York !) 
With a foul earthquake ravaged tlie Caraccas, 
And raised the price of drygoods and tobaccos ? 
Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise T 
Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies ? 
Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch? 
Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch 7 — 
Why he, who forging for this isle a yoke, 
Reminds me of a line I lately spoke— 
' The tree of freedom is the British Oak.' 
Bless every man possess'd of aught to give ! 
Long may Long Tilney Wellesley Long Pole live ! 
God bless the army, bless their coats of scarlet ! 
God bless the navy,' bless the Princess Charlotte 1 
God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff! 
God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off' 
And oh ! in Downing-street should Old Nick revel, 
England's prime minister, then bless the Devil !"] 
' Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in tne 
last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh! that our vokn-nous 
gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 

8 ["This must have been written in the spirit of pro 
phecy."— B. 1816 ] 



432 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to otlier fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for mo to chase, 
And yield at least amusement ',n the race: 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthj'' praise or blame ; 
I printed — older children do the same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
A book 's a book, although there's nothing in 't, 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farco from shame.' 
No matter, George continues still to write," 
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-samo road, but make my own review : 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy 

A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forgo a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 



1 This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, 
with his production, in another place. 

2 In the Edinburgh h,e '-.ew.— [" He's a very good fellow , 
and, except his motter and sister, the best of the set, to my 
mind."— B. 1S16.] 

3 Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and omega, the 
first and the last of the Edinburgh Review : the others arc 
mentioned hereafter. — [" This was not just. Neither the 
heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at all what they 
are here represented. At the time this was written, I was 
personally unacquainted with either."— B. 1616. J 

< Imit. " Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique 

occurras periturse parcere chartae." — 

Juv. Sat. I. 
6 Imit " Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere campo 

Per quein magnus equos Auruncaj flexit alum- 
nus : 
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam." — 
Jav. Sat. I. 
6 [The first edition of the Satire opened with this line 
and Lord Byron's original intention was to preiix the fol- 
lowing— 

" AnoUMENT. 

" The poet considereth times past, and their poesy— makes 
a sudden transition Ic times present- is incensed against 
Dook-makers— revileth Walter Scott for cupidity and ballad- 
mongenng, with notable remarks on Master Southey— com- 
piameth tha Master Southey hath inflicted three poems, 
epic and otlierwise, on the pubhc— mveigheth against WU 



Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment? no— as soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey s heart, or Lambe's Bceoti.an head.^ 
To these young tyrants,^ by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe. 
And hail their vc :e as truth, their word as law — 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, oi <'-hom to shun ; 
Nor know we when to spare, or v.i.ere to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me,^ why I -venture o'er 
The path which Fope and Gifford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
"But hold!" exclaims a friend, — "here's some 

neglect : 
This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got. 
And careless Diyden — " Ay, but Pyo has not :"— 
Indeed I — 'tis granted, faith I — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days* 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise. 
When sense and wit with poesy allied. 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by .side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's^ pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 



liam Wordsworth, but laudeth Mister Coleridge and his 
elegy on a young ass — is disposed to vituperate Mr. Lewis 
—and greatly rebuketh Thomas Little (the late) and the 
Lord Struiigford — recommendeth Mr. Hayley to turn his at 
tention to prose — and exhorteth the Moravians to glorily 
Mr. Grahame— sympathizeth with the Rev. William Bowles 
— and dcploreth the melancholy fate of James Montgomery 
— breakeih out into invective against the Edinburgh Re- 
vitv>vio — ^^-..^vli them hard names, harpies and the like — 
apostrophizeth Jeffrey, and prophesieth. — Episode of Jef- 
frey and Moore, their jeopardy and deliverance ; portents 
on the morn of the combat ; the Tweed, Tolbooth, Frith 
of Forth, severally shocked ; descent of a goddess to save 
Jeffrey ; incorporation of the bullets with his sinciput and 
occiput. — Edinburgh Reviews en 7nasse. — Lord Aberdeen, 
Herbert, Scott, Hallam, Pillans, Lambe, Sydney Smith, 
Brougham, &i,. — The Lord Holland applauded for dinners 
and translations. — The Drama ; Skefiiiigton, Hook, Rey- 
nolds, Kenney, Cherry, &c.— Sheridan, Colinan, and Cum- 
berland called upon to write. — Return to poesy— scribblers 
of all sorts— lords sometimes rhyme ; much better not — 
Hafiz, Rosa Matilda, and X. Y. Z.— Rogers, Campbell, Gif- 
ford. &.C. true poets— Translators of the Greek Anthology 
—Crabbe— Darwin's style— Cambridge— Seatonian Prize — 
Smythe — Hodgson — Oxford — Richards — Poeta loquitur — 
Conclusion."] 

' [When Lord Byron, in the autumn of 1808, was occu- 
pied upon this Satire, he devoted a considerable portion of 
his time to a deep study of tlie writings of Pope ; and from 
that period may be dated his enthusiastic admiration of thia 
great poet ] 



r 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



433 



A polish 'd iKitioii's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame, 
liike him great Dryden ponr'd the tide of song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet douhly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Otway's melt— 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feehler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our liugering looks are cast. 
When taste and reason with those times are pass 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page. 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow. 
No dearth of bards can be complaiu'd of now ' 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans, 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking shelves. 
And Little's lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
Thus saith the preacher: " Naught beneath the sun 
Is new ;" yet still from change to change we run: 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne. 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ;^ 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.^ 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
For notice eagei, pass in long reviev; : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 

1 [" One of my notions is, that the present is rot a high 
age of English poetry. There are more poets (soi-disant) 
than ever there were, and proporlionablyZes* poetry. This 
thesis I have maintained for jome years ; but, strange to 
say, it meeteth not with favor from my brethren of the 
shell."— «. Diary, 1821.] . ^ ^ ^ 

2 [" With regard to poetry in general, I am convmced that 
we are all upon a wrong revolutionary poetical system, not 
worth a damn in itself, and from which none but Rogers 
and Crabbe are free. I am the more confirmed in this by 
having lately gone over some of ovir classics, particularly 
Pope, whom 1 tried in this way:— I took Moore's poems, 
and mv own, and some others, and went over them side by 
side with Pope's, and I was really astonished and mortified 
at the ineft'able distance, in point of sense, learning, efTect, 
and even imagination, passion, and invention, between the 
httle Queen Anne's man, and us of the Lower Empire. 
Depend upon it, it is all Horace then, and Claudian now, 
among us ; and if I had to begin again, I would mould my- 
self accordingly."- ii. Dmry, 1817.] 

3 Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name 
of Hufiz. This personage is at present the most profound 
explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the reignmg 
family left Portugal, a special Ode of Master Stott's, be- 
ginning thus:— (.S'<of! loquitur quoad Hibernia.) — 

" Princely offspring of Braganza, 
Erin greets thee with a stanza," &c. 
Also a Sonnet to Rats, well worthy of the subject,, and a 
most thundering Ode, commencing as follows :— 
" Oh : for a Lay, loud as the surge 
That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
Lord have mercy on us I the " Lay of the Last Minstrel" 
was nothing to this. 

* See the •' Lay of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was 
any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of 
tins production. The entrance of Thunder and Lightning, 
prologuizing to Bayes' tragedy, unfortunately takes away 
the merit of originality from the dialogue between Mes- 
sieurs the Spirits of Flood and Fell in the first canto. 
Then we have the amiable William of Deloraine, "a slark 
moss-trooper," videlicet, a happy compound of poacher, 
£iu>cp-stcaler, and highwayman. The propriety of his 



65 



Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode \ 

And tales of terror jostle on the road , 

Immeasurable measures move along ; 

For simpering folly loves a varied song, 

To strange mysterious dulness stil' the friend, 

Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 

Thus Lays of Minstrels* — may they be the ast' — 

On half-strung harps whine mournful to the DiaoL 

While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 

That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 

And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood, 

Decoy young border-nobles through the wood. 

And skip at every step. Lord knows how high. 

And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 

While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 

Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 

Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 

And fifrht with honest men to shield a knave. 



Next view in state, proud prancing on his 
roan. 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the figtt, 
Not quite alfelon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott !^ by vain conceit per- 
chance. 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? 
No ! when the sons of song descend to trade. 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name. 
Who rack their brains for lucre," not for fame : 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain I 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 



magical lady's injunclion not to read can only be equalled 
by his candid acknowledgment of his independence of the 
trammels of speUing, although, to use his own elegant 
phrase, " 'twas his neck-verse at Harribee," i. e. the gal- 
lows.— The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvehous 
pedestrian page, who travelled twice as fast as his master's 
horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are c/ic/o- 
d'a:iivre in the improvement of taste. For incident we have 
the invisible, but by no means sparing box on the ear be- 
stowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight and 
charger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of 
a wain of hay. Marmion, the hero of the latter romance, 
is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had 
he been able to read and write. The poem was manu 
factured for IMessrs. Constable, Murray, and Miller, worship- 
ful booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of 
money ; and truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very 
creditable production. If iMr. Scott will write for hire, lef, 
him do his best for his pay-masters, but not disgrace his 
genius, which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black- 
letter ballad imitations. 

6 [" When Lord Byron wrote his famous satire, I had my 
share of flagellation among my betters. My crime wag 
having written a poem for a thousand pounds ; which was 
no otherwise true, than that i sold the copyright for that 
sum. Now, not to mention that an author can hardly be 
censured for accepting such a sum as the booksoUers are 
wilUng to give him, especially as the gentlemen of the 
trade made no complaints of their bargain, I thought the 
interference with my private atfairs was rather beyond the 
limits of literary satire. I was, however, so far from hav- 
ing any thing to do with the offensive criticism in the Edin- 
burgh, that I remonstrated against it with the editor, be- 
cause I thought the 'Hours of Idleness' treated with 
undue severity. They were written, like all juvenile 
poetry, rather from the recollection of what had j teased 
llie author in others, than what had been suggested hy his 
own imagination ; but, nevertheless, I thought they con 
tained passages of noble promise "—Sir Walteis Scot i-.! 

6 [Lord Byron, as is well known, set out with the de- 
termination never to receive money for his writings. For 
the liberty to repubhsh this saiire, he refused liur hurdrea 



434 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid a long "good-night to Marmion.'" 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was youno-, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, " 

An epic scarce ten centuries could claim. 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ; 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.' 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give. 

As even in ruin bids the language live. 

Not so with us, though minor bards content. 

On one great work a life of labor spent : 

With eagle pinion soaring to the skies. 

Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 

To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield. 

Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 

The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 



guineas; and the money paid for the copyright of the first 
and second cantos of Childe Harold, and of the Corsair he 
presented to Mr. Dallas In 1S16, to a letter enclosing a 
draft of 1000 gunieas, otfered by Mr. Murray for the Silge 
of Connlh and Parisina, the noble poet sent this answer ■— 
iour ofier is liberal in the extreme, and much more than 
the two poems can possibly be worth-but I cannot accept 
It, nor will not \ou are most welcome to them, as addi 
tions to the collected volumes, withouf anj demand or ex- 
pectation on my part whatever ; ha; e enclosed your draft 
torn, for fear of accidents by the way. I wish you would 
not throw temptation in mine ; it is not from a disdain of 
the universal idol— nor from a present superfluity of his 
treasures-I can assure you, that I refuse to worship him ■ 
but what IS right is right, and must not yield to rircum- 
stances. The poet was afterwards induced, at Mr Mur- 
ray s earnest persuasion, to accept the thousand guineas 
rhe subjoined sUUement of the sums paid by him at various 
tirics to Lord Byron for copyright may be considered a 
bibi-.'polic curiosity*:— 



Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phosnix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,' 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son ; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er kneu 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome. 
Forever reign— the rival of Tom Thumb! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence. 
Illustrious ronqueror of common sense I 
Now, last aim greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandevillc's, and not so true. 
Oh, Southey ! Southey ."^ cease thy varied song! 
A bard may chant too often and too long: 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way - 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, ' 

Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,® 
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
" God help thee," Southey,' and thy readers too.' 



Childe Harold, I. II. 

III. - 

-IV. 



Giaour 

Bride of Abydos ---... 

Corsair 

Lara ----.... 
Siege of Corinth - ..." 

Par-sina . . ... 

Lament of Tasso - . . . ' 

Manfred - .... 

Beppo --•--.." 

Don Juan, I. II. 

III. IV. V. - . . . 

Doge of Venice - - - . . 

Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari - 
Mazeppa ----.. 
Prisoner of Chillon - - . . ' . " 
Sundries ---... 
Hours of Idleness, English Bards and Scotc'h > 
fntnf rn''' "^"'* from Horace, Vl'erner. De- i 3,885 
T^fL h ^.'■''"''^^'■[^^''•"eavenandEarth.&c. i 
i/ile by Thomas Moore . . . . 4 oqo 

£23,540 

» : Good night to Marmion"— the nathetic and a^vr^ ^rr^ 

poem hx aiiuduig to Milton and Tasso, .fe consider the 



£ 600 

1575 

2100 

525 

525 

525 

700 

525 

525 

315 

315 

525 

3525 

1525 

1050 

1100 

525 

523 

450 



cf!^r f^«-^?'' ^"'^ "Gierusalemme Liberata," as their 
nfui^u f°'^^ = "5'=^ "^"'^'^•' '^•^ " Jerusalem Conouered" 
hL Im "'"' i""' "''= " Pa'-a'l'se Regained" of the English 
bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former 
poems. Query : Which of Mr. Southey's will survive 7 

3 "Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in 
open deliarice of precedent and poetry. Mr. S. wished to pro 
duce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. " Joan of 
Arc, was marvellous enough, but " Thalaba," was one of 
those poems " which," in the words of Poison, '' will be read 
when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, bul-not till then." 
* [" Of Thalaba, the wild and wondrous song."— Madoc] 
6 We beg Mr. Southey's pardon: "Madoc disdains the 
aegrading title of epic." See his preface. Whylsepfcde 
mIsipJ r^^V^ J"'°'"- Certainly the late romaunts of 
Masters Cottle, Laureat Pye, Ogilvy, Hole and eentiA 
llfTnl^T'''' have not ixaltecf th'e epif^u"'^; fuTal 
Mr. Southey's poem " disdams the appellation," allow us 
to ask-has he substituted any ti;mg better in its stead ? or 
must he be content to rival Sir Richard Blackmore in the 
quantity as well as quality of liis verse ? 

Snnfh^ " \^^ ^''^ Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr. 
BppW JniT '"'^'u f" ^^"' gentlewoman is carried iway by 
Beelzebub, on a " high-trottmg horse." 

frIJ'lh '''f^ .""^' \^°'^ help thee," is an evident plagiarism 
%TJn A"ti-J^'=°'''V, '<? ^^'"- Southey. on his Dactylics.- 
^n^th .^''■?." ^!^^^ ^"1''^' '" '^^'■- Gifford's parody on Mr. 
Southey's Dactylics, which ends thus :— ' 

" l^'e'er talk of ears again ! look at thy spelling-book : 
Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities- 
Dactylics, call'st thou 'em !—' God help thee, silly one.' "] 

i«n^^,'?''L?7''°,"w°" ''^'i"^ introduced to Mr. Southey in 
1813 at Ho land House, describes him " as the best-lookink 
bard he had seen for a long time."-" To have that poe"l 
r^in Ic"..'^ shoulders I would," he says, " almost have wr t! 
en his Sapphics. He is certamly a prepossessing person to 
look on and a man of talent, and all that, and there is his 
eulogy " In his Journal, of the same year, he says- 
Southey I have not seen much of. His appearance is 
emc, and he is the only existing entire man of letters All 
the others have some pursuit annexed to their authorship 
His manners are mild, but not those of a man of the w-orld' 
and his talents of the first order. His prose is perfect Of 
his poetry there are various opinions: there s, perhaps 
too much of It for the present generation-pos erhy will 
probably select. He has passages equal to any th ng A 
present, he has a part!, but no public-except for his prose 
writings. His Life of Nelson is beautiful." Elsewhere 
and later Lord Byron pronounces Southey's Den Rodeiick' 
" the first poem of our time."] ^uabncti, 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



435 



Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
Tho simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay- 
As soft as evening in his favorite May,' 
Wlio warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
An ! quit his books, for fear of growing double ;"^ 
Wiio, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
Tho idiot mother of " an idiot boy ;" 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way. 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day f 
So close on each pathetic part ho dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the " idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? 
Though themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse,* 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
Tho bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
He brays,'' the laureat of the long-ear'd kind.* 

Oh ! wonder-working Lewis T monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 
Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 



1 [" Unjust:'~B. 1816.] 

2 Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.—" ^he Tables Turned." Stanza 1. 

" Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 
Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
Or surely you'll grow double." 
^ Mr. W. in his preface labors hard to prove, that prose 
and verse are much the same ; and certainly his precepts 
and practice are strictly conformable :^ 
" And thus to Betty's questions, he 
Made answer like a traveller bold. 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 
And the sun did shine so cold," &c. &c., p. 129. 
^ Coleridge's Poems, p. II, Songs of the Pixies, i. e. Dev- 
onshire fairies ; p. 42, we have " Lines to a young Lady;" 
and p. 52, " Lines to a young Ass." 

6 [Thus altered by Lord Byron, in his last revision of the 
satire. In all former editions the line stood, 

" A fellow-feeling makes ns wond'rous kind." 
6 [" Unjust," B. 1816.— In a letter to Mr. Coleridge, written 
in 1815, Lord Byron says,-^" You mention my ' Satire,' lam- 
poon, or whatever you or others please to call it. I can only 
say,- that it was written when I was very young and very 
angry, and has been a thora in my side ever since : more 
particularly as almost all the persons animadverted upon be- 
came subsequently my acquaintances, and some of them my 
friends ; which is ' heapingfire upon an enemy's head,' and for- 
giving me too readily to permit me to forgive myself. The part 
applied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow enough ; but, 
although I have longdone everythingin my power to suppress 
the circulation of the whole thing, I shall always regret the 
wantonness or generality of many of its attempted attacks."] 
' [Jlatthew Gregory Lewis, M. P. for Ilindon, never dis- 
tinguished himself in Parliament, but, mainly in consequence 
of the clever use he made of his knowledge of the German 
language, then a rare accomplishment, attracted much notice 
in the literary world, at a very early period of his life. His 
T.iles of Terror ; the drama of the Castle Spectre ; and the 
.r<>in;'.ncn called the Bravo of Venice, (which is, however, 
little more than a version from the Swiss Zschocke ;) but 
aoove all the libidinous and impious novel of The Monk, in- 



Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand 

By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 

Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 

To please the females of our modest ao-e ; 

All hail, M. P. I' from whose infernal brain 

Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 

At whose command " grim women" throng in crowds, 

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 

With " small gray men," " wild yagers," and what not. 

To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott ; 

Again all hail . if tales like thine may please, 

St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease : 

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell. 

And in thy skull discern a»deeper hell 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire. 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion fla^h c 
Strikes his wild lyre, while listening dames are r ash d ' 
'Tis Little ! young Catullus of i.is day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his ley ! 
Grieved to condemn," the muse must still be just, 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no more."" 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue," 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue. 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense. 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 

vested the name of Lewis with an extraordinary degree of 
celebrity, during the poor period which intervened between 
the obscuration of Cowper, and the full display of Sir Walter 
Scott's talents, in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel."— a period 
which is sufficiently characterized by the fact, that Hayley 
then passed for a poet. Next to that solemn coxcomb, Lewis 
was for several years the fashionable versifier of his time ; 
but his plagiarisms, perhaps more audacious than had ever 
before been resorted to by a man of real talents, were by de- 
grees unveiled, and writers of greater original genius, as 
well as of purer taste and morals, successively emerging. 
Monk Lewis, dying young, had alrendy outlived his reputa- 
tion. In society he was to the last a favorite ; and Lord 
Byron, who had become well acquainted with him during 
his etperience of London life, thus notices his death, which 
occurred at sea in 1818: — " Lewis was a good man, a clever 
man, but a bore. My only revenge or consolation used to 
be setting him by the ears with some vivacious person who 
hated bores especially, — Madame de StaiU or Hobhouse, for 
example. But I liked Lewis ; he was the jewel of a man, 
had he ^een belter set ;— I don't mean personaUij, but less 
tiresome, for he was tedious, as well as contradictory to 
every thing and everybody. Poor fellow 1 he died a martyr 
to his new riches— of a second visit to Jamaica : — 

" I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again !" 
That is,— 

" I would give many a sugar cane, 
Mat Lewis were alive again :"] 

8 "For every one knows little Matt's an M.P." — See a 
poem to Mr. Lewis, in " The Statesman," supposed to be 
written by Mr. Jekyll. 

9 [In very early life, " Little's Poems" were Lord B}Ton's 
favorite study. " Heigho 1" he exclaims, in 1820, in a letter 
to Moore, " 1 believe all the mischief I have ever done, or 
sung, has been owing to that confounded book of yours."] 

10 [Originally, " mend thy life, and sin no more."] 

11 The reader, who may wish for an explanation of this, 
may refer to " Strangford's Camoens." p. 127, note to p. 56, 
or to the last page of the Edinburgh Review of StranglurJ's 
Camoens. 



436 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Think'st thou to fraii, thy verse a higher place, 

By dressing Camoons' in a suit of lace? 

Mond, Stranffford ! mend thy morals and thy taste • 

Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste: 

Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 

Nor teach the Lusiau bard to copy Moore. 

Behold ! — ye larts! one moment spare the text — 
Hayley's last work, and worst — until his next ; 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise. 
His style in youth or age is still the same, 
Forever feeble and forever tamo. 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs" shine ! 
At least I'm sure they trinmpli'd over mine. 
Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear 
That luckless music never triumph'd there.^ 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devdtion — Lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral (irahame,' pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
Brcjiks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
Ana boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, uni'isturb'd by conscientious qualms. 
Perverts ihe Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings* 
A thousand visions of a thousand things. 
And sho'^'s, still whimpering through threescore of 

years, 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 



1 It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the 
public as poems of Camoiins are no more to be found in the 
original Portuguese, than in tlic Song of Solomon. 

1 llayley's two most notorious verse productions are 
"Triumphs of Temper," and "The Triumph of Music." 
He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, &c. &c. 
As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, 
let us recommend Pope's advice to Wychciley to iSlr. II. 's 
consideration, viz. " to convert liis poetry into prose," which 
may be easily done by takuig away the (inal syllabic of each 
couplet. — [Tlie only performance for winch Ilayley is now 
remembered is his Life of Cowper. His personal history 
h->.s been sketched by Mr. Southey in the Quarterly Review, 
>-A. xxxi. p. 2G3.] 

» Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, 
under the name of "Sabbath Walks," and " Biblical Pic- 
. tares." — [This very amiable man, and pleasing poet, publish- 
ed subsequently " The Birds of Scotland," and other [fleces ; 
but his reputation rests on his " Sabbath." lie began life as 
an advocate at the Edinburgh b'lr; but he had little success 
there, and being of a melancholy and very devout tempera- 
ment, entered into holy orders, and retired to a curacy near 
Durhiun, where he died in 1811.] 

* [Immediately before this lino we find in the original 
manuscript, the following, which Lord Byron good-natured- 
ly cons(;nted to omit, at the request of Mr. Daiias, who was, 
no doubt, a fri-..d of the scribbler they refer to : — 

" In verse most stale, unprofitable, fl.at— 
Come, lot us change the scene, and ' glcan^ with Pratt , 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold : 
Degraded man ! again resume thy trade— 
The votaries of the Muse are ill repaid. 
Though daily pufis once more invite to'buy 
A new edition of thy ' Sympathy.' " 

To which this note was appended :—" Mr. Pratt, once a 
Bath bookseller, now a London author, has written as much, 
to as little purpose, as any of his scribbling cotemporaries. 
Mr. P.'s ' Sympatliy' is in rhyme ; but his prose productions 
are t/ie most voluminous." The more popular of these last 
were entitled " Gleamngs."] 

See Bowles's " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on 
hearing the Dells of Ostend." 

"Awake a -Older," &c. is the first line in Bowles's 



And art thou not Iheir prince, harmonious Bowles! 
Thou first, great oracle offender soul.s? 
Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
The fall of empires, or a yellow loaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bolls,'' 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still bles.s'd| 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the niauia of the amorous throng! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years: 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain." 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
Such as none heard before, or will again I 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood. 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captain Noah down to Cajjtain Cook 
Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode :/ 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss I — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
Stick to thy sonnets, man I — at least they sell.^ 

" Spirit of Discovery ;" a very spirited and pretty dwarf- 
ep^c. Among other exquisite lines we have the following:— 
" A kiss 
Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 
Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," &C.&C. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss ; very mucli 
astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon. — 
[" Misquoted and misunderstood by me ; but not intention- 
ally. It was not the ' woods,' but the people in them who 
trembled— why. Heaven only knows— unless they were 
overheard making the prodigious smack." — Byron, 1810.] 

'' The episode above alluded to is the "itory of " Robert a 
Machin" and " Anna d'Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who 
performed the kiss above mentioned, that startled the woods 
of Madeira. 

« [" Although," says Lord Byron, in 1821, " I regret having 
published ' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' the part 
which I regret the least is that whic'h regards Mr. Bowles, 
with reference to Pope. While 1 was writing that publica- 
tion, in 1807 and 18U8, Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I 
should express our mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. 
Bowles's edition of his works. As 1 had compleied my out- 
line, and felt lazy, 1 requested that lie would do so. lie did 
it. His fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first 
edition of ' English Bards,' and are quite as severe, and 
much more poetical, than my own in the second. On re- 
printing the work, as I put my name to it. I omitted Mr. Hob- 
house's lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. 
Bow les."— The following are the lines written by Mr. Hob- 
house : — 

" Stick to thy sonnets, man l--at least they sell. 
Or take the only path that open lies 
For modern worthies who would hop? to rise : 
Fix on some well-known name, and, bit by bit. 
Pare ofTthe merits of his worth and wit ; 
On each alike employ the critic's knife, 
And when a comment fails, prefix a life ; 
Hint certain failings, faults before unknown. 
Review forgotten lies, and add your own ; 
Let no disease, let no misfortune 'scape. 
And print, if luckily dcform'd, his shape: 
Thus shall the world, quite undeceived at last. 
Cleave to their present wits, and quit their past , 
Bards once revered no more with favor view. 
But give their modern soniieteers their due ; 
Thus with the dead may living merit cope, 
"Thus Bowles may triumph o'er the shade of Pope "] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



437 



But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 

Prompt ihy crude brain, and claim tiiee for a scribe ; 

If cliancc some bard, though once by dunces fcar'd, 

Now, prone in dust, can only bo revered ; 

If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, 

Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, • 

Do Ihoii essay: each fault, each failing scan ; 

The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 

Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 

Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ;' 

Let all the scandals of a former age 

Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 

Affect a candor which thou canst not foel, 

(.'{othe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 

Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire. 

And do from hate what Mallet^ did for hire. 

Oh ! Iiadst (hou lived in that congenial time, 

Tc rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme j^ 

Throng'd with the rest around his living head. 

Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead ;* 

A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 

And link'd thee to the Duuciad for thy pains.^ 

Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
BuBotian Cottle, rich Bristowa'e boast. 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 

j Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 

I Fresh fish from Helicon l** who'll buy? who'll buy? 

I The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 

I Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, 

I Tliongh Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 

I In him an author's luckless lof behold, 

j Coudemu'd to make the books which once he sold. - 
Oh, Amos Cottle 1 — Phcebus ! what a name, 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 



1 Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a 
bookseller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Her- 
vey, author of " Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 

2 Lord Bolingbioke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his 
decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a 
work by Lord Bolingbroke— " the Patriot King,"— which 
that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be de- 
stroyed.— [" Bolingbroke's thirst of vengeance," says Dr. 
Johnson, " incited him to blast the memory of the man over 
whom he had wept in his last struggles ; and he employed 
Mullet, another friend of Pope, to tell the tale to the pub- 
lic, with all its aggravations."] 

3 Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester.— 

" Silence, ye wolves 1 while Rilph to Cynthia howls, 
Making night hideous • answer him, ye owls !"— 

Dunciad. 

■• See Bowles's late edition of Pope's Works, for which he 
received three hundred pound Thus Mr. B. has experi- 
enced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of 
another than to elevate his own. 

6 [Lord Byron's MS. note of 1816 on this passage is,— 
" Too savage all tliis on Bowles ;" and well might he say so. 
That venerable person is still living ; and in spite of all the 
criticisms to which his injudicious edition of Pope exposed 
him afterwards there can be no doubt that Lord B., m his 
calmer moments, did justice to that exquisite pocticiil genius 
which, by their own confession, originally inspired both 
Wordsworth and Coleridge. j 

* C" Fresh fish from Helicon "— " Helicon" is a mountain, 
and not a fish-pond. It shouid have been " Hippocrene." — 
]:y/on, 1810.] 

' Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one 
or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now 
writers of books they do not sell, have published a pair of 
epics. " Alfred,"— (poor Alfred '. Pye has been at him too I) 
—"Alfred," and the " Fall of Cambria." 

[Here Lord B. notes in 1810 :— " All right. I saw some 



Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meager profits spring from pen and ink i 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams? 
Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle' still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils. 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb, 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him * 

As Sisyphus against he infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whotie motions ne'er may sleep, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice' all his granite weight of leaves: 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain. 
That ere they reach the toj), fall lumbering back again. 

With broKen lyre, and check serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcajus wanders down the vale ; 
Though fair they rose, and might,have bloom'd at last, 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails I 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep !'" 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favor from the sacred Nine ? 
Forever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
A coward brood, which mangle as, they prey. 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
No mercy find — these harpies" must be fed 
AVhy do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm pos-ticssion of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat. 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Soat?'^ 

letters of this fellow (Joseph Cottle) to an unfortunate 
poetess, whose productions, which the poor woman by no 
means thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitter- 
ly, that I could hardly resist assailing him, even were it un- 
just, which it is not— for verily he is an ass."— B. 1810 — 
The same person has had the honor to be recorded in the 
Antijacobin, probably by Canning : — 

" And Cottle, not he who that Alfred rjiade famous, 
But Joseph, of Bristol, the brother of Amos."] 

Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts 
of a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of " Richmond 
Hill," and the like ;— it aKso takes in a charming view of 
Turnham Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, 
and the parts adjacent. --[The Rev. ^Thomas Maurice also 
wrote " Westminster Abbey," and other poems, the " His- 
tory of Ancient and Modern Ilindostan," &c., and his own 
" Memoirs ; comprehending Anecdotes of Literary Charac- 
ters, during a period of thirty years ;"— a very amusing 
piece of autobiography. He died in 1824, at his .'ipartments 
in the British Museum ; where he had been for some years 
assistant keeper of MSS.] 

10 Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English 
Review, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After 
all, the bard of Shefllield is a man of considerable genius 
Hi's " Wanderer of Switzerland" is worth a thousand 
" Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty " degraded epics." 

u [In a MS. critique on this satire, by the late Reverend 
William Crowe, public orator at Oxford, the incongruity of 
the.se metaphors is thus noticed : — " Within the space of 
three or four couplets he transforms a man into as many 
different animals : allow him but the compass of three lines, 
and he will metamorphose him from a wolf into a harpy, 
and in three more he will make him a bloodhound." Or. 
seeing Mr. Crowe's remarks. Lord Byron desired Mr. Mur- 
ray to substitute, in the copy in his possession, for " hellish 
instinct," "brutal instinct," for "Aorptes" "/e/ons," and for 
" bloodhounds," " hell-hounds,"] 

"2 Arthur's Seat ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh 



43S 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Htaltli to immortal Jeffrey .' once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just. 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 
And given the spirit to the world again. 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool. 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before. 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat?* 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope. 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey I Heaven preserve his life 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars! 
Can none remember that eventful day,^ 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray. 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 
And Bow-street myrmidons stood laughing by?* 
Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm -set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock ; 
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of the north ; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear. 
The other half pursued its calm career f 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 
The surly Tolboolh scarcely kept her place. 



1 [Mr. Jeffrey, who, after the first Number or two, suc- 
ceeded the Rev. Sydney Smith in the editorship of the Ed- 
inburgh Review, retired from his critical post some httle 
time before he uas appointed Lord Advocate for Scotland : 
he is now (1836) a Lord of Session. " 1 have often, since my 
return to England," says Lord Byron, {Diary, 1814,) "heard 
Jeffrey most highly commended by those wiio knew him, 
for things independent of his talents. I admire him for this 
— not because he has praised me, but because he is, per- 
haps, the only man who, under the relations in which he 
and I stand, or stood, with regard to each other, would 
have had the liberality to act thus : none but a great soul 
dared hazard it — a little scribbler would have gone on 
cavilling to the end of the chapter."] 

2 t" Too ferocious— this is mere insanity." — B. 1816.] 

3 [" All this is bad, because personal."— B. 1810.] 

< In 180G, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Faim 
The duel was prevented by the interference of the magis- 
tracy ; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols were 
found to have evaporated. This incident gave occasion to 
much waggery in the daily prints. [The above note was 
struck out of the fifth edition, and the following, after being 
submitted to Mr. Moore, substituted in its place : — " I am 
informed that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal 
of the statements in the newspapers, as far as regarded 
himself ; and, in justice to him, I mention this circumstance. 
As 1 never heard of it before, I cannot state the particulars, 
and was only made acquainted with the fact very lately."— 
Noxember 4. 1811.] 

6 The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it 
would have been highly reprehensible in the English half 
of tte river to have shown the smallest symptom of appre- 
hension. 

6 This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth, 
(the principal pri-son in Edinburgh,) which truly seems to 
liave beoii most affected on this occasion, is much to be cora- 
ruended It was to be apprehended, that the many unhappy 



The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can. 

On such occasions, feel as much as man — 

The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 

If Jeffrey died, except within her arms :* 

Nay last, not least, on that portentous mom, 

The si.xteenth story, where himself was born, 

His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 

And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 

Strew'd were the streets around with milk-wliitb 

reams, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
This of his candor seem'd the sable dew. 
That of his valor show'd the bloodless hue ; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled bntMems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess inver'd o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore ; 
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead. 
And straight restored it to her favorite's head ; 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r, 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r. 
And, though the thickening dross will sec r"! refine. 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
" My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore aga)U, 
Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guido . 
For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit. 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
Nor any dare to 'ake thy name in vain. 
Behold, a choser band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.' 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer," and sometimee. 
In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes, 
Smug Sydney" too thy bitter page shall seek. 
And classic Hallam,'" much renown'd for Greek ; 



criminals executed in the front might have rendered the 
edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, be- 
cause her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine 
though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish 
' His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the 
Athenian Society, and reviewer of " Cell's Topography of 
Troy."— [George Hamilton Gordon, fourth Earl of Abei- 
deen, K. T., F. R. S., and P. S. A. In 1822, his lordship 
published an " Inquiry into the Principles of Beauty in Gre- 
cian Architecture."] 

8 Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. 
One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the Recovery of 
Thor's Hammer ;" the translation is a pleasant chant in the 
vulgar tongue, and endeth thus : — 

" Instead of money and rings, I wot. 
The hammer's bruises were her lot, 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
I The Hon. William Herbert, brother to the Earl of Camar 
von. He also published, fn 1811, " Helga," a poem in sevei» 
cantos] 

9 The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
Plymley's Letters, and sundry criticisms. — [Now (1836) one 
of the Canons Residentiary of St. Paul's. <fec "Dyson's 
Address to his Constituents on the Reform Bill." and many 
other pieces published anonymousl r pseudonomously, 
are generally ascribed to this emineniiy witty person, who 
has put forth nothing, it is believed, in his own name, ex- 
cept a volume of Sermons.] 

10 Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's " Taste," and was 
exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was 
not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press 
rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still 
stands an everlasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity. — 
JVo/e added to second edition. — The said Hallam is incensed 
because he is falsely accused, seeing that he neve.- hneth 
at Holland House. If this be true, 1 am sorry— not for hav- 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



439 



Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans' shall traduce his friend ; 
While ffay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,'^ 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
Beware lest blundering Brougham^ destroy the sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd 
Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.'' 

Then prosper Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And show.ers their odors on thy candid sheets. 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.* 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone : 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen 1° 



ing said so, but on his account, as I understand his lord- 
ship's feasts are preferable to his compositions.— If ho did 
not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because 
it must have been pamful to read, and irksome to praise it. 
If Jlr. HuUam will tell me who did review it, the real name 
shall find a place in the text ; provided, nevertheless, the 
said name be of two orthodox musical syllables, and will 
come into the verse : till then, Hallam must stand for want 
of a better.— [It cannot be necessary to vindicate the great 
author of the " Middle Ages" and the " Constitutional His- 
tory of England" from the insinuations of the juvenile poet.] 

1 Pillans is a tutor at Eton.— [Mr. Pillans became after- 
wards Rector of the High School of Edinburgh, and has now 
been for some years Professor of Humanity in that Univer- 
sity. There was not, it is believed, the slightest foundation 
for the charge in the text.] 

" The Hon. George Lambe reviewed " Beresford's Mise- 
ries," and IS, moreover, author of a farce enacted with much 
applause at the Priory, Stanmore ; and damned with great 
expedition at the late the;itre, Covent Garden. It was en- 
titled " Whistle for it."— [Mr. Lambe was, in 1818, the suc- 
cessful candidate for the representation of Westminster, in 
opposition to Mr. Hobhouse ; who, however, defeated him 
in the following year. In 1821, Mr. Lambe published a 
translation of Catullus. In 1832, he was appointed Under 
Secretary of State for the Home Department, his chief be- 
ing his brother, Lord Melbourne. He died in 1833.] 

3 Mr. Brougham, in No. xxv. of the Edinburgh Review, 
throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, 
has displayed more politics than policy ; many of the worthy 
burgesses'of Edinburgh being so incensed at the infamous 
principles it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscnp- 
tions.— [Here followed, in the first edition— "The name of 
this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the 
truly northern and musical pronunciation is Brough-am, in 
two syllables ;'' but for this Lord B. substituted in the sec- 
ond edition :— " It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, 
as I supposed, but a Borderer, and his name is pronounced 
Broom, from Trent to Tay :— so be it."] 

4 I ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introdu- 
cing a new goddess with short petticoats to their notice : 
but, alas 1 what was to be done ? I could not say Caledo- 
nia's genius, it being well known there is no such genius to 
be found from Clackmanan to Caithness ; yet, without su- 
pernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to be saved ? The na- 
tional " kelpies" are too unpoetical, and the " brownies" 
and " gude neighbors" (spirits of a good disposition) refused 
to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been called for 
the purpose ; and great ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, 
Bcc-ing It is the only communication he ever held, or is like- 
ly to hold, with any thing heavenly. 

6 See the color of the back binding of the Edinburgh Re- 
view. 



Illustrious Holland I hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself f. rgot !'' 
Holland, with Henry Petty" at his back. 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Bless'd be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roif 
Shall Grub-street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork. 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate, 
Declare his landlord can at least translate !'" 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food — and feed because they write : 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape. 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
]VIy lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her puz'ty of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole." 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight i 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,'' 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven I the Rosciomania's o'er. 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 



5 [In the tenth canto of Don Juan, Lord Byron pays the 
following pretty compliment to his quondam antagonist ;— 

" And all our little feuds— at least all mine- 
Dear Jefl!"rey, once my most redoubted foe, 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us things oelow,) 

Are over : here's a health to ' Auld Lang Syne ;' 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face— but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul."] 

' [" Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."— B. 1816. J 

e [Lord Henry Petty ;— now (1836) Marquess of Lans- 
dowue.] 

6 [In 1813, Lord Byron dedicated the Bride of Abydos to 
Lord Holland ; and we find in his Journal (Nov. 17lh) this 
passage :— " I have had a most kind letter from Lord Hol- 
land on the Bride of Abydos, which he likes, and so does 
Lady H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I 
don't deserve any quarter. Yet I did think at the time, that 
my cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and 
am glad I wa.s wrong, and wish I had not been in such a 
hurry with that confounded Satire, of which I would sup- 
press even the memory ; but people, now they can't get it, 
make a fuss, I verily believe out of contradiction."] 

i" Lord Hclland has translated some specimens of Lope 
de Vega, inf.erted in his life of the author. Both are be- 
praised by his disinterested guests.— [We are not aware that 
Lord Holland has subsequently published any verses ex- 
cept a universally admired version of the 28th canto ol 
the Orlando Furioso, which is given by way of appendix to 
one of Mr. W. Stewart Rose's volumes.] 

11 Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having dis- 
played her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Revu-w How- 
ever that may be, we know, from good authority, that the 
manuscripts are submitted to her perusal— no dc ibt, for 
correction. 

12 In the melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clap- 
ped into a tiarrel on the stage ; a new asylum for distressed 
heroes.— [In the original MS. the note stands thus :— " In the 
melo-drama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapped into a 
barrel on the stage, and Count Evrard in the fortress hides 
himself in a green-house built expressly for the occasion. 
'Tis a pity that Theodore Hook, who is really a man of 
talent, should confine his genius to such paltry productions 
as the ' Fortress,' ' Music Mad,' &c. &c."— This extraordi- 
nary humorist, who was a mere boy at the date of Lord 
Byron's satire, has since distinguished himself by works 
more worthy of his abilities— nine volumes of highly popu- 
lar novels, enti led " Sayings and Doings"—" Gilbert Gur- 
uey" — a world >f political jeux d'esprit, &c. &c.] 



440 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Yet what avail their vain attempt!? to please, 
While British critics suffer scenes liice these ; 
While Reynolds vents his " dammes I" " poohs !" and 

" zounds !"' 
And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenney's " World" — ah ! where is Kenney's' 

wit?— 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
And Beaumont's pilfer'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in aH,but words ?^ 
Who but must mouni, while these are all the rage. 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none I 
Awake, George Colman !* Cumberland,' awake ! 
Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assiune her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools ; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garriek trod, and Siddons lives to tread ?* 
On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask. 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose ? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise. 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize.' 
And sure great SkefHnglon must claim our praise. 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whoso genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs f 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on," 



1 All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and 
prominent in his comedies, living and defunct.— [The read- 
er is referred to Mr. Reynolds's Autobiography, published 
ni 1826, for a full account of his volumnious writings for the 
stage.] 

2 [Mr. Kenney has since written many successful dramas.] 
s Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the new maiuiger ot Drury Lane 

theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, 
and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractacus 
Was this worthy of his sire? or of himself ?— [Thomas 
Sheridan, who united much of the convivial wit of his pa- 
rent to many amiable qualities, received, after the termina- 
tion of his theatrical management, the appointment of colo- 
nial paymaster at the Cape of Good Hope, where he died 
in September, 1817, leaving a widow, whose novel of " Car- 
well" has obtained much .approbation, and several children ; 
among others, the accomijlished authoress of " Rosalie" 
and other poems, now the Honorable Mrs. Norton.] 

4 [Lord Byron entertained a high opinion of George Col- 
man s convivial powers.—" If I had," he says, " to choose, 
and could not have both at a time, I should say, ' Let me 
begin the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' 
bheridan *^ur dinner, and Colman for supper; Sheridan for 
claret or port, but Colman for every thing. Sheridan was a 
grenadier company of life-guards, but Colman a whole 
regiment— of h^/i< n.fantiy. to be sure, but still a regiment. 
Mr. Colman died in October, 1836."] 

.. 1,^^'f i?^';'^ Cumberland, the well-known author of the 
' West Indian," the " Obseiver," and one of the most in- 
teresting of autobiographies, died in 1811. i 

« [In all editions previous to the fifth, it vas, " Kemble 
hvcs to tread." Lord Byron used to say, tnal, " of actors, 
Cooke was the most natural, Kemble the ino.st supernatu- 
ral, Kean the medium between the two ; but that Mrs Sid- 
dons was worth them all put together.' Such efl"ect how- 
ever, had [lean's acting on his mind, l>dt once, on seeing 



While poor John Bull, bewllder'd with the sceue, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Rather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are wo now. Ah ! whereforo should we 
turn 
To what our fathers wore, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dulne.ss, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons. 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons,'" 
Since their own drama yields no fairt '^race 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace." 

Then let Ausonia, pkill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshaycs, 
And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes: 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her Hght limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throno'! 
Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our vice I 
Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save. 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle !" 



him play Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a sort of 
convulsive fit. John Kemble died in 1823,— his illustrious 
sister m 1830.] 

' [Dibdin's pantomime of Mother Goose had a run of 
nearly a hundred nights, and brought more than twenty 
thousand pounds to the treasury of Covent Garden theatre.] 

f Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury 
Lane theatre— as such, Mr. Skeffington is much indebted to 
him. 

3 Mr. [now Sir Lumley] Skeffington is tlie illustrious au 
thor of the " Sleeping Beauty ;" and some comedies, par- 
ticularly " Maids and Bachelors •" Baccalaurii baculo ma- 
gis quam laurodigni. 

'" Naldi and Catalan! require little notice ; for the visage 
of the one and the salary of the other, will enable us long 
to recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, we are 
still black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of 
the lady's appearance in trousers. 

" [The following twenty lines were struck oflf one night 
after Lord Byron's return from the Opera, and sent the 
next morning to the printer, with a request to have them 
placed where they now appear.] 

'2 To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for 
a man, I beg leave to state, that it is the institution, and not 
the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentle- 
man, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lo.'^t in the Ar- 
gyle Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon.* It 
IS but justice to the manager in this instance to say, that 
some degree of disapprobation was manifested : but why 
are the implements of gaming allowed in a place devoted 
to the society of both sexes? A pleasant thing for the 
wives anu daughters of those who are blessed or cursed with 

* [" True. It was Billy Way who lost the money. 1 
knew him, and was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time 
of the event."— fiyron, 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



441 



Where yon proud palace, Fashion's hallow'd fane 

Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 

Behold the new Petronius' of the day, 

Our arbiter of pleasure ana of play ! 

There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir. 

The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 

The song from Italy, the step from France, 

The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 

The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 

For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 

Each to his humor — Comus all allows ; 

Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse. 

Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 

Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made ; 

In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 

Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 

When for the night some lately titled ass 

Appears the beggar which his grandsiro was 

The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er. 

The audience take their turn upon the floor; 

Now round the room the circling dow'gcrs sweep. 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 

The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 

The last display the free unfetter'd limb ! 

Those for Hibernia's lusty jons repair 

With art the charms which nature could not spare ; 

These after husbands wing their eager flight. 

Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! bless'd retreats of infamy and ease. 
Where, all forgotten but the power to please. 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may teach new systems, or bo taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick. 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife '^ 
Fit consummation of an earthly race, 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death. 
Wash thy red w :unds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 



such connections, to hear the billiard-tables rattling in one 
room, and the dice in another ! That this is the case I my- 
self can testify, as a late unworthy member of an institution 
which materially afl'ects the morals of the higher orders, 
while the lower may not even move to the sound of a tabor 
and fiddle, without a chance of mdictment for riotous be- 
havior. — [Conceivmg the foregoing note, together with the 
lines in the text, to convey a reflection upon his conduct, as 
manager of the Argyle institution, Colonel Greville de- 
manded an explanation of Lord Byron. The matter was 
referred to Mr. Leckie (the author of a work on Sicilian 
affairs) on the part of Colonel Greville, and to Mr. Moore on 
the part of Lord Byron ; by wholn it was amicably settled.] 
1 Petronius, "Arbiter elegantiarum" to Nero, "and a 
very pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's " Old 
Bachelor" sailh of Hannibal. 
» [The original reading was, " a Paget for your wife."] 
3 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night 
I beheld liiin presiding at his own table, in all the honest 
pride of hospitality ; on Wednesday morning, at three 
o'clock, I saw stretched before me all that remained of 
courage, feeling, and a host of passions. He was a gallant 
and successful officer ; his faults were the faults of a sailor 
— as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave 
man in a better cause : for had he fallen in like manner on 
the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, his 
last moments would have been held up by his countrymen 
as an example to succeeding heroes. [Lord Falkland was 
killed in a duel by Mr. Powell, in 1809. It was not by words 



56 



Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
The mangled victim of a drunken Irawl, 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.' 

Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide h^ hand, 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng. 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
To fight my course through passion's countless host * 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say 
" What art thon better, meddling fool,* than they?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen forever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,^ 
Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite. 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight. 
What harm ? In spite of every critic elf. 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews'' still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall. 
And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes?" 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle." 



only that Lord Byron gave proof of sympathy on the mel- 
ancholy occasion. Though his own difficulties pressed on 
him at the time, he contrived to administer relief to the 
widow and children of his friend.] 

4 [" Yes : and a precious chase they led me."— B. 1816.] 

5 [" Fool enough, certainly, then, and no wiser since." — 
B. 1816.] 

What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, 
Hafiz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, 
(where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the oriental 
Homer and Catullus,) and behold his name assumeil by one 
Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and execrable of lite- 
rary poachers for the daily prints ? 

^ [Miles Peter Andrews, many years M. P. for Bewdley, 
Colonel of the Prince of Wales's Volunteers, proprietor of 
a gunpowder manufactory at Dartford, author of numerous 
prologues, epilogues, and farces, and one of the heroes of 
the Baviad. He died in 1814.] 
8 [In the original manuscript we find these lines : — 
" In these, our times, with daily wonders big, 
A letter'd peer is like a lelier'd pig ; 
Both know their alphabet, out who, from thence. 
Infers that peers or pigs have manly sense ? 
Still less that such should woo the graceful Nine : 
Parnassus was not made for lords and swirie."] 
" [On being told that it was believed he alluded to Lord 
Carlisle's nervous disorder in this line, Lord Byron ex- 
claimed,—" I thank heaven I did not know it ; and would 



442 



BYRON'S WOIIKS. 



Tlie puny schoolboy and his early lay 

Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 

But w!io forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 

Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhj'mes grow worse ? 

What heterogeneous honors deck the peer ! 

Loid, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer !' 

So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 

His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 

But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough I" 

Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 

Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 

And case his volumes in congenial calf: 

Yes ! dofT that covering, where morocco shines, 

And hang a calf-skin^ on those recreant lines.^ 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not : GifFord's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On " all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
And Melville's Mantle* prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 



not, could not, if I had. I must naturally be the last person 
to be pointed on defects or maladies."] 

1 The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen- 
penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan 
tor building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his lordship 
will be permitted to bring forward any thing for the stage — 
except his own tragedies. 

a " Doff that lion's hide, 

And hang a calf-skm on those recreant limbs." 

Shak. King John. 

Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a 
conspicuc-us ornament to his book-shelves : — 

" Tne rest is all but leather and prunella." 

3 ["Wrong also— the provocation was not sufficient to jus- 
tify the acerbity."— B. 181f).] — [Lord Byron greatly regretted 
the sarcasms he had published against his noble relation, 
under the mistaken impression that Lord Carlisle had in- 
tentionally slighted him. In a letter to Mr. Rogers, written 
in 1814, he asks,—" Is there any chance or possibility of 
making it up with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do 
any thing reasonable or unreasonable to effect it." And in 
the third canto of Childe Harold, he thus adverts to the fate 
of the Hon. Frederick Howard, Lord Carlisle's youngest 
son, one of those who fell gloriously it Waterloo : — 

" Their praise is hymn'd by loftier naip than mine , 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And parllt/ that I did his Sire sonic wrong, 
And partlv that bright names will hallow song ; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
'J'he death-bolts deadliest the lliinn'd files along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 

They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
Howard 1" 

In the following extracts from two unpublisheu letters, 
written when Lord B. was at Hairow, may possibly be 
traced the origin of his conduct towards his guardian :— 
" ]\ov. 11, 1804. You mistake me if you think I dislike Lord 
Carlisle. I respect him, and might like him did I know him 
better. For him my mother has an antipathy — why, I know 
not. I am afraid he could be but of little use to me ; but I 
oare say he would assist me if he could ; so I take the will 
for the deed, and am obliged to him, exactly in the same 
manner as if he succeeded in his efforts."—" Nov. 21, 1804. 
To Lord Carlisle make my warmest acknowledgments. I 
feel more gratitude than I can well express. I am truly 
obliged to him for his endeavors, and am perfectly satisfied 
with your explanation of his reserve, though I was hitherto 
afraid it might proceed from personal dislike. For the fu- 
ture, I shall consider him as more my friend than I have 
hithe-to been taught to think."] 



But now at once your fleeting labors close, 
With names of greater note in bless'd repose 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals fil ; 
Some stragglers skirmish round the cohnnns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's Metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.^ 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a Btall,' 
Employs a pen less pointed than his aw) 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store ^hoes, 
St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
Heavens I how the vulgar stare I how crowcUs applaud '. 
How ladies read, and literati laud !* 
If chance some wicked wag should pass his '\tct- 
'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best? 
Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme. 
And Capel Lofft^ declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
Swains ! quit the plough, res'gn the useless spade ! 
Lo ! Burns'" and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gifford was bom beneath an adverse star, 



< " Melville's Mantle," a parody on " Elijah's Mcntle," a 
poem. 

5 This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew 
King, seems to be a follower of the Delia Crusca school, 
and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdi- 
ties in rhyme, as times go; besides sundry novels in the 
style of the first edition of the Monk. — [" She since married 
the Morning Post— an exceeding good match ; and is now 
dead— which is better."— B. 1816.1 

6 These are the signatures of various worthies who figure 
in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 

' [Joseph Blackett, the shoem-'ier. Hedied at Seaham,in 
1810. His poems were afterwaras collected by Pratt ; and, 
oddly enough, his principal patroness was Miss Milhank, 
then a perfect stranger to Lord Byron. In a letter written 
to Dallas, on board the Volage frigate, at sea, in June, 1811, 
he says, — " I see that yours and Pratt's proteg6, Blackett, 
the cobbler, is dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably 
one of the instances where death has saved a man from 
damnation. You were the ruin of that poor fellow amongst 
you : had it not been for his patrons, he might now have been 
in very good plight, shoe- (not verse-) making ; but you 
liave made him immortal with a vengeance ; who would 
think that anybody would be such a blockhead as to sin 
against an express proverb,—' Ne sutor ultra crepidam '.' 
' But spare him, ye Critics, his follies are past, 
For the Cobbler is come, as he ought, to his last.' — 
Which two lines with a scratch under last, to show where 
the joke lies, I beg that you will prevail on Miss Milbank to 
have inserted on the tomb of her departed Blackett."] 

s [" This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then 
patronized by A. J. B." (Lady Byron ;) " but that I did not 
know, or this would not have been written, at least I think 
not."— B. 1816.] 

a Capel Lofft, Esq., the Mascenas of shoemakers, and 
preface-writer-general to distressed versemen ; a kind of 
gratis accoucheur to those who wish to- be delivered of 
rhyme, but do not know how to oring forth.— [The poet 
Bloomfield owed his first celebrity to the notice of Capel 
Lofft and Thomas Hill, Esquires, who read his " Farmer's 
Boy," in manuscript, recommended it to a publisher, and 
b) their influence in society and literature, soon drew gen- 
era. =>tention to its merits. It is distressing to remember 
that, a.' er all that had been done by the zea of a few friends, 
the public sympathy did not rest permanently on tlie ami 
able Bloomfield, who died in extreme poverty in 1623.] 

10 [" Read Burns to-day. What would he have been if a 
patrician ? We should have had more polish— less f'Tce — 
just as 'iiuch verse, but no immortality — a divorce and a 
duel or two, the which had he survived, as his potations 
must have been less spirituous, he miglit have lived as long 
as Sheridan, and outlived as much as poor Biinsley " — 
Byron Journal, 1813.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



44H 



Forsook the labors of a servile state, 

Stemm'd the rude storm, and triiimph'd over fate* 

Then why no more ? if Piioebus smiled on you, 

Bloomfield! why not on brother Nathan too?' 

Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized ; 

Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 

And now no boor can seek his last abode, 

No common be enclosed without an ode. 

Oh I since increased refinement deigns to sn,3e 

On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 

Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 

Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul ! 

Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 

Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 

So shall the fair your handiwork peruse. 

Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoes. 

May Moorland weavers^ boast Pindaric skill, 

And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 

While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 

And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due. 
Neglected genius ! let ine turn to you. 
Come forth, oh Campbell I^ give thy talents scope ; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers !^ rise at last. 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
Arise ! let bless'd remembrance still inspire. 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 



J See Natlianie Bloomfie-d's ode, elegy, or whatever he 
or any one else hooses to call it, on the enclosure of 
" Honmgton Greei. " 

2 Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of 
Staffordshire." 

3 It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader 
the authors of "The Pleasures of Memory" and "The 
Pleasures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in 
our language, if we except Pope's " Essay on Man ;" but 
so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of 
Campbell and Rogers are become strange. — 'Beneath this 
note Lord Byron scribbled, in 1816, — , 

" Prelty Miss Jacqueline 
Had a nose aquiline, 
And would assert rude 
Things of Miss Gertrude, 
"While I\Ir. Marmion 
Led a great army on, 
Making Kehama look 
Like a fierce Mameluke."] 

■•["I have been reading," says Lord Byron, in 18i3, 
" Memory again, and Hope together, and retain all my 
preference of tlie former. His elegance is really wonder- 
ful—there is no such a thing as a vulgar line in his book."] 

6 [" Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, 
but has still very great merit." — B. 1810.] 

6 Giflnrd, author of the Eaviad and IMasviad, the first 
satires of the day, and translator of Juvenal.— [The opinion 
of Mr. Gilford had always great weight witli Lord Byron. 
" Any suggestion of yours," he says m a letter written in 
1813, " even were it conveyed in the less tender shape of 
the text of the Baviad, or a i\Ionk Mason note in Massinger, 
would be obeyed." A few weeks before his death, on 
hearing from England of a report tliat he had written a 
satire on Mr. Gifford, he wrote instantly to Mr. Murray: — 
" Whoever asserts that I am the author or abettor of any 
thing of the kind, lies in his throat. It is not true that I 
ever did, will, would, could, or should write a satire against 
Gifford, or a hair of his head. I always considered him as 
my literary falher, and myself as his ' prodigal' son ; and 
if I have allowed his ' fatted calf to grow to an ox before 
he kills it on my return, it is only because I prefer beef to 
veal. "J 

' Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
Georgics, and author of " Saul," an epic poem.— [Mr. 
Sotheby afterwards essentially raised his reputation by 
various original pooms, and a translation of the liiad. He 
died m 1834.] 

* Macneil, whose poems re deservedly popular, particu- 



Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 

Assert thy country's honor and thine own ' 

What ! musrt deserted Poesy still weej) 

Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 

Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 

To deck the turf that wraps her minstr: I, Burns ! 

No! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 

brood, 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 
Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, 
Who, least affecting, still affect the most: 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Gifford,^ Sotheby,' Macneil.'' 

" Why slumbers Gifford?" once was ask'd in vain f 
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge?'" 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge? 
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path. 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time. 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White !" while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 



larly " Scotland's Scaith," and the " Waes of War," of which 
ten thousand copies were sold in one month.— [Hector 
Macneil died in 1818.] 

3 [Lord Byron here alludes to the masterly poem of 
" New Morality," (the joint production of Mr. Canning 
and J\Ir. Frere,) in the Anti-jacobin, in which Gifford is 
thus apostrophized : — 

" Bethink thee, Gifford, when some future age 
Shall trace the promise of thy playful page ; 
' The hand which brush'd a swarm of fools away. 
Should rou.se to grasp a more reluctant prey !' 
Think, then, will pleaded indolence excuse 
The tame secession of thy languid musel 
Ah I where is now that promise ? why so long 
Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song? 
Oh I come, with taste and virtue at thy side, 
With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride ; 
With keen poetic glance direct the blow, 
And empty all thy quiver on the foe — 
No pause— no rest— till weltering on the ground 
The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a 
wound."] 

^0 Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and 
Masviad should not be his last original works : let him re- 
member, " IMox in reluctantes dracones." — [Mr. Giflbrcl be- 
came the editor of the Quarterly Review,— which thence- 
forth occupied most of his time,— a few months after the 
first appearance of this satire in 1809.] 

n Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, 
in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit ol 
studies that would have matured a mind which disease and 
poverty could liot impair, and which death itself destroyed 
rather than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties 
as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so 
short a period was allotted to talents which would have 
dignified even the sacred functions he was destined to as- 
sume.— [In a letter to Mr. Dallas, in 1811, Loid Byron 
says—" I am sorry you don't like Harry White ; with a great 
deal of cant, which in him was sincere, (indeed it killed 
him, as you killed Joe Blackett,) certes there is poesy and 
genius. I don't say this on account of my simile and 
rhymes ; but surely he was beyond all the Bloornfiekls and 
Blacketts, and their collateral cobblers, whom Lofft and 
Pratt have or nay kidnap from their caUing into the service 
of the trade. Setting aside bigotry, he surely ranks next to .. 
Chatterton. It is astonishing how httle he was known ; 
and at Cambridge no one thought or heard of such a man 
till his death rendered all notices useless. For my part, I 
should have been most proud of such an acquaintance : his 
very prejudices were respectable."] 



444 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Tho spoiler swept that soaring; lyre away, 
! Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
i Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
! When Science' self destroy'd her favorite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No mire through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And wiag'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warni'd his nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.* 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
That strain'd inventi'on, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires: 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe* attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.^ 

And here let Shee'' and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
AVhose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
Cir pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honors, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Bless'd is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour ; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd afar, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er. 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly bless'd is he whose heart expands 
With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye ! 
Wright !^ 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 



1 [Mr. Southey's delightful Life of Kirke White is in 
everj. one's hands.] 

2 [" I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these 
times, in point of powei^ and genius." — B l-^'6.] 

" [This eminent poet and excellent man uied at his rec- 
tory of Trowbridge, in February, 1832, aged seventy-eight. 
Willi the e.xception of the late Lord Stowell, he was the 
last surviving celebrated man mentioned by Bosvvell in con- 
nection with Johi son, wlio revised his poem of the " Vil- 
lage." His other works are the " Library," the " News- 
paper," the " Borough," a collection of " Poems," which 
Charles Fox read in manuscript on his death-bed ; " Tales," 
and also "Tales of the Hall." He left various poetical 
pieces in MS., and a collective edition of his works was 
published in 1834, preceded by an interesting IMemoir, 
written by his Son.] 

'' Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymes on Art," and " Elements 
of Art."— [Now (1636) Sir Martin Shee, and President of 
the Royal Academy.] 

5 Waller Rodwell Wright, late consul general for the 
Seven Islands, is author of a very beau iful poem, just 
published : it is entitled " Horae lonicae," aid is ae.=.criptive 
of the isles and the adjacent coast of Greece.— [To the 
third edition, which came out in 1816, was added an excel- 
lent translativin of the " Oresle" of Alfieri. After his return 
to F.ngland, Mr. Wiight was chosen Recorder of Bury St. 
Edinuuds ] 



And sure no common muse inspired tljy pen 
To hail the laud of gods and godlike meiL 

Ana _; ->u, associate bards !® who snatch'd to iignt 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breathe. 
And all tJieir renovated fragrance flung. 
To grace tne beauties cf your native tongue ; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borroAv'd tone: 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own 

Let these, or such as these, with juit pplause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear. 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass. 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound : 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offeuds the eye.'' 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop. 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd :* 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teath 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach: 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott !' resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin their meager lines for hire ; 
Enough for genius, if itself inspire I 
Let South^ sing, although his teeming muse. 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
Let simple Wordsworth'" chime his childish verse, 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at mast, 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
Let Moore still sigh ; let Strangford steal from Moore, 
And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yore ; 



6 The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Morivale, 
)iave since published separate poems, which evince genius 
that only requires opportunity to attain eminence. — [The 
late Rev. Robert Bland published, in conjunction with Mr. 
Merivale, " Collections from the Greek Ar*h ?logy." He 
also wrote " Edwy and Elgiva," the " Fi)U_- Slaves of 
Cythera," &c. In 1814, Mr. Merivale published "Orlando 
in Roncevalles ;" and in the following year, " ."Vn Ode on 
the Delivery of Europe." He is now one of the Commis- 
sioners of the new Bankruptcy Court.] 

' The neglect of the " Botanic Garden" is some proof of 
returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation. 

8 Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of 
Southey and Co.— [In 1798, Charles Lamb n.-.d Charles 
Lloyd published in conjunction avolu.ne, entitled, " Poems 
in Blank Verse." JMr Lamb was also the author of '.' Jchn 
Woodville," " Tales from Shakspeare," the " Essays of 
Elia," &c. He died in 1835. Mr. Lloyd has since publish 
ed " Edward Oliver," a novel, " Nugae Canora;," and a 
translation of Alfieri's Tragedies.] 

9 By the hy, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, Ms 
hero or heroine will be less addicted to " Grarnarye," and 
more to grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her liiavo, 
William of Deloraine. 

10 [" Unjust."- .Byron, 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



445 



Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
Let Stott, Carlisle,' Matilda, and the rest 
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, 
Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Shoiildst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays: 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
Say I will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler field, 
Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, 
I Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's ficts of darkness, fitter food 
For Sherwood's outlaw tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
Bui cwn the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recaH, 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their wings, new nations rise. 
And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song: 
E'en now, what onoe-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest bleist. 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
And glory, like the phoenix' 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 



1 It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Car- 
lisle, my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a vol- 
ume of puerile poems a few years ago ?— The guardianship 
was nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover ; 
the relationship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it ; 
but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential 
occasion to me, 1 shall not burden my memory with the 
recollection. 1 do not tliink that personal differences sanc- 
tion the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I 
see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when 
thi -VAthor, noble or ignoble, has, for a series of years, be- 
guiled a " discerning public" (as the advertisements have it) 
with diyers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. 
Besides; I do not step aside to vituperate tlie earl : no— his 
works come fairly in review with those of other patrician 
literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said any 
thing in favor of his lordship's paper books, it was in the 
way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advioa of 
others than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportu- 
nity of pronouncing my sincere recantation. I have heard 
that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to 
Lord Carlisle : if so, I shall be most particularly happy to 
learn what they are, and when conferred, that they maybe 
duly appreciated and publicly acknowledged. Wliat I have 
humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am 
prepared to support, if necessary, by quotations from ele- 
gies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain facetious and 
dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark : — 

" What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards ? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards." 

So says Pope. Amen !— [" Much too savage, whatever the 
foundation might be."— B. 1816.] 

» t" The devil take that phosni,x ! How came it there ?"— 
B. 1816.] 

3 [The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, in 1808, the 
" Shipwreck of St. Paul," a Seatonian prize poem.] 

* [The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of " Exodus," an epic 
in thirteen books and several other Seatonian prize poems.] 



Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ' 
Shall these approach the muse? ah, no i she flies, 
Even from the templing ore of Seaton'e prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare,^ and epic blank by Hoyle ; 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist. 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.^ 
Ye I who in Granta's honors would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam 

There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please " 
Forgetting dogg'rel leads not to degrees, 
j A woidd-be satirist, a hired bufloon, 
A. monthly scribbler of some low lampoon.* 
Condenm'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean. 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
Himself a living libel on mankind.' 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race !' 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
So lost to Phosbus, that nor Hodgson's" verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's'" worse " 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ;" 
Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires. 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. "^ 

For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to toll 
My country, what her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
No just applause her honor'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 



5 The " Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of 
whist, chess, &c., are not to be superseded by the vagaries of 
his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as expressly 
staled in the advertisement, all the " plagues of Egypt." 

6 [" Right enough : this was well deserved, and well laid 
on."— B. 1816.] 

' This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid 
symptoms of confirmed authorship, is writer of a poem de- 
nominated the " Art of Pleasing," as " lucusanon lueendo,"' 
containing little pleasantry and less poetry. He also acts 
as monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the 
" Satirist." If this unfortunate young man would exchange 
the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavor to take a 
decent degree in his umversity, it might eventually prove 
more serviceable than his present salary. — [Mr. Hevvson 
Clarke was also the author of " The Saunterer," and a 
" History of the Campaign in Russia."] 

8 " Into Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus transported 
a considerable body of Vandals."— Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall, vol. ii. p. 83. There is no reason to doubt the truth of 
this assertion ; the breed is still in high perfection. 

9 This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man who 
in translation displays unquestionable genius may be well 
expected to excel in original composition, of whicli it is to 
be hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. — [Besides 
a translation of Juvenal, Mr. Hodgson has published " Lady 
Jane Grey," " Sir Edgar," and "The Friends," a poem in 
four books. He also translated, in conjunction with Dr. But- 
ler, Lucien Bonaparte's unreadable epic of " Charleinagne "J 

ID Hewson Clarke, esq., as it is written. 

n [Originally,-- 

" So sunk in dulness, and so lost in shame. 
That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy nan;e.''] 

12 The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Rich- 
ards. [The Rev. George Richards, D. D., has also sent from 
the press " Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of Pritain," " Mod- 
ern France," two volumes of Miscellaneous Poems, an;! 
Bampton Lectures " On the Divuie Origin of Prophecy."] 



446 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name I 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'Tis tliine at once, fair Albion I to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But lot me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoff "d at, till too late ; 
Tu themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.' 

Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers bless'd, 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! . 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense. 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 
And old dame Portland'^ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height. 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,' 
Where KafF* is clad iu rocks, and crowii'd with snows 

sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press^ 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far. 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr f 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin' still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtd ; 



1 With this verse the satire originally ended. 

2 A friend of mine being asked, why his Grace of Portland 
w.as likened to an old woman ? replied, " he supposed it was 
because he was past bearing." His Grace is now gathered 
to his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as ever ; but 
even his sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. 1811. 

3 Georgia. * Mount Caucasus. 
6 These four lines originally stood,— 

" But should I back return, no letter'd sage 
SlKill drag my common-place book on the stage ; 
Let vain Valentia* rival luckless Carr,t 
And equal him whose work he sought to mar." 
6 [In a letter written from Gibraltar to his friend Hodgson, 
Lord Byron says,— " I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville 
and Cadiz, and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my 
knees to beg he would not put me into black and white."] 

' Lord Elgir. would fain persuade us that all Ihe figures, 
with and without noses, in his stoneshop, are the work of 
Phidias: " Credat Judffius 1" 

6 [The original epithet was " classic." Lord Byron alter- 
ed it in the lifth edition, and added this note: — " ' Rapid,' 
indeed ! lie topographized and typographized King Priam's 
dominions in three days 1 I called him ' classic' before I saw 



* Lord Valcntia (whose tremendous travels are forth- 
coming, witli due decorations, graphical, topographical, 
typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, 
that Mr. Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the 
" Stranger in Ireland." — O, fie, my lord 1 has your lordship 
no more feeling for a fellow-tourist?— but " two of a trade," 
they say, &c. 

t [From the many tours he made, Sir John was called 
" The Jaunting Car." A wicked wit having severely lashed 
hun in a publication, called " My Pocket Book ; or Hints 
Ijr a Ryght Merrie and Conceited Tour," he brought an 
action of damages against the publisher ; but as the work 
contained only what the court deemed legitimate criticism, 
the knight was nonsuited. Edward Dubois, Esq., the au- 
thor of this pleasant satire, has also published " The 
Wreath," consisting of translations from Sappho, Bion, and 
Moschus, " Old Nick." a satirical story, and an edition of 
tho Decameron of Boccaccio.] 



Waste useless thousands on their Phidiau freaka, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid" Gell ;' 
Aud, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the public ear — at least with proso. 

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear: 
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd : 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house," 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's ^ge, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too " are penetrable stuff:" 
Aud though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ;'^ 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes: 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
Pve learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss : 



the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his 
name what don't belong to it."] 

9 Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fr l\ to 
ensure the approbation of every ntin possessed of classical 
taste, as well for the information Mr. GcU conveys to the 
mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the re- 
spective works display. — [" Since seeing the plain of Troy, 
my opinions are somewhat changed as to the above note. 
Cell's survey was hasty and superficial."— B. 1816.] 

[Sliortly after his return from Greece, in 1811, Lord Byron 
wrote a review of Mr. (now Sir William) Cell's works for 
the Monthly Review. In his Diary of 1821, there is this 
passage ; — " In reading, I have just chanced upon an ex- 
pression of Tom Campbell's ; — speaking of Collins, he says 
that ' no reader cares any more about the characteristic man- 
ners of his eclogues than about the authenticity of the tale 
of Troy.' 'Tis false— we do care about ' the authenticity of 
the tale of Troy.' I have stood upon that plain, daily, foi 
more than a month, in 1810 ; and if any thing diminished my 
pleasure, it was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned 
its veracity. It is true I read ' Homer Travestied,' because 
Hobhouse and others bored me with their learned localities, 
and I love quizzing. But I still venerated the grand original 
as the truth of history (in the material facts) and of place 
Otherwise it would have given me no delight. Who will 
persuade me, when I reclined upon a mighty tomb, that it 
did not contain a hero ?— its very magnitude proved this. 
Men do not labor over the ignoble and petty dead : — and ,' 
why should not the dead be Homer's dead ?"] 

10 (Lord Byron set out on his travels with the determina- 
tion to keep no journal. In a letter to his friend Henry 
Drury, when on the point of sailing, he pleasantly says, — 
" Hobhouse has made woundy preparations for a book on 
his return ;- one hundred pens, two gallons of japan ink, 
and several volumes of best blank, is no bad provision for a 
discerning public. I have laid down my pen, but have prom- 
ised to contribute a chapter on the state of morals, &c. &c "] 

I'- [" Singular enough, and din enough, God knows." — B. 
1816.] 

12 [In this passage, hastily thrown off as it is, " we find," 
says Moore, " the strongest trace of that wounded feeling, 
which bleeds, as it were, through all his subsequent wri- 
tings."] 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



447 



Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce 
Thus much I've dared ; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say : 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.' 

POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to 
the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the 
Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement 
critique on my poor, gentle, unrtsisting Muse, whom they 
have already so be-deviled with their ungodly ribaldry: 

" Tantajne animis ccelestibus irae I" 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecneek 
saitfi,'" An I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had 
seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is 
that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next 
number has passed the Tweed 1 But I )'et hope to light 
my pipe with it in Persia. 

• My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of per- 
sonality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jef- 
frey ; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty 
pack, who feed by " lying and slandering," and slake their 
thirst by "evil speaking?" I have adduced facts already 
well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my iree 
opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury; — what 
scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud ? It 
may be' said that I quit England because I have censured 
there " persons of honor and wit about town ;" but I am 
coining back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till 



my return. Those who know me can testify that my mo- 
tives for leaving England are very different from fears, 
literary or personal : those who do not, may one day be 
convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name 
has not been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, 
ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expec- 
tation of sundry cartels ; but, alas I ' the age of chivalry is 
over," or, in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit now-a-days. 
There is a youth ycleped Ilewson Clarke, (subaudiei^i/iVc,) 
a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Ber- 
wick'Upon- Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages 
to much better company than he has been accustomed to 
meet ; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no 
reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a 
bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and 
whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented 
from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the 
defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the " Satirist," for 
one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious cf 
having given him any provocation ; indeed, I am guiltless 
of having heard his name till coupled with the " Satirist." 
He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased tlian otherwiije. 
I have now mentioned all who have done me the honor to 
notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except 
the editor of the " Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman — 
God wot ! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to 
his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is 
about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle. 
I hope not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short 
intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when 
a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will 
endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general 
note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publishers ; 
and, in the words of Scott, I wish 

" To all and each a fair goodnight. 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 



HINTS FROM HORACE: 



BEING AN ALLUSION IN ENGLISil VERSE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE POETICA," AND 
INTENDED AS A SEQUEL TO " ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS.'" 



" Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 

Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

Hon. De Arte Poet, 

" Rhymes are diflScult things— they are stubborn things, sir '' 

Fielding's Amelia. 



i -.hens. Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 
Who would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvass with each flatter'd face. 
Abused his art, till Nature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 

Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam 
Jungere si velit, et varias inducere plumas. 



1 [" The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish 
had never been written— not only on account of the in- 
justice of much of the critical, and some of the personal 
part of it— but the tone and temper are such as I cannot 
approve." — Byron. July 14, 1816. Diodati, Geneva.] 

2 [.\uthors are apt, it is said, to estimate their performances 
more according to the trouble they have cost themselves, 
than the pleasure they afford to the public ; and it is only 
in this way that we can pretend to account for the ex- 
traoidinary value which Lord Byron attached, even many 
long years after they were written, to these " Hints from 
Horace." The business of translating Horace has hitherto 
been a hopeless one ;— and notwithstanding the brilliant 
cleverness of some passages, in both Pope's and Swift's 
Imitationi, of him, there had been, on the whole, very little 
to encourage any one to meddle seriously even with that 
less difficult department. It is, comparatively, an easy 
affair to transfer the effect, or something like the effect, of 



Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low Dubost — as once the world has seen — 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen? 

Undique collatis membris. ut turpiter atrum 
Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne ; 



the majestic declamations of Juvenal ; but the Horatian 
satire is cast in a mould of such exquisite delicacy— uniting 
perfect ease wiih perfect elegance throughout — as has 
hitherto defied all the skill of the moderns. Lord Byron, 
however, having composed this piece at Athens, in 1811, and 
brought it home in the same desk with the two first cantos 
of " Childe Harold," appears to have, on his arrival m Lon- 
don, contemplated its publication as far more likely to in- 
crease his reputation than that of his original poem. Per- 
haps Milton's preference of the " Paradise Regained" over 
the " Paradise Lost" is not a more decisive example of the 
extent to which a great author may mistake the source of 
his greatness. 

Lord Byron was prevented from publishing these lines, by 
a feeling, which, considering his high notion of their merit, 
does him honor. By accident, or nearly so, the " Harold" 
came out before the " Hints ;" — and the receplioii of the 
former was so flattering to Lord Byron, that it could 



448 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Not all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, conld gag his grinning friends.* 
Believe me, Moschus,^ like that picture s6ems 
The book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet.' 

Poets and painters, as all artists* know. 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow ; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task, 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask ; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams — 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down 
As pertness passes with a legal gown : 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain ; 
The groves of Granta. and her gnthic halls, [walls ; 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and old 
Or, in advent'rous numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.^ 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Then glide dov/n Grub-street — fasting and forgot ; 

Spectatum admissi risum teneatis, amici ? 
Credite, Pisones, isti tabulse fore librum 
Persimilein, cnjus, velut ragri somnia, vanse 
Finfrentur species ; ut nee pes, nee caput um 
Reddatur formas. Pictnribus atque poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit requa potestas. 
Scimus, et hanc veniam petimusque damusque vicissim • 
Sed non ut placidis coiiant immitia ; non ut 
Serpentes avibus peminentur, tigribus agni. 

Incffiptis gravibus plerumque et magna professis 
Purpureas, late qui spleiideat, unus et alter 
Assuitur pannus ; cum lucus et ara Diana;, 
Et properantis aqutB per amoenos ambitus agros, 
Aut flumen Rhenum, aut pluvius describitur arcus. 
Sed nunc non erat his locus : et fortasse cupressum 
Scis simulare: quid hoc, si fraotis enatat exspes 
Navibus, aere date qui pingitur? amphora ccepit 
Instita currente rota cur urceus exit ? 
Denique quod vis, simplex duntaxat et unum 



scarcely fail to take off, for the time, the edge of his appetite 
for literary bitterness. In short, he found himself mixing 
constantly in society with persons who had— from good 
sense, or good-nature, or from both — overlooked the petu- 
lancies of his '■ English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,"' and 
felt, as he said, that he should be " heaping coals of fire on 
his head" if he were to persist in bringing forth a continua- 
tion of his juvenile lampoon. IS'ine years had passed ere he 
is found writing thus to Mr. Murray : — " Get from Mr. Hob- 
house, and send me, a proof of my ' Hints from Horace :' it 
has now the nonum prcmalur in annum complete for its pro- 
duction. I have a notion that, with some omissions of names 
and passages, it will do ; and I could put my late observa- 
tions for Pope amongst the notes. As far as versification 
goes, It is good ; and, in looking back at what I wrote about 
that period, I am astonished to see how little I have trained 
on. I wrote better then than now ; but that comes ot my 
having fallen into the atrocious bad taste of the times." On 
hearing, however, that, in Mr. Hobhouse's opinion, the 
iambics would require " a good deal of slashing" to suit the 
times, the notion of printi ng them was once more abandoned. 
They were first published, therefore, in 1831, seven years 
after the poet's death.] 

» In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad 
wherever there are Englishmen, 1 read an account of this 

dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H as a "beast," and 

the consequent action, &c. The circumstance is. probably, 
too well known to require further comment. — [The gentle- 
man here alluded to was Thomas Hope, Esq., the author of 
" Anastasius," and one of the most munificent patrons of art 
this country ever possessed. Having, somehow, offended an 
unprincipled French painter, by name Dubost, that ad- 



Laugh'd into Lethe oy some quaint Review, 
Whose wit is never tioublesorae till — true' 

In fine, to whatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simple and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labor to bo brief — become obscure ; 
One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly. 
He spins his subject to satiety ; 
Absuidly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice, 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
None are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For gallygaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
But coats must claim another artisan.' 
Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame f 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose ! 

Dear authors ! suit your topics to your strength, 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 

Maxima pars vatum, pater, et juvenes patre digni 
Decipimur specie recti. Brevis esse laboro, 
Obscurus fio : sectantem levia, nervi 
Deficiunt animique : professus grandia, turget : 
Serpit humi tutus nimium timidusque procelloe 
Qui variare cupit rem prodigialiter unam, 
Delphinum sylvis appingit, fluctibus aprum. 

In vitium ducit culpa; fuga, si caret arte. 
.lEmiliuin circa ludum faber imu« et ungues 
Exprimet, et molles imitabitur a;re capillos ; 
Infelix operis summa, quia ponere totum 
Nesciet. Hunc ego me, si quid componere curem, 
Non magis esse velim, quam pravo vivere naso, 
Spectandum nigris oculis nigroque capillo. 

Sumite materiem vestris, qui scribitis, a;quam 
Viribus ; et versate diii quid ferre recusent. 
Quid vaieant humeri. Cui lecta potenter erit res, 
Nee facundia deseret hunc, nee lucidus ordo. 

Ordinis haec virtus erit et venus, aut ego fallor, 

venturer revenged himself by a picture called " Beauty and 
the Beast," in w'hich Mr. Hope and his lady were represent- 
ed according to the well-known fairy story. The picture 
had too much malice not to succeed ; and, to the disgrace 
of John Bull, the exhibition of it is said to have fetched 
thirty pounds in a day. A brother of Mrs. Hope thrust his 
sword through the canvass : and M. Dubosl had the conso 
lation to get five pounds damages. The affair made much 
noise at the time ; though Jlr. Hope had not then placed 
himself on that seat of literary eminence, which he after 
wards attained. Probably, indeed, no man's reputation in 
the world was ever so suddenly and completely altered, as 
his was by the appearance of his magnificent romance. He 
died in 1833.] 

2 [" Moschus."— In the original MS., " Hobhouse."] 

3 [The opening of the poem is, with reference to the 
original, mgenious. — Mooke.] 

4 ["All artists."— Originally, "We scribblers."] 

6 " Where ptire description held the idace of sense."— 

Pope 

6 [This is pointed, and felicitously expressed.— MooitE.] 

7 Mere common mortals were commonly content with 
one tailor and with one bil 1, but the more particular gentle- 
men found it impossible tr confide their lower garments to 
the makers of their body c lothes. I speak of the beginning 
of 1809 : what reform may have since taken place, I neither 
know, nor desire to know. 

e [" As one leg perfect, and the other lame "—II S.J 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



449 



Nor lift your load, before you're quite aware 
What weiglit your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
But lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the poet, skilful in his choice ; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line : 
This shall the author choose, or thiit reject, 
Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
N.jr sliirht applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear tiot, if 'tis needful, to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use, 
(As Pitt' has furnish'd us a word or two, 
Which lexicographers declined to do,) 
So you indeed, with care, — (but be content 
To take this license rarely,) — may invent. 
New words find credit in these latter days 
If neatiy grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chajcer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say why not. 
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs, 
Enrich'd our island's ill-united tongues ; 
'Tis then — and shall be — lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please ; 
And we and ours, alas ! are due to fate. 
And works and words but dwindle to a date. 



Ut jam nunc dicat, jam nunc debentia dici 
Pleraque difterat, et preesens in tempus omittat ; 
Hoc amet, hoc spernat promissi carminis auctor. 

In verbis etiam tenuis cautusque serendis : 
Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum 
Reddiderit junctura novum. Si forte necesse est 
Indiciis monstrare recentibus abdita rerum, 
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Ccthegis 
Conlinget; dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter, 
Et nova fictaque nuper habebunt verba fidern, si 
Grseco fonte cadant, parce detorta. Quid autem 
Caecilio Plautoqae dabit Romanus, ademptum 
Virgilio Varioque ? ego cur, acquirere pauca 
Si poxsuin, invideor, cum lingua Catonis et Enni 
Sermonem patrium ditaverit, et nova rerum 
Nomina protulent? Licuit, semperque Unebit, 
Signatum prajsente nota producere nomei, 

Ut silvai fohis pronos mutantur in anno . 
Prima cadunt : ita verborum vetus interit aecas, 
Et juvenum vitu fiorent modo nata, vigentque 
Debemur niorti nos nostraque : sive receptus 
Terra Neptunus classes aquilonibus arcet, 

' Mr. Pitt was liberal in 1^'s additions to our parliamentary 
tongue ; as may be seen in nany publications, particularly 
the Edniburgli Review. 

2 Old ballads, old plays, and old women's stories are at 

f resent in as much request as old wine or new speeches. 
n fact, this is the millennium of black letter: thanks to our 
Hebers, Webers, and Scotts 1 — [There was considerable 
malice in thus putting Weber, a poor German hack, a mere 
amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, between the two other 
names.] 

3 " Mac Flecknoe." the " Dunciad," and all Swift's lam- 
pooning ballads. Whatever their other works may be, these 
originated in personal feelings, and angry retort on un- 
worthy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires ele- 
vates the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the per- 
sonal character of the writers.— [For particulars of Dryden's 
feud with his successor in the laureateship, Shadwell, wliom 
he has immortalized under the name of Mac Flecknoe, and 
also asOg, v- "he second part of "Absalom and Achitophel ;" 
and for the luerary squabbles in which Swift and Pope were 
engaged, the reader must turn to the lives and works of 
these three great writers. See also Mr. D'Israeli's pain- 
fully interesting book on " The Quarrels of Authors."] 



Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls, 

Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 

Though swamps subdued, and marshes oTaiu'dj sustain 

The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain, 

And rising ports along the busy shore 

Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar, 

All, all must perish ; but, sun'iving last. 

The love of letters half preserves the past 

True, some decay, yet not a few revive f 

Though those shall sink, which noTv appear to thrive, 

As custom arbitrates, whose shifting sway 

Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars which gods and angels wage. 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
His strain will icach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestiu told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paii.t 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank ? 
Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, St. Patrick's dean.' 

Blank verse* is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits her side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Drj'den's days, 
No sing-song hero rants in modern plays ; 
While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and puiv" in very middling prose. 

Regis opus ; sterilisve diu palus, aptaque remis, 
Vicmas urbes alit, et grave sentit aratrum : 
Seu cursum mutavit iniquum frugibus ainnis, 
Doctus iter melius ; mortalia facta peribunt ; 
Nedum sermonum .stet honos, et gratia vivax. 
Multa renascentur, quas jam cecidere ; cadentque 
Quaj nunc sunt in honore vocabula, si volet usus, 
Quem penes arbitrium est et jus et norma loquendi. 

Res gesta; regumque ducumque et tristia bella, 
Quo scnbi possent numero monstravit Homerus. 

Versibus impariter junctis querimonia primum; 
Post etiam inclusa est voti sententia compos. 
Quis tamen exiguos elegos emiserit auctor, 
Grammatici certant, et adhuc sub judice lis est. 

Archilochum proprio rabies armavit iambo ; 
Hunc socci cepere pedem, grandesque cothurni, 
Alternis aptum sermonibus, et populares 
Vincentem strepitus, et natum rebus agendis. 

Musa dedit fidibus divos, puerosque deorum, 
Et pugilem victorem, et equum certamiue primum, 
Et juvenum curas, et libera vina referre. 

Descrijitas servare vices operumque colores. 



* [Like Dr. Johnson, Lord Byron maintained the excel 
lence of rhyme over blank verse in English poetry. " Blank 
verse," he says in his long-lost letter to the editor of Black- 
wood's Magazine, " unless in the drama, no one except 
Milton ever wrote who could rhyme. I am aware that 
Johnson has said, after sbme hesitation, that he could not 
' prevail upon himself to wish that Milton had been a 
rhymer.' The opinions of that truly great man, whom, 
like Pope, it is the present fashion to decry, will ever be re- 
ceived by me with that deference which time will restore 
to him from all ; but, with all humility, I am not persuaded 
that the ' Paradise Lo.st' would not have been more nobly 
conveyed to posterity, not perhaps in heroic couplets, — al- 
though even they could sut-tain the subject, if well bal- 
anced,— but in the stanza of Spenser, or of Tasso, or in 
the terza rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton could 
easily have grafted on our language. The ' Seasons' of 
Thomson would have been better in rhyme, although still 
inferior to his 'Castle of Indolence;' and Mr. Soulhey'3 
' Joan of Akc' no worse."] 

6 With all the vulgar applause and critical abhorrence of 
puns, tliey have Aristotle on their side ; who permits them tl 
orators, and gives them consequence by a grave disquisitioi. 



450 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear. 
Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty times a year! 

Whate'er the scene, let this advice have weight: — 
At'apt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to grodU, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
Nor u.jregarded will the act pass by 
Where angry Townly' lifts his voice on high. 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
Wlieu common prose will serve for common things; 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire. 
To " holloing Hotspur"' and the sceptred sire 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; — they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, whate'er the song. 
Still let it bear th.. hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep, 
Whiche'cr may please you — any thing but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave. 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish'd Romeo feign'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad words, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men Icok angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye ; 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors cony nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 

Cur ego, si nequeo ignoroque, poeta salutor? 
Cur nescire, pudens prave, quam discere malo .' 

Versibus exponi tragicis res comica non vult , 
Indjgniitur item privatis, ac prope socco 
Dignis carminibus narrari cceiia Thyestne. 
Singula quaeque locum teneant sortfta decenter 
Interdum tamen et vocem coino'dia tollit, 
Iratusque Chremes tumido delitigat ore : 
Et tragicus plerumque dolet serinone pedestn. 
Teleplius et Peleus, cum pauper et cxsul, uterque 
Projicit ampuUas et sesquipedalia verba, 
Si curat cor spectantis leligisse querela. 

Non satis est pulchra esse poeuiata ; dulcia sunto, 
Et. quocunque volent, aiumum auditoris agunto. 
Ut ndentibus arrident, ita flentibus adflent 
Ilumani vultus : si vis me flere. dolendum est 
Pritimm ipsi tibi ; tunc tiia me infortunia la;dent. 
Telephe, vel Peleu, male si mandata loqueris, 
Aul dormitabo, aut ridebo : tnslia mreslum 
Vultum verba decent ; iralum, plena minarum , 
Ludentem, iasciva ; severum, seria dictu. 
Format enim natura pnus nos intus ad omnem 

[" Cicero also," says Addison, " has sprinided several of his 
works with them ; and, in his book on Oratory, quotes 
abundance of sayings as pieces of wit, which, upon ex- 
amination, prove arrant puns. But the age m whicli the 
pun chiefly nourished was m the reign of James the First, 
who was himself a tolerable punster, and made very few- 
bishops or privy councillors that had not some time or other 
signalized themselves by a clinch or a conundrum. The 
sermons of Bishop Andrews, and the tragedies of Shak- 
speare, are full of them. The sinner was punned into re- 
pentance by the former ; as in the latter, nothing is more 
usual than to see a hero weeping and quibbling for a dozen 
lines together."] 

1 lln Vanbrugh's comedy of the " Provoked Husband."] 

a -'And in his ear I'll hollo Mortimer !"— 1 Henry IV. 

s ('' Johnson. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir? 
Ba-^.s. W]iy, Sir, a great hero, that frights his mistress, 
snuU up kings, baffles armies, and does wnat he will, with- 
out regard to numbers, good sense, or justice." — ile- 
hcar»al._ 



And fi^r expression's aid, 'tis said, oi sung, 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue, 
Who, worn with use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in tliea res) with common sense ; 
O'erwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugi with any thing — but wit. 

To skilful writers it will much import, 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or 

court ; 
Whether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A wandering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ;" 
Ai. persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wale.s. 

Or follow common fame, or forge a plot. 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have been. 

If some Drawcansir' yet aspire to draw, 
Present him raving and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are planu'd. 
Macbeth's fierce dame is ready to your banc ; 
For tears and treachery, for good and evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil! 
But if a new design you dare essay. 
And freely wander from the beaten way. 
True to your characters, till all be pass'd, 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'Tis hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 

Fortunarum habitum ; juvat, aut impellit ad irain , 
Aut ad humum rnoerore gravi deducit, et angit ; 
Post eftert animi uiolus interprete lingua. 
Si diceutis crunt fortunis absona dicta, 
Romani tollent equites peditesque cachinnum. 

Intererit niullum, Davusne loquatur, an heros , 
Maturusne senex, an adhuc florente juveiita 
Fervidus ; an matrona polens, an sedula iiutrix ; 
Mercatorne vngus, cultorne virentis agelli ; 
Colchus, an Assyrius ; Thebis nutritus, an Argis. 

Aut famam sequere, aut sibi conveuientia fingc, 
Scriptor. Ilonoratuin si forte reponi;? Achillem ; 
Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer, 
Jura neget sibi nata, nihil non a'-'oget armis. 
Sit Medea ferox mvictaque, flebilis ino, 
Perfidus Ixion, lo vaga, tristis Orestes, 
Si quvi inexpertum scena; committis, et audes 
Personam I'ormare novam ; servetur ad imum 
Qualis ab mcepto processent, et sibi constet. 

Diflicile est proprie communia dicere ;* tuque 
Rectius lliacum carmen deducis in actus, 
Quam si proferres ignota indictaque primus. 



* " Difficile est proprie communia dicere.'" — Mdo. Dacier, 
Mde. de Sevignu. Boileau, and others, have left their dis- 
pute on the meaning of this passage in a tract considerably 
longer than the poem oi Horace. It is printed at the close 
of tlie eleventh volume of Madame de fc-'evigne's Letters, 
edited by Grouvelle, Pans, 1806. Presuming that all who 
can construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, 
particularly as so many who can not have taken the 
same liberty, I should have held my •' farthing candle" as 
awkwardly as another, had not my respect for the wits 
of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan siecle induced me 
to subjoin these illustrious authorities. Isl, Boileau : " II 
est difficile de traiter des sujets qui sont & la portiie de tout 
le monde d'une manic re qui vous les rende propres, ce 
qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu'on y 
donne." 2dly, Baiteux : " Mais il est bien difficile de donner 
des traits propres et individuels aux etres purement pos 
sibles." 3dly, Dacier: "II est difficile de trfiit?r convena- 
blement ces caracteres que tout le monde p,_iit inventer ' 
Mde. de SO vignti's opinion and tsanijlation, consisting of some 
thirty pages, I omit, particuhirly as M. Grouvelle observes, 
" La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de cesdiveiscs in- 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



451 



And yet, perchance, 'tis wiser to prefer 

A hackney'd plot, than choose a new, and err ; 

Yet copy not too closely, bnt record, 

More justly, thought for thought than word for 

word, 
Nni trace your prototype through narrow ways, 
IJat only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read. 
Ere j'our first score of cantos time unrolls. 
Beware — for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles I* 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, wliat follows from his boiling brain? — 

Publioa materies privati juris erit, si 
Nee cn"ca vilem patulumque moraberis orbem ; 
Nee verbum verbo carabis reddere fidus 
Interpres. nee desilies imitator in arctum, 
Unde pedein proferre pmlor vetet, aut operis lex. 
Nco sic incipies, ut scriptor cyclicus olini : 
" Fortunam Priami cantabo, et nobile bellum." 
Quid dignum taato feret hie promissor hiatu? 
Parturiunt montes : nascetur ridieulus mus. 

terpretationb ne parait ctre la veritable." But by way of 
comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, " Le lumineux 
Dumaisais' made his appearance, to set Horace on his legs 
ap;ain, " diss, per tons les nuages, et eoncilier lous les dissen- 
tiinens;" and some fifty years hence, somebody, still more 
luminous, will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais 
and his system ofi this weighty afl^air, as if he were no better 
llian Ptolemy and Tycho, or his comments of no more con- 
sequence than astronomical calculations on the present 
comet. I am happy to say, " la longueur de la dissertation" 
of M. D. prevents M. G. from saying any more on the matter. 
A better poet than Boileau, and at least as good a scholar as 
Sijvignii, has said, 

'• A little learning is a^ngerous thing." 
And, by tin's comparison of coinments. it may be perceived 
how a good deal may be rendered as perilous to the pro- 
prietors — [Dr. Johnson gave the interpretation thus—" He 
means that it is difficult to appropriate to particular persons 
qualities which are common to all mankind, as Homer has 
done." — "It seems to result from the whole discussion," 
says Mr. Croker, " that, in the ordinary meaning of the 
Words, the passage is obscure, and that, to make sense, we 
must eithpr alter the words, or assign to them an unusual 
intei'pretation. AH commentators are agreed, by tlie help 
of the context, what the general meaning must be ; but no 
one seems able ' verbum verbo reddere fidus interpres ' " 
(Boswr}/. vol. iii. p. 438.)— But, in our humble opinion, Boi- 
leau's translation is precisely that of this '• fidus interpres."] 
' About two years ago a •■'oung man, named Townsend, 
was announced by Mr. Cumberland* (in a revievvt since 
de<"pased) as being engaged ov an epic poem to be entitled 
" Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise much ; 
but I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his friends, 
by recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to 
wliich these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in 
his undertaking, as there is reason to hope, how much will 
the world be indebted to Mr. f'\nnberland for bringing him 
before the public ! But, till that eventful day arrives, it may 
bo doubled wdiether the premature display of his plan (sub- 
lime as the ideas confessedly are) has not, — by raising ex- 
pectation too high, or uiminishng curiosity, by developing 
liis argument, — rather incurrei' he hazard of injuring Mr. 
Townsend's future prospects. M ■. Cumberland (whose 
talents I shall not depreciate by tht, "iumble tribute of my 



* rOn the original MS. we find, — " This note was written" 
[at Athens] " before the author was apprized of Mr. Cum- 
berland's death." The old litt<!-rate\ir died in May, 1811, and 
had the honor to be buried in We.stminsler Abbey, and to 
be eulogized, while the comnanv stood round the crave, in 
tne toiiownig manly style ny ttie tnen <leaii. Ur Vincent, 
Ills schoolleliow, and through lite his friend.— " Good peo- 
ple I the person you see now deposited is Richard Cumber- 
land, an author of no small merit : his writings were chiefly 
foi the stage but of strict moral tendency: they were not 
without faults, but they were not gross, abounding with 
oaths and libidinous expressions, as, I am shocked to ob- 
serve, is tlie case of many of the present day. He wrote as 
much as any one : few wrpte better ; and his works will be 
held in the highest estimation, as long as the English lan- 
gi.igt will be understood. He considered the theatre a 
ac iOi<i for moral improvement, and his remains are truly 



He sinks to Southey's level in a trice, 

Whose epic mountains never fail in mice! 

Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 

The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre ; 

Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 

" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit" 

He speaks, but, as his subject swells along, 

Earth, heaven, and Hades echo vith the song 

Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 

As if we witness'd all already done ; 

Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 

To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 

Gives, as each page improves upon the sight, 

Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness — -ight ; 

Quanto rectius hie, qui nil molitur inepte ! 
" Die mihi. Musa, vinini, capta; post tempora Trojac, 
Qui mores hominum nultorum vidit et urbes." 
Non fumum ex fulgore. sed ex fumo dare lucem 
Cogitat, ut speciosa dehiuc miracula promat, 
Antiphaten, Scyllamque, et cum Cyclope Charybdim. 
Nee reditum Diomedis ab iiittcitu Meleagri, 
Nee gemino bellum Trojanum orditur ab ovo. 
Semper ad eventum festinat ; et in medias res 

praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated 
by unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author 
all the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly ha))py 
to see epic poetry weighed up from the bathos where it lies 
sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cowlev, (Mrs. or Abraham,) 
Ogilvy, Wilkie. Pye, and all the "dull of past and present 
days." Even if he is not a Milton, he may be better than 
Blackmore ; if not a Homer, an Antimnchus. I should deem my- 
self presumptuous, as a young man, in offering advice, were it 
not addressed to one still younger. Mr. Townsend has the 
greatest difficulties to encounter : but in conquering them he 
will find employment; in having conquered them, his reward. 
I know too well "the scribbler's scoff", the critic's contumely ,■" 
and I am afraid time will teach Mr. Townsend to know them 
better. Those who succeed, and those who do not, must bear 
this alike, and it is hard to say whicli have most of it. I 
trust that Mr. Townsend's share will be from envy ; — he 
will soon know mankind well enough not to attribute this 
expression to malice.— [This was penned at Athens. On his 
return to England Lord B. wrote to a friend :—" There is 
a sucking epic poet at Granta, a Mr. Townsend, proteg6 of 
the late Cumberland. Did you ever hear of him, and his 
'Armageddon?' I think his plan (the man I don't know) 
borders on the sublime; though, perhaps, the anticipation 
of the' Last Day' is a little too di ring: at least, it looks like 
telling the Almighty what he is to do ; and might remind an 
ill-natured person of the line — 

' And fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' 
But I don't mean to cavil — only other folks will ; and he 
may bring all the lambs of Jacob Behmen about his ears. 
However, I hope he will bring it to a conclusion, though 
Milton is in his way." — All Lord Byron's anticipations with 
regard to this poem, were realized to the very letter. To 
gratify the curiosity which had been excited, Mr. Townsend, 
in 1815, was induced to publish eight out of the twelve books 
of which It was to consist. " In the benevolence of his 
heart. Mr. Cumberland," he says, "bestowed praise on me, 
certainly too abundantly and prpmaturely ; but I hope that 
any deficiency on my part may be imputed to the true cause 
— my own inability to support a subject, under which the 
greatest mental powers must inevitably sink. My talents 
were neither equal to my own ambition, nor his zeal to 
serve me."] 

2 [There is more of poetry in these verses upon Milton than 
in any other passage throughout the paraphrase.— Mooke.] 

worthy of mingling with the illustrious dead wh?.ch sur 
round us. Read his prose subjects on divinity ! there yon 
will find the true Christian spirit of the man who trusted in 
our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ May God forgive him 
his sin.< , ana, ai tue resurrection ot tne just, receive mm 
into everlasting glory :'"] 

t The " London Review," set up in 1809, under Mr. Cum- 
berland's editoria! care, did not outlive many numbers. He 
spoke great things in the prospectus, about the distinguishing 
feature of the journal ; viz. its having the writer's name af- 
fixed to the articles. This plan has succeeded pretty well 
both in France and Germany, but has failed utterly as' often 
as it has been tried in this country. It is needless, liowevor 
to go into any speculation on tho j: : inciple liere ; for the " Lon- 
don Review," whether sent Intc . he world with or without 
names, must soon have died of tht ci iginal disease of dulncss 



453 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not where to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
What soothes the many-headed monster's car ; 
If your heart triumph when the hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall, 
Deserve tht-se plaudits — study nature's page, 
And sketuh the striking traits of every age ; 
While varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told : 
Observe his simple childhood's dawning days. 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays ; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans. 
And prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens I 

Behold him Freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er Virgil's' devilish verses and — his own ; 
Prayers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse. 
He flies from Tavell's frown to " Fordham's Mews ;'' 
(Unlucky Tavell I^ doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,^) 
F'ues, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain. 
Belore hounds, hunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash. 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to naught — save hazard and a whore. 
Yet cursing both — for both have made him sore ; 
Unread, (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees ;) 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunn'd, he wastes his term away. 
And, unexpell'd perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as hells and cluhs* proclaim. 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name ! 

Launch'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank, 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank ; 

Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit, et quae 
Desperat tiactata nitescere posse, relinquit : 
Atque ita mentitur, sic veris falsa remiscet, 
Primo ne medium, medio ne discrepet imum 

Tu, quid ego et populus mecum desideret, audi. 
Si plausoris eges aulaja manentis, et usque 
Sessuri, donee cantor, Vos plaudite, dicat 
yEtatis cujusque notandi sunt tibi mores, 
Mobilibusque decor naturis dandus et annis. 
Reddere qui voces jam scit puer, et pede certo 
Signat humum ; gestit paribus colludere, et iran 
CoUigit ac ponit temere. et mutatur in horas. 

Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remoto, 
Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi ; 
Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper, 
Utilium tardus provisor, prodigus asris, 
Sublimis, cupidusque, et amata relinquere pemix. 

Conversis studiis, fetas animusque virilis 
Quaerit opes et amicitias, inservit houori ; 
Commisisse cavet quod mox mutarc laboret. 



» Harvey, the circulator of the circulation of the blood, used 
to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration, and say, 
"the book had a devil." Now, such a character as 1 am 
copymg would probably fling it away also, but rather wish 
that the devil had the book ; not from dislike to the poet, but 
a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed, the public 
school penance of " Long and Short" is enough to beget an 
antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's hfe, and. nei-- 
haps, so far may be an advantage. 

3 " Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem.' I dare 
say Mr. Tavell (to whom 1 mean no affront) will understand 
me ; and it is no matter whether any one else does or no.— 
To the above events, " quaeque ipse miserrima vidi. et quo- 
rum pars magna fui," " all times and terms tear testimony.*' 

»[The Rev. G. F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of 
Tnrity College, Cambridge, during Lord Byron's residence, 
lind owed 'his notice to the zeal with which he had pro- 



Sits in the Seiiate ; gets a son and heir ; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, thi igh he votes, unless when call'd to cneer 
His sou 's so sharp — he'll see the dog a peer ! 

Manhood declines — ago palsies every limb; 
He quits the scene — or else the scene quits him; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent per cent, and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminish'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons — Du iv, die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these •, 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot, 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ; 

But from the Drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, thoug; hey please you less. 
Though woman weep, and haruest hearts are stirr'd, 
When what is done is rather seen than he;trd, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page. 
Are better told than acted on the stage ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye. 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all besides, I here am French- 
Bloodshed 'tis surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show : 
We hate the carnage while we see the trick, 
And find small sympathy in being sick. 
Not on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appals an audience wiUi a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear? 
A halter'd heroine^ Johnson sought to slay — 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play, 

Multa senem conveniunt incommada ; vel quod 
Quisrit, et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti ; 
Vel quod res omnes timide gelideque ministrat, 
Dilator, spe longus, iners, avidusque futuri ; 
Difficilis, querulus, laudator temporis acti 
Se puero, castigator censorque minorum. 
Multa ferunt anni venientes commoda secum, 
Multa recedentes adimunt. Ne forte seniles 
Mandentur juveni partes pueroque viriles. 
Semper in adjunctis, aevf jue morabimur aptis. 

Aut agitur res in scenis, aut acta refertur. 
Segnius irritant animos dcmissa per aurem 
Quam qua3 sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et qua3 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. Non tamen intus 
Digna geri promes in scenam ; niultaque tolles 
Ex oculis, quae mox narret facundia praesens. 
Ne pueros coram populo Medea trucidet ; 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nofarius Atreus ; 
Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem. 
Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 



tested against some juvenile vagarirs, sufficiently explained 
in Mr. Moore's Notices, vol i. p. 210.] 

« " Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, 
and are cheated a good deal. " Club.'' a pleasant purgatory, 
where you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated 
at all. 

s " Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring round 
her neck ; but the audience cried out ' Murder I' aud she 
was obliged to go off the stage alive." — BoswelVs Johnson. 
[These two lines were afterwards struck out, and Irene was 
carried off, to be put to death behind the scene?. " This 
shows," says Mr. Malone, "how ready mjdeir. audiences 
are to condemn, in a new play, what they have I'requently 
endured very quietly in an old one. Rovve has mai.e .Alo- 
neses, in Tamerlane, die by the bowstring without offence." 
Davies assures us, in his Life of'Garrick, that the strangling 
Irene, contrary to Horace's rule, cot am populo, was suggtated 
by Garrick. See Croker's Bosweli, vol. i. p. 172.J 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



453 



And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stiiil metamorphoses to pantomimes; 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, would quake 
To cliantre Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Bfiause, in scenes exciting joy or grief, 
W i 'lOathe the action which exceeds belief: 
Auti yet, God knows! what may not authors do, 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing "heroines blue?"^ 

Above all things, Dari Poet, if you can, 
Eke out 3 nur acts, I pray, with mortal man ; 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did f 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong, 
Rage, love, and auglit but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends, 
Whi'^h Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
Ndpoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giaut capital, whose squares are spread. 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their 

bread, 
In all iniquity is grown so nice, 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear. 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore. 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ;" 
Squeezed in " Fop's Alley," jostled by the beaux. 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease, 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess? — 
H&cause it costs him dear, and makes him dress ! 

Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior acta 
Fabula, quae posci vult et spectata reponi. 



1 In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre," Mr. Lewis 
tells us, that though blacks were unknown in England at 
the period of his action, yet he has made the anachronism 
to set off the scene ; and if he could have produced the effect 
" by making his heroine blue," — I quote him — " blue he 
would have made her 1" 

2 [In 1706, Dennis, the critic, wrote an " Kssay on the 
Operas after the Italian manner, which are about *.o be estab- 
lished on the English iStage ;" in which he endeavored to show, 
that it is a diversion of more pernicious consequence than 
the most licentious play that ever appeared upon the stage.] 

'■> " The first theatrical representations, entitled ' Mysteries 
and Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christmas, by 
monks, (as the only persons who could read,) and latterly by 
the clergy and students of the universities. The dramatis 
persons were M'^ually Adam, Pater Coelestis, Faith, Vice," 
&c. &c. — See Warton's History of English Poetry. [These, 
to modern eyes, wild, unco'ith, and generally profane per- 
formances, were thought to ton nbute so much to the infor- 
mation and instruction of the people, that one of the popes 
granted a pardon of one thousand days to every person who 
resorted peaceably to the plays acted in the Whitsunweek at 
Chester, beginning with the " Creation," and ending with the 
" General Judgment." These were performed at the ex- 
pense of the different trading companies of that city. The 
" Creation" was performed by the drapers ; the " Deluge" 
by the dyers; "Abraham, Melchisedec, and Lot" by the 
barbers ; 'the " Purification" by the blacksmiths ; the " Last 
Supper" by the bakers ; the " Resurrection" by the skin- 
ners ; and the " Ascension" by the tailors. In Mr. Payne 
Collier's work on English Dramatic Poetry, the reader will 
find an abstract of the several collections of these mystery- 
plays, which is not only interesting for the hght it throws 
on the early days of our drama, but instructive and valuable 
for the curious information it preserves with respect to the 
strangely debased notions of Scripture history that prevailed, 
a.inost unive/sally, before translations of the Bible were in 
conunoa use. See also the Quarterly Review, vol. xlvi. 
p. 477.] 



So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were ])laY'd by many a reverend clerk,* 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark?)'' 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry, and coarse jokee. 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'Tis strange Beiivolio^ suffers such a show f 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging, — all, save rout and race. 

Farce foUow'd Comedy, and reach'd hei primb. 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time: 
Mad wag ! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best, 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest 
Nor church nor state escaped his public si.tiers, 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers 
" Alas, poor Yorick !" now forever mute ! 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scene.s 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit, 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee 111 quit my cynic cell. 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle !" 
Which charm'd our days in each jEgean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme.' 
Then may Euphrosyne, who sped the past, 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last ; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,* 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when (.'ead 

Nee Deus mtersit, nisi dignus vmdice nodus 
Incident. « * * * 



* [Here follows in the original MS. — 

" Who did what Vestris— yet, at least, — cannot, 
And cut his kingly capers sans culotte."] 

5 Benvolio does not bet ; but every man who maintains 
race-horses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of the 
turf. Avoiding to bet is a little Pharisaical. Is it an excul- 
pation ? I think not. I never yet heard a bawd praised for 
chastity, because she herself did not commit fornication ! 

6 [For Benvolio we have, in the original MS., " Earl Gr 
venor ;" and for the next couplet — 

" Suppressing peer I to whom each vice gives place, 
Save gimbling — for his Lordship loves a race." 

But we cannot trace the exact propriety of the allusions 
Lord Grosvenor, now Marquis of Westminster, no doubt 
distinguished himself by some attack on the Sunday news 
papers, or the like, &.t the same time that he was known to 
keep a stud at Newmarket— but why a long note on a sub- 
ject certainly insignificant, and perhaps mistaken?] 

' [In dedicating the fourth canto of "Childe Harold" to 
his fellow traveller, Lord Byron describes him as " one to 
whom he was indebted for the social advantages of an en- 
lightened friendship ; one whom he had long known, and 
accompanied far, whom he had found wakeful over his sick- 
ness and kind in his sorrow, glad in his prosperity and firm 
in his adversity, true in counsel .and trusty in peril:" — while 
Mr. Hobhouse, in describing a short tour to Negroponte, in 
which his noble friend was unable to accompany him, re- 
grets the absence of a companion, " who, to quickness of ob- 
servation and ingenuity of remark, united that gay good hu- 
mor which keeps alive the attention under the pressure of fa- 
tigue, and softens the aspect of every difficulty and danger "] 

e Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of Sophron 
was found the day he died.— Vide Barth616mi, De Pauw, or 
Diogenes Laertius, if agreeable. De Pauw calls it a .est- 
book. Cumberland, in his Observer, terms it moral, h<e the 
sayings of Publius Syrus. 



454 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Wliere fetter'd by vvhig Walpole low phe lies ;' 
Corruption foil'd hor, for she fear'd her glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet Chesterfield,^ whose polish'd pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dulness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act I^ again let Humor roam, 
Wild o'er the stage — we've time for tears at home ; 
Let " Archer" plant the horns on " Sullen's" brows, 
And " Estifania" gull her " Copper"* spouse ; 
The moral's scant — but that may be excused, 
Men go nyt to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ;' 



> [The following is a brief sketch of the origin of the Play- 
house Bill : — In 1735, Sir John Barnard brouglit in a bill " to 
restrain the number of houses for playnig of interludes, and 
for the better regulating of common players." The minister, 
Sir Robert Walpole, conceiving this to be a favorable oppor- 
tunity of checking the abuse of theatrical representation, pro- 
posed to insert a clause to ratify and confirm, if not enlarge, 
the power of the Lord Chamberlain in licensing plays ; and 
at the same time insinuated, that unless this addition was 
made the king would not pass it. But Sir John Barnard 
strongly objected to this clause ; contending that the power 
of that officer was already too great, and had been often wan- 
tonly exercised. He therefore withdrew his bill, rather than 
establish by law a power m a single officer so much under the 
direction of the Crown. In the course, however, of the ses- 
sion of 1737, an opportunity offered, which Sir Robert did 
not fail to seize. The manager of Goodman's Fields The- 
atre having brought to him a farce called " The Golden 
Rump," which had been proffered for exhibition, the minis- 
ter paid the profits wliich might have accrued from the per- 
formance, and detained the copy. He then made extracts 
of the most exceptionable passages, abounding in profane- 
ness, sedition, and blasphemy, read them to the house, and 
obtained leave to bring in a bill to limit the number of play- 
houses ; to subject all dramatic writings to the inspection 
of the Lord Chamberlain ; and to compel tlie proprietors to 
take out a license for every production before it could ap- 
pear on the stage.] 

2 His speech on the Licensing Act is one of his most elo- 
quent efforts.— [Though the Playhouse Bill is generally said 
to have been warmly opposed in both Houses, this speech of 
the Earl of Chesterlield is tlie only trace of that opposition to 
be found in the periodical publications of the times. The 
following passage, which relates to the powers of the Lord 
Chamberlain, will show the style of the oration : — " The Bill 
is not only an encroachment upon liberty, but it is likewise an 
encroachment on property. Wit, my Lords, is a sort of pro- 
perly ; it is the property of those who have it, and too often 
theonly property they have to depend on. Thank God! my 
Lords, we have a dependence of another kind ; we have a 
much less precarious support, and, therefore, cannot feel the 
inconveniences of the bill now before us ; but it is our duty 
to encourage and protect wit, whosoever's property it may 
be. Those gentlemen who have any such property are all, 
I hope, our friends ; do not let us subject them to any unne- 
cessary or arbitrary restraint. I must own, I ca'uot easily 
agreeto the laying of any tax upon wit ; but by this it is to 
be heavily taxed, it is to be excised ; for, if this bill passes, it 
cannot be retailed in a proper way without a permit : and the 
Lord Chamberlain is to have the honor of being chief gauger, 
supervisor, commissioner, judge, and jury. But, what is still 
more hard, though the poor author,— the proprietor, I should 
sp.v,— cannot, perhaps, dine till he has found out and agreed 
w.ith a purchaser, yet before he can propose to seek for 
3 purchaser, he must patiently submit to have his goods 
f ummaged at this new e.KCise office , where they may be de- 
tained for fourteen days, and even then he may find them 
returned as prohibited goods ; by which his chief and best 
market will be forever shut against him, without the least 
shadow of reason, either from the laws of his country or the 
laws of the stage. These hardships, this hazard, which every 
gentleman will be exposed to who writes any thing for the 
stage, must certainly prevent every man of a generous and 
free spirit from attemp ing ar y thing in that way ; and as the 
stage has always been the pre per channel for wit and humor, 
the;3iore, my Lords, when I speak against this bill, I must 
think I r .ead the cause of wit, I plead the cause of humor, 
I plead the cause of the British stage, and of every gentleman 
of taste in the kingdom. The stage ami the press, my Lords, 
tie t\t o of our out-sentries : if we remove them, if we hood- 



Ay, but Macheath's example — psha ! — no mnre ! 

It form'd no thieves — the thief was lorm'd before ; 

And, spite of purit. jis and Collier's curse,' 

Plays make mankind no better, and no worse 

Then spare our stage, ye methodistic men . 

Nor burn damn'd Drury if it rise again.* 

But why to brain-scorch'd bigots thus appeal? 

Can heavenly mercy dwell with earthly zeal 1 

For times of .fire and fagot let them hope I 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex'd apologA-\ of sin I 

While the Lord's servant chastt^ns whom he*!oves, 

And Simeon' kicks, where Baxter only " shoves.'"' 



wink them, if we throw them in fetters, the enemy may sur- 
prise us. Therefore, I must look upon the bill now before us 
as a step for introducing arbitrary power into this kingdom."] 

3 [" Repeal that Act ." — After a lapse of nearly a century, 
the state of the laws affecting dramatic literature, and the 
performance of the drama, has again become the subject of 
parliamentary inquiry and report.] 

< Michael Perez, the " Conper Captain," in " Rule a Wife 
and have a Wife." 

5 [Of this "skill," Reynclds, in his "Life and Times," 
records a remarkable instance. The doctor had, it seems, an 
* fye like Mars, to threaten and command." Threalcu, \n 
every sense of the word ; for liis numerous patients stood as 
much in awe of this formidable weapon as of bars, chains, or 
strait waistcoats. After a {ew weeks' attendance on the 
King, he allowed his Majesty a razor to shave himself, and 
a penknife to cut his nails. For this he was one evening 
charged by the other physicians, before a committee of the 
House of Commons, with rashness and imprudence. Blr. 
Burke was very severe on this point, and authoritatively 
demanded to know, '• If the royal patient had become out- 
rageous at the moment, what power the doctor possessed of 
instantaneously terrifying him into obedience ?" — " Place 
the candles between us, Mr. Burke," replied the doctor, in 
an equally authoritative tone, '• and I'll give you an answer. 
There, Sir : by the eye. I should have looked at him thus, 
Sir, thus /" Mr. Burke instantaneously averted his liead ; 
and, making no reply, evidently acknowledged this basilisk 
authority. This story was often related by the doctor him 
self] 

6 [Dr. Johnson was of the like opinion. Of the " Beggars' 
Opera" he says, in his Life of Gay :— " The play, like many 
others, was plainly written only to divert, without any moral 
purpose, and is, therefore, not likely to do good ; nor can it be 
conceived, without more speculation than life requires or 
admits, to be productive of much evil. Highwaymen and 
housebreakers seldom frequent tlie playhouse, or mingle in 
any elegant diversion ; nor is it possible for any one to imagine 
tliat he may rob with safety, because he sees Jlacheatli re- 
prieved upon the stage." On another occasion, the common 
question with regard to this opera having been introduced, he 
said, — " As to this matter, which has been very much con- 
tested, I myself am of opinion, that more influence has been 
ascribed to'it than in reality it ever had ; for I do not believe 
that any man was ever made a rogue by being present at that 
representation." — See Croker's Boswell, vol. iii. p. 242.] 

' Jerry Collier's controversy with Congreve, &c. on the 
subject of the drama, is too well known to require further 
comment. 

» I" i/ it rise againV — When Lord Byron penned this 
couplet at Athens, he little imagined that he should so soon 
be called on to write an address to be spoken on the open- 
ing of ]\'ew Drury, and become one of the committee for 
managing its concerns.] 

s Mr. Simeon is the very bully of beliefs, and castigator of 
" good works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a 
laborer in the same vineyard :— but I say no more, for, ac- 
cording to Johnny in full congregation, " no hopes for them 
as laughs."— iThe Rev. Charles Simeon, fellow of King's 
College, Cambridge, — a zealous Calvinist, who, in conse- 
quence of his zeal, has been engaged in sundry warm dis- 
putations with other divines of the university. Besides 
many single sermons, he has published " Helps to Compo- 
sition, or 500 Skeleton Sermons," in five volumes , and 
" Horas Homileticaj, or Discourses (in the iurm of skele- 
tons) upon the whole Scripture," in eleven volumes.] 

10 " Baxter's Shove to heavy-a— d Christians"— the verit- 
able title of a book once in good repute, and likely enough to 
be so again. — [Richard Ba.xter is described by Granger ai " a 
man famous for weakness of hody and strength of ir.ind; for 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



455 



Whom nature guides, so writes, that everj' dunce 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once; 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails 

Let Pastoral be dumb ; for who can hope 
To match the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined, 
Instruct how hard the medium 'tis to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, when all aspire to taste ; 
The diify language, and the noisome jest, 
Which pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest ; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite, 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ! his wit hath made them pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet. 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet ; 
Nor less in merit than the longer line, 
This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain. 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of weight, 
And, varied skilfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most iu love and war, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime, 
4re curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skilful judge abhors to see, 
What few admire — irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 'tis hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confine, 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect, 
To gain the paltry suffrage of " correc ' '" 

Ex noto ficturn carmen sequar, ut sibi quivis 
Speret idem : sudet multum frustraque laboret 
Ausus idem : tantum series juncturaque pollet ; 
Tantum de medio sumtis accedit honoris. 

Silvis deducti caveant, me judiue, Fauni, 
Rt, velut innali triviis ac pane forenses, 
Aut nimium tenens juvenentur versibus unquam, 
Aut immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta. 
Odenduiitur enim, quibus est equus, et pater, et res: 
Nee, si quid fricti ciceris probat et nucis erator, 
^quis accipii'ut animii! donanlve corona. 
■ Svllaba lonL. ■ brevi su.;Jecta vocatur iambus, 
Pes ""•itus : nnde etiam trimetris accrescere jussit 
Nomoii iambeis, cum senos redderet ictus. 
Primus ad extrcmum similis sibi : noii ita pridem, 
Tardior ut paulo graviorque veniret ad aures, 
Spondeos stabiles in jura paterna recepit 
Comniodus et paliens ; non ut de sede secunda 
Cederet a\it quarla socialiter. Hie et in Acci 
Nobiiibus trimetris apparet rarus, et Enni. 
In scenam missos magno cum poudere versus, 
Aut oper» celeris nimium curaque carentis, 
Aut ignoralae premit artis crimine turpi. 

Non quivis videt imraodulata poemata judex; 
Et data Ilomanis venia est indigna poetis. 



having the strongest sense of religion himself, and exciting 
a sinse of it in the thoughtless and profligate ; for preaching 
more st .■mens, engaging in more controversies, and writing 
n-.oo b oks, than any other non-conformist of his age." 
Dr. Bar ow says, that " his practical writings" were never 
mended, his controversial seldom confuted." On Boswell's 
asking Johnson which of them he should read, the Doctor 
replied, " Any of them ; they are all good."] 



Or prune the spirit of each daring phraso 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye, who seek fiuish'd models, never cease. 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek, content with native strain.s. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen, 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, any thing but chaste ; 
Yet whether right or wrong the ancient rules, 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, who eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low, 
Can also, when a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 

In sooth I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who cur first English strollers were ; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart ; 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There's pomp enough, if little else, in plays ; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, white plume, and Bristol stono. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause. 
Though too licentious for dramatic laws: 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confess'd, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er their follies, aud their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass naught untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
An English subject for an English muse. 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, 
Would stop, like Pope,' to polish by the way ? 

Idcircone vager, scribamque licenter, ut omnes 
Visuros peccata putem mea, tutus, et intra 
Spem veniffi cautus ? vitavi denique culpani, 
Non laadem merui. Vos exemplaria Graca 
Nocturna versate inanu, versate diurna. 
At vestri proavi Plautinos et numeros et 
Laudavere sales ; nimium patienter utramque 
Ne dicam stulte, mirati ; si modo ego et vos 
Scimus inurbanum lepido seponere dicto, 
Legitimumque sonum digitis callemus et aure 

Ignotum tragiciB genus invenisse Camoenae 
Dicitur, et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis, 
Quae canerent agerentque peruncti fiecibus oni 
Post hunc persona; pallreque repertor honesta; 
jEschylus, et modicis mstravit pulpita tignis, 
Et docuit magnumque loqui, nitique cothurno 

Successit vetus his comcedia, nou sine multa 
Laude ; sed in vitium libertas excidit, et vim 
Dignam lege regi ; lex est accepta ; chorusque 
Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi. 

Nil intentatum nostri liquere poetae ; 
Nee minimum meruere decus, vestigia Graeca 
Ausi deserere, et celebrare domestica facta, 
Vel qui prastextas, vel qui docuere togatas. 
Nee virtute foret clarisve potentius armis, 



1 [" They support Pope, I see, m the Quarterly,"— wrote 
Lord Byron in IbSO, from Ravenna — " it is a sin and a shame, 
and a damnation, that Pope 1 1 should require it : but he docs. 
Those miserable mountebanks of the day, the poets, disgrace 
themselves, and deny God, in running down Pope, the inist 
faultless of poets." Again, in the same year :— " I have Et 
last lost all patience with the atrocious cant and ronsenie 
about Pope with which our present * * ■* s are ovci flowing, 



456 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Lords of t':!3 quill, whose critical assaults 
O'eithrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark where'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail I 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad I 

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a week, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, Hy from those they meet, 
And walk in alleys, rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease. 
So that not tuns of helleboric juice 
Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 
Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 
And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake ;^ 
Then print your book, once more return to town. 
And boys shall hunt your hardship up and down. 

Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight. 
To purge in spring — like Bayes^ — before I write ? 
If this precaution soften'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style ; 

Quart! lingua, Latium, si non offenderet unum- 
quemque poetarum hmse labor et mora. Vos, 6 
PompiUus sanguis, carmen reprehendite, quod nor. 
Malta dies et multa litura coercuit, atque 
Pra3sectum decies non castigavit ad unguem. 

Ingenium misera quia fortunatius arte 
Credit, et excludit sanos Helicone poetas 
Democritus ; bona pars non ungues ponere curat 
Non barbam ; secreta petit loca, balnea vital. 
Nanciscetur enim preiium nomenque poetae. 
Si tribus Anticyns caput insanabile nunquam 
Torisori Licino commisent. ego lajvus, 
Qui purgor bileni sub verni teinporis horam ! 
Non alius faceret meliora poemata: verum 
Nil tp.nti est : ergo fungar vice cotis, aculutn 



and am determined to make such head against it as an indi- 
vidual can by prose or verse, and I will at least do it with 
good will. There is no bearing it any longer; and, if it 
goes on, it will destroy what little good writing or taste re- 
mains amongst us. I liope there are still a few men of taste 
to second me ; but if not, I'll battle it alone, convinced that 
it is the best cause of English literature." .\nd again, in 
1821 : — "Neither time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can 
ever diminish my veneration for him who is the great moral 
poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all 
stages of existence. The delight of my boyhood, the study 
of my manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me to attain it) he 
may be the consolation of my age. His poetry is the book 
of life. Without canting, and yet without neglecting re- 
ligion, he has assembled all that a good and great man can 
gather together of moral wisdom clothed in consummate 
beauty. Sir William Temple observes, ' that of all the 
members of mankind that live within the compass of a 
thousand years, for one man that is born capable of making 
a great pott, there maybe a thousand born capable of making 
as great generals and ministers of state as any in story. ' 
Here is a statesman's opinion of poetry ; it is honorable 13 
him and to the art. Such a ' poet of a thousand years' was 
Pope. A thousand years will roll away before such another 
can be hoped for in our literature. But it can want them ; 
he is himself a literature."] 

1 [" That this is the age of the decline of English poetry, 
will be doubted by few who have calmly considered the 
subject. That there are men of genius among the present 
poets, makes little against the fact ; because it has been well 
said, that, ' next lo him who forms the taste of his country, 
the greatest genius is he who corrupts it.' No one has ever 
denied genius to Marini, who corrupted, not merely '.he taste 
of Italy, but that of all Europe, for nearly a century. The 
great cause of the present deplorable state of English poetry 
's to be attributed to that absurd and systematic deprecia- 
tion of Pope, in which, for the last few years, tliere has been 
a kind of epidemic concurrence. The Lakers and their 
school, and everybody else with their school, and even 



But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice^ 

I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 

I'll labor gra '.s as a grinder's wheel. 

And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 

Nor write at all, unless to teach the art 

To those rehearsing for the poet's part ; 

From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, . 

And from my own example — what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
'Tis just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall jou trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learn'd the di'ty which ho ow«s 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
Accord with brother, sire, or stranger guest ; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
Nor roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than lc«d precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize : 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse. 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold 

Reddere qufe ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi : 
Munus et officium, nil scribens ipse, docebo ; 
Unde parentur opes ; quid alat forrnctque poetam; 
Quid ueceat, quid non ; quo virtus, quo ferat error. 

Scribendi recte sapere est et p.'ir.cipium ct fons. 
Rem tibi SocraticK poterunt ostendere chartae : 
Verbaque provisam rem non invita scquentur. 
Quid didicit patriae quid debeat, et quid amicis ; 
Quo sit amore parens, quo frater amandus, et hospes j 
Quod sit conscnpti, quod judicis oflScium ; quae 
Partes in bellum missi ducis ; ille proTecto 
Reddere personae scit convenientia cu'que. 
Respicere exemplax vitae morumque jubebo 
Doctum imitatorem, et vivas nine ducere voces. 

Interdum speciosa locis morataque recte 



Moore without a school, and dilettanti lecturers, at institu- 
tions, and elderly gentlemen who translate and imitate, and 
young ladies who listen and repeat, and baronets who draw 
indifi'erent frontispieces for bad poets, and noblemen who 
let them dine with them in the country, the small body of 
the wits and the great body of the blues, have latterly united 
in a depreciation, of which their forefathers would have 
been as much ashamed as their children will be. In the 
meantime, what have we got instead? The Lake School, 
which began with an epic poem 'written in six weeks,' (so 
'Joan of Arc' proclaimed herself,) and finished with a bal- 
lad composed in twenty years, as ' Peter Bell's' creator 
takes care to inform the few who will inquire. What have 
we got instead ? A deluge of flimsy and unintelligible ro- 
mances, imitated from Scott and myself, who have both 
made the best of our bad materials and ernmeous system. 
What have we got instead ? Madoc, which is neither an epic 
nor any thing else, Thalaba, Kehama, Gebir, and such gib- 
berish, written in all metres, and In no language."— iJyron 
Letters, 1819. — See also the two pamphlets against Mr. 
Bowles, written at Ravenna in 1821, in which Lord Byron's 
enthusiastic reverence for Pope is the principal feature.] 

a As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid, 
and may, like hnn, be one day a senator, having a better 
qualification than one half of the heads he crops, viz ^—in- 
dependence. 

3 [" Bayes. Praj. Sir, how do you do when yon write? 
Smith. Faith, Sir,'for the most part I'm in pretty good health. 
Bayes. I mean, what do you do when you write ? Smith. I 
take pen, ink, and paper, and sit down. Bayes. Now 1 write 
standing— that's one thing ; and then another thing is, with 
what do you prepare yourself! Smith. Prepare myself I what 
the devil does the fool mean ? Bayes.. Why, I'll tell you 
what I do. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to 
Armida, and the like, I make use of stewed prunes only; 
but when I have a grand design in hand, I ever take physic 
and let blood : for when you would have pure swiftness of 
thought, and fiery flights of fancy, you n.ust have a care of 
the pensive part. In fine, you must purge." — Reheanal ] 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



457 



A longer empire o'er tlie public mind 

Than sounding trifles, empty, tliougli refined. 

Unhappy Greece ! thy eons of ancient uays 
The muso may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short" before they're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
" A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder make ? — 
" A groat." — " Ah, bravo I Dick hath done tlie sum ! 
He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 
'Tis clear, are fit for any thing but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father 's right 
Who hides all verses from his cliildren's sight ; 
For poets, (says this sage,' and many more,) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus,'^ or an Irish mine.^ 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both, — to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on the rack. 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
Valdius oblectal popalum, meliusque moratur, 
Quam, versus mopes rerum, nugasque canovae. 

Graiis ingeriium, Graiis dedit ore rotundo 
Musa locjui, pra3ter laudem nullius avaris. 
Romaui pueri longis rationibus assem 
Discunt in partes centum diducere : dicat 
Filius Albini, Si de quincunce remota est 
Uncia, quid superat? poterat dixisse— Triens. En! 
Rem poteris servare tuam. Redit uncia: quid fit? 
Semis. An hsec animos aerugo et cura pecull 
Cum semel imbuerit, speramus carmina fingi 
Posse linenda cedro, et levi servanda cupresso? 

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetas ; 
Ant simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vita;. 
Quidquid prascipies, esto brevis : ut cito dicta 
Percipiant aniini dociles, teneantque fideles. 
Omne supervacuum pleno de peetore manat. 

ricla voluptatis causa sint proxima veris : 



1 1 have not the original by me, but the Italian translation 
runs as follows : — " E una cosa a mio credere molto strava- 
gante, che un padre desideri, o permetta, clie suo figliuolo 
coltivi e perfezioai qucsto talenlo." A little further on : 
" Si trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' ar- 
gento." — FA'tcazione de.i FannuUi del Signor Locke. [" If the 
child have * ooetic vein, it is to me the strangest thing in 
the world, that the father should desire or sutler it to be 
chcrislied or improved." — " It is very seldom seen, that any 
one discovers mines of gold or silver on Parnassus."] 

2 " Iro pauperior;" this is the same beggar who boxed 
with Ulysses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and 
half a dozen teeth besides.— See Odyssey, b. 18. 

' The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which yields just ore 
enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 

* [This couplet is amusingly characteristic of that mix- 
ture of fun and bitterness with which their author some- 
times spoke in conversation ; so much so, that those who 
Igiew lum niiglit almost fancy they hear him utter the 
•words.— Moore.] 

6 As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to 
whom he was under great obligations—" And Homer (damn 
him I) calls'''— ii may be presumed that anybody or any thing 
may be damned in verse by poetical license ; and, in 



Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for tor> wondrous tales. 
Since Jonas only spriugo alive from whales I 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense ; 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once: — that bard for all is fit 
Who mingles well instruclion with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster-row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass, 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass ;) 
Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, 
And cross St. George's Channel arwd the Tweed. 

But every thing has foi ts, nor is 't unknown 
TJiat harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their owner's call, 
With all his best endeavors, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,* 
And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark.* 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or n>en, 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend. 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the same discordant string. 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's° fate o'ertake him, who, for once. 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce: 

Nee, quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi : 
Neu pransffi Lamice vivum puerum extrahal alvo. 

CenturiiB seniorum agitant expertia frugis : 
Celsi prsetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes. 
Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci, 
Lectorein delectando panterque monendo. 
Hie meret sra liber Sosiis ; hie et mare trar-isit, 
Et longum nolo scriptori prorogat aevum. 

Sunt delicta tamen, quibus ignovisse velimus ; [mens, 
Nam neque chorda .sonum reddit quem vult manus et 
Poscentique gravem persaipe remittit acutum ; 
Nee semper feriel quodcunque rninabilur arcus. 
Verum ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis 
OfTendar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, 
Aut humana parum cavit natura. Quid ergo est? 
Ut scriptor si peccat idem librarius usque, 
Quamvis est monitus, venia caret ; et citharoedus 
Ridetur, chorda qui semper oberrat eadem : 
Sic mihi, qui multum cessat, fit Chffirilus ille, 



case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious a pre- 
cedent. 

» For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see " Davies's 
Life of Garrick." I believe if is " Regulus," or " Charles 
the First." The moment it was known to be his the tlieatre 
thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the customary 
sum for the co|)yright.— [" Ilavard," says Davies, " was re- 
duced to great straits, and in order to retrieve his affairs, 
the story of Charles the First was proposed to him as a 
proper subject to engage the public attention. Havard's 
desire of ease was known to be superior to his thirst for 
fame or money ; and GitTard, the manager, insisted upon 
the power of locking him up till the work was finished. 
To this he consented ; and Giffard actually turned the key 
upon him, and let him out at his pleasure, till the play was 
completed. It was acted with great emolument to the 
manager, and some degree of reputation, as well as gain, 
to the author. It drew large crowds to the tlieatre ; curi- 
osity was excited with respect to the author: that was :i 
secret to be kept from the people; but Havard's love of 
fame would not suffer it to be concealed longer than the 
tenth or twelfth night of acting the play. The moment 
Havard put on the sword and tie-wig, the genteel diess of 
the times, and professed himself to be the writer of 
' Charles the First,' the audiences were thinned, and the 
bookseller refused to give the usual sum of a imndred 
pounds for the copyright."] 



£8 



458 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



At first nouf doem'd it his ; but when his name 
Announced he fact — what then ^ — it lost its fame. 
Though all Jeplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work "tis fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stana 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance, or choice, 
Ilath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
Few reach the summit which before you lies 
Our churcii and state, our courts and camps, concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar ; 
But poesy between the best and worst 
No medium knows ; you must be last or first ; 
For middling poets' miserable volumes 
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns.* 

Qiiem bis terquo bonum cum risu miror ; et idem 
Indiguor, quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus. 
Verum operi longo fas est obrepere soinnum. 

Ut pictura, poesis : ent qua;, si propius stes, 
Te capiet magis ; et qaa;diim, si longms abstes: 
lliec amat obscurum ; volet hrec sub luce videri, 
Judicis argutum qua; ron fortnidat acumen : 
Ha;c placuit semel ; ha;c decies repetita placebit. 

1 [Here, in the original MS., we find the following couplet 
and note : — 

" Though what 'gods, men, and columns' interdict, 
The Devil and J&ffrey pardon — in a Pict. 

" The Devil and Jeffrey are here placed antithetically to 
gods and men, sunh being their usual position, and their due 
one— according to the facetious saying, ' If God won't take 
you, the Devil must ;' and 1 am sure no one durst object to 
his taking the poetry which, rejected by Horace, is accepted 
by Jeflfrey. That these gentlemen are m some cases kinder, 
— th« one to countrymen, and the other from his odd pro- 
pensity to prefer evil to good, — than the 'gods, men, and 
columns' of Horace, may be seen by sl reference to the 
review of Campbell's ' Gertrude of Wyoming ;' and in No. 
31, of the Edinburgh Review, (given to me the other day 
by the captain of an English frigate off Salamis ;) there is a 
similar concession to the mediocrity of Jamie Graham's 
'British Georgics.' It is fortunate tor Campbell, that his 
fame neither def)ends on his last poem, nor the puff of the 
Ediiilnirgh Review. The catalogues of our English are 
also Less fastidious than the pillars of the Roman libra- 
rians.— a V ord more with the author of ' Gertrude of 
Wyoming. At the end of a poem, and even of a couplet, 
we have generally ' that unmeaning thing we call a thought ;' 
so IVIr. Campbell concludes with a thought in sue i i man- 
ner as fulfil the whole of Pope's prescription, aa.t be as 
' unmeanii.r is the best of his brethren :— 

' Because I may"not stain with grief 
The death-song of an Indian chief.' 

When I was in the fifth form, I carried to my master the 
translation of a chorus in Prometheus, wherein was a pes- 
tilent expression about ' staining a voice,' which met with 
no quarter. Little did I think that Mr. Campbell would 
have adopted my fifth form ' sublime'— at least in so con- 
spicuous a situation. 'Sorrow' has been 'dry' (in prov- 
erbs,; and ' wel' (in sonnets) this many a day ; and now it 
^stains,' and stains a sound, of all feasible things 1 To be 
sure, death-songs might have been stained with that same 
grief to very good purpose, if Outalissi had clapped down 
his stanzas on wholesome paper for the Edinburgh Evening 
Post, or any other given hvperborean gazette ; or if the said 
Outalissi hud been troubled with the slightest second sight 
of his own notes embodied on the last proof of an over- 
charged quarto : but as he is supposed to have been an iin- 
nrovisatore on this occasion, and probably to the last tunc 
h3 ever chanted in this world, it would have done him no 
Giscrcdit to have made his exit with a mouthful of common 
sense. Tullung of ' staining' (as Caleb yuotem says) 'puts 



Again, my Jeffrey ! — as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fire.s ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wlieel, 
Or mild Eclectics,' when some, worse than Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate " good workfa" 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
My falci n flics not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase I 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, rny Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas! I cannot "strike at wretched kernes."* 
Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
Dear, d — d contemnci of my schoolboy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed? 
What ! not a word ! — and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent? 

O major juvenum, quamvis et voce paterna 
Fingeris ad rectum, et per te sapis, hoc tibi dictum 
Telle memor : certis medium et tolerabile rebus 
Recte concedi : consultus juris, et actor 
Causarum mediocns, abest virtule diserfi 
Messala;, nee scit quantum Cascellius Aulus: 
.Sed tamen in pretio est: mediocribus esse poetis 
Non homines, non Di, non concessere columna'. 



me in mind' of a certain couplet, which Mr. Campbell will 
find in a writer for whom he, and his school, have no smull 
contempt : — 

' E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, 
The last and greatest art— the art to blot ." "] 

2 To the Eclectic or Christian Reviewers I have to return 
thanks for the fervor of that charity which, in 1809, induced 
them to express a hope that a thing then published by me 
might lead to certain consequences, which, although natural 
enough, surely came but rashly from reverend lips. I refer 
them to their own pages, where they congratulated them- 
selves on the prospect of a tilt between Mr. Jeffrey and my- 
self, from which some great good was to accrue, provided 
one or both were knocked on the head. Having survived 
two years and a half those "Elegies" which they were 
kindly preparing to review, I have no peculiar gusto to give 
them "so joyful a trouble," except, indeed, ''-upon com- 
pulsion, Hal;" but, if, as David says in the "Rivals," it 
should come to "bloody sword and gun fighting," we 
'• won't run, will we, Sir Lucius ?" I do not know what I 
had done to these Eclectic gentlemen : r' / works are their 
law ful perquisite, to be hewn in pieces likt, Agag. if it seem 
meet unto them : but why they should be in sucli a hurry to 
kill off their author, I am ignorant. " The race is not 
always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong -V and now, 
as these Christians have " smote me on one eh ,ek," I hold 
them up the other ; and, in return for their good wishes, 
give them an opportunity of repeating them. Had any 
other set of men expressed such sentiments, I should have 
smiled, and left them to the " recording angel ;" but from 
the Pharisees of Christianity decency might be expected. 
I can assure these brethren, that, publican and sinner as I 
am, I would not have treated " mine enemy's dog thus." 
To show them the superiority of my brotherly love, if ever 
the Reverend Messrs. Simeon or Ramsden should be en- 
gaged in such a conflict as that in which they ieque.";ted me 
to fall, I hope they may escape with being " wmged" only, 
and that Heaviside may be at hand to extr.act the ball. — 
n'he following is the charitable passage in the Eclectic 
Review of which Lord Byron speaks : — " If the noble lord 
and the learned advocate have the courage requi-site to sus- 
tain their mutual insults, we shall probably soon hear the 
explosions of another kind of po;)er-war, after the fashion 
of the ever-memorable duel which the latter is said to have 
fought, or seemed to fight, with 'Little Moore,' W^ con- 
fess there is sufficient provocation, i not in the critique at 
least m the satire, to urge a ' man o* honor" to defy Ins 'is- 
sailant to mortal combat. Of this we shcl no doubt hear 
more in due time."] 

3 [" Alas ! I cannot strike at wretched kc rr i s. '" — Mncbilh.Ti 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



459 



No wit for nobles, dunces by descent? 

No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name,' 

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame ^ 

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood. 

And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 

On shore of Euxine or JEgean sea 

My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 

Ah I let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydon unkind Alexis turns :^ 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego 

Nor woo that angler which he will not show 

What then? — Edina starves some lankcr son, 

To write an article thou canst not shun ; 

Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 

As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry. 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime. 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme 
More roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 

Ut gratas inter mensas symplionia discors, 

Et crassum unguentum, el Sardo cum ir.elle papavcr 

Offendunt, poterat duci quia ccena snie istis ; 

Sic aiiimis natura inventumque poema juvandis, 

Si paulurn a summo decessit, vergit ad imum. 

Ludere qui nescit, canipcstribus abstuiet armis, 
Indoctusque pilas, discive, trochive, quiescit, 
Nn spissas risum toUant impune coronae : 
Qui nescit, versus tamen audet fiugere 1 — Qviidni ? 
Liber et ingenuus prajsertim census equestrem 



1 [See the memorable critique of the Edinburgh Review 
en " Hours of Idleness," ante, p. 429.] 

2 Invenies alium, si te hie fastidit Alexin 

3 [Lord Byron's taste for boxing brought him acquainted, 
at an early period, with this distinguislied, and, it is not too 
much to say, respected professor cJf the art ; for whom, 
throughout life, he continued to entertain a sincere regard. 
In a note to the eleventh canto of Don Juan, he calls him 
" his old friend, and corporeal pastor and master."] 

•• JI r. Southey has lately lied anotiier canister to his tail in 
the " Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, &c., 
and has in one instance had a wonderful efi'ect. A literary 
friend of mine, walking out one lovely evening last summer, 
on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, was alarmed 
by the cry of " one in jeopardy :" he rushed along, collected 
a body of Irish haymakers, (supping on buttermilk in an ad- 
jacent paddock,) procured three rakes, one eel-spear, and a 
landing-net, and at last (horresco rcferens) pulled out— his 
own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone forever, 
and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, 
which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. Southey's last 
work. Its "alacrity of sinking" was so great, that it has 
never since been heard of; though some maintain that it is 
at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry 
premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's in- 
quest brought in a verdict of " Felode bibliopohi" against a 
" quarto unknown ," and circumstantial evidence being 
since strong against the •• Z irse of Kehama," (of which the 
above words are an exact description,) it will be tried by its 
peers next session, in Grub-street.— Arthur, Alfred, Davi- 
deis, Richard C(Eur de Lion, Exodus, Exodia, Epigoniad, 
Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, 
and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve 
jurors. The judges are Pye, Bowles, and the bellman of 
St. Sepulchre's. The same advocates, pro and con, will be 
employed as are now engaged in Sir Francis Burdelt's 
celebrated cause in the Scotch courts. The public anxious- 
ly await the result, and all live publishers will be subpanaed 
ce witnesses. — But Mr. Southey has published the " Curse 
of Kehama,"— an inviting title to quibblers. By the by, it 
is a good deal beneath Scott and Cpnipbell, and not much 
Bbove Southey, to allow the booby Ballantyne to entitle 



And men unpractised hi exchanging kii 'cks 
Must go to Jackson' ere they dare to box. 
Whato'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, 
None reach expcrtness without years of toil ; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they leaso. 
Why not? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whoso fathers with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs. 
To all their income, and to — twice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, — 
Shall I, I sa}', suppress my attic salt? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 
Besides all this, must have some genius loo. 
Be this your sober judgment, and a rule. 
And print not piping hot from Southey's echool. 
Who, (ere another Thalaba appears,) 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark 'ye, Southey !^ pray — but don't be vcx'd — 
Burn all your last three works — and half the next. 
But why this vain advice? once published, books 
Can never be rccall'd — from pastry-cooks I 
Though " Madoc," with " Pucelle,"^ instead of punk. 
May travel back to Quito — on a trunk !* 

Summam nummorum, vitioque remotus ab omni. 

Tu nihil mvila dices faciesve Minerva: 

Id tibi judicium est, ea mens ; si quid tamen olim 

Scripseris, in Metii descendat judicis aures, 

Et patris, et nostras, nonumque prematur in annum 

Membranis inlus positis. Delere licebit 

Quod non edidens ; nescit vox missa reverti. 

Sylveslres homines sacer interpresque deorum 
Cajdibus et victu foedo deterruit Orpheus : 
Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque leones : 



them, in the Edinburgh Annual Register (of which, by the 
by, Southey is editor) "the grand poetical triumvirate of 
the day." But, on second thoughts, it can be no great de- 
gree of praise to be the one-eyed leaders of the blind, 
though they might as well keep to themselves " Scott's 
thirty thousand copies sold," which must sadly discomfit 
poor Southey's unsaleables. Poor Southey, it should seem, 
is the "Lepidus"of this poetical triumvirate. I am orly 
surprised to see him in such good company. 

" Such things, we know, are neither rich nor rare. 
But wonder how the devil he came there.'' 
The trio are well defined in the sixth proposition of Euclid . 
" Because, in the triangles D B C, A C B, D B is equal to 
A C, and B C common to both ; the two sides D B, B C, are 
equal to the two A C, C B, each to each, and the angle 
D B C is equal to the angle A C B : therefore, the base D C 
is equal to the base A B, and the triangle D B C (Mr. 
Southey) is equal to the triangle A C B, the less to the 
greater, which is absurd," &c.— The editor of the Edinburgh 
Register will find the rest of the theorem hard by his 
stabling ; he has only to cross the river ; 'tis the first turn 
pike t' other side " Pons Asinorum."* 

5 Voltaire's " Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as Mr. 
Southey's " Joan of Arc," and yet I am afraid the French- 
man has both more truth and poetry too on his side— (they 
rarely go together)- than our patriotic minstrel, whose 
first essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, 
whose title of witch would be correct with the change of 
the first letter 

6 Like Sir Bland Burges's " Richard ;" the tei th book of 
which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Evre's, 19 Cockspur- 
slreet. If this be doubted, I shall buy a porta:anteau to 
quote from. • 

* This Latin has sorely puzzled the University of Edin- 
burgh. Ballantyne said it meant the " Bridge of B( rwick," 
but Southey claimed it as half English ; Scott swoio it was 
the " Brig o' Stirling ;" he had just passed two King 
James's and a dozen Douglasses over it. At last it was de- 
cided by Jeffrey, that it meant nothing more r.or less than 
the " counter of Archy Constable's shop" 



460 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour. 
We'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, 
Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constal^les to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd ccunty meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reformiug scythes, 
And served the church — without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, throughout all Hellas and the East, 
Fach poet was a prophet and a priest, 
Whosi? old-establish'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls 

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, 
And fighting 's been in fashion ever since. 
And old TyrtaBus, w||en the Spartans warr'd, 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard,)' 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song 

When oracles prevail'd, in times of old, 
n song alone Apollo's will was told : 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 
And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 

The Muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ' 
In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels afTright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer. 
Now for his grace, and now a grenadier I 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone, 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 

Dictus et Amphion, Thebanae conditor arcis, 
Saxa movere sono testudinis, et prece blanda 
Ducere quo vellet : fuit ha^c sapientia quondam, 
Publica privatis secernere ; sacra profaiiis ; 
Concubito prohibere vago ; dare jura maritis , 
Oppida moln-i ; leges incidere ligno. 
Sic honor et nomen divniis vatibus atque 
Carminibus venit. Post hos insignis Homerus 
Tyrtaeusque mares anlmos in Martia bella 
Versibus exacuit ; dictas per carmina sortes, 
Et vita; mon strata via est : et gratia regum 
Pieriis tentii i modis : ludusque repertus, 
Et longorum operum finis : ne forte pudori 



1 [Lord B/ron had originally written— 

" A.S lame as I am, but a better bard." 

The read?r of Mr. Uoore's Notices will appreciate the feel- 
ing \i hie no doubt, influenced Lord Byron's alteration of 
the manuscript line.] 

2 [The red hand of Ulster, introduced generally in a can- 
ton, marks the shield of a baronet of the United Kingdom.] 

s ["PoZZJo."— In the original MS. '^Rogers."} 

* " Turn quoque marmorea caput a cervice revulsum, 
Gurgite cum medio portans CEagrius Hebrus, 
Volveret Eurydicen vox ipsa, et frigida lingua ; 
Ah, miserain Burydice'^ I anima fugiente vocabat ; 
Euiydicen toto referebant flumine ripaj " 

Georgic. iv. 523. 
6 1 beg Nathaniel's pardon : he is not a cobbler ; it is a 
loitor, but begged C;ipel Lofl't to sink the profession in his 

pf eface to two pair of panta psha !— of cantos, which he 

wished the public to try on ; but !he sieve of a patron let it 
out, and so far saved the expense >f an advertisement to his 
country cuslfuners. — Merry's '' Moorfields whine" was 
nothing to all this. The " Delia Cruscdns" were people of 



Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain — 
Yet art ana nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, 
Must bear privations with unruffled face, 
Be call'd to labor when he thinks to dine, 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his *vina 
Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sighr, 
Have foUow'd music through her farthest flight j 
But rhymers tell you neither more nor leas, 
" I've got a pretty poem for the press ;" 
And that's enough ; then write and print so fast ; — 
If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last? 
They storm the types, they publish, one and all, 
They leap the counter, and they leave the stall 
Provincial maidens, men of high command, 
Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand !^ 
Cash cannot quell them ; Pollio^ play'd this prank, 
(Then Phoebus first found credit in a bank !) 
Not all the living only, but the dead. 
Fool on, as fiuent as an Orpheus' head ;* 
Damn'd all their days, they posthumously thrive — 
Dug up from dust, though buried when alive ! 
Reviews record this epidemic crime, 
Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. 
Alas ! wo worth the scribbler ! often seen 
In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 
There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-press'd, 
Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 
Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 
To muee-mad baronets, or madder lords. 
Or country Crispins, now grown somewhat stale, 
Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale ! 
Hark to those notes, narcotically soft 
The cobbler-laureats^ sing to Cap«l LofFt !' 
Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears, 
Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears I 

Sit tibi Musa lyrfe solers, et cantor Apollo. 
Natura fieret laudabile carmen, an arte, 
Quajsitum est : ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium ; alterius sic 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
Qui studet optatam cursu contingere metam, 
Malta tulit fecitque puer ; sudavii et alsit ; 
Abstmuit Venere et vino : qui Pytliia cantat 
Tibicen, didicit prius, extimuitque.magistrum. 
IN'unc satis est dixisse ; Ego mira pocinata pango : 
Occupet extremuin scabies ; mihi turpe relinqui est, 
Et quod non didici, sane nescire fateri. 



some education, and no profession ; but these Arcadians 
("Arcades ambo"— bumpkins both) sev.d out tiieir native 
nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes 
and smallclothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Ele- 
gies on Enclosures and Pajans to Gunpowder. Sitting on 
a shopboard, they describe fields of battle, wiien tlie only 
blood they ever saw was slied from tlie finger- and an 
" Essay on War" is produced by the ninth part of a "poet." 
" And own that nine such poets made a Tate." 

Did Nathan ever read that line of Pope ? and if he did, wnv 
not take it as his motto ?— [See ante, p. 442, note.] 

6 This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent 
shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical undoing of 
many of the industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and 
his brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire singing ; no" 
has the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too (wlio 
once was wiser) has caught the contagion of patrcnage 
and decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry ; but 
he died auring the operation, leavmg one child and two 
volumes of " Remains" utterly destitute. T.^?e girl, if she 
don't take a poetical twist, and come forth as a 6lioe-n;aking 
Sappho, may do well ; but the " tragedies" are as rickt-ty 
as if they had been the offspring of an Earl or a Seatoman 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



461 



There lives one draid, who prepares in time, 
'Gainst fuUre feuds liis poor revonsje of rliynie ; 
Racl;s his dull memory, and his duller nuise, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship 's notliing, self-regard might teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or wliat is aught to him ? 
He vents his spleen, or gratifies liis whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
Ronie folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate ; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gathei'i gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you've dared to frown, 
Po, laps your poem may have pleased the town : 
If so, alas ! 'tis nature in the man — 
May Heaven forgive you, for he never can ! 
Then be it so ; and may ins witliering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink, 
But sp\;.;jring upwards from the sluggish mould. 
Be (what they never were before) — bo sold ! 
Should some rich bard, (but such a monster now, 
In modern physics, we can scarce allow,) 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court, 
Some rhyming peer' — there's plenty of the sort' — 
All but one poor dependent priest withdrawn, 
(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawu I) 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candle-light, 
How- would the preacher turn each rueful leaf, 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 

-Si carraina condes, 



Nunquam te fallant animi sub vulpe latentes 
Quintilio si quid recitares, Corrige, sodes, 
Hoc (aiebat) et hoc : melius te posse negares, 
Bis teniue expertum frustra, delere jubebat, 
Et male tornatos incudi reddere versus. 



prize poet. The patrons of this poor lad are certainly an- 
swerable for his end ; and ir ought to be an indictable 
offence. But this is the least tliey liave done ; for, by a re- 
finement of barbarity, they have made the (late) man pos- 
thumo\isly ridiculous, by printing wi-ic he would have had 
sense enough never to print himself. Certes these rakers 
of " Remains" come under the statute agamst " resurrection 
men." What does it signify whether a poor dear dead dunce 
is to be stuck up in Surgeons' or m Stationers^ Ha i .' Is it so 
bad to unearth his bones as his blunders ? Is it not better to 
gibbet his body on a heath, than his soul in an octavo ? " We 
know what we are, but we know not what we may be ;" and 
it is to be hoped we never shall know, if a man who has 
passea through life with a sort of 6clal, is to find himself a 
mountebank on the other side of Styx, and made, like poor 
Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock of purgatory. Tlie plea of 
publication is to provide for the child ; now, might not some 
of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's" friends and seducers have 
done a decent action without inveigling Pratt into biography ? 
And then his inscription split into so many modicums 1—" To 
the Duchess of Somuch, the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. 
and JMiss Somebody, these vokimes are, &c. &;c." — why, 
this is doling out the "soft milk of dedication" in gills, — 
there is but a quart, and he divides it among a dozen. Why, 
Pratt, hadst thou nnt a puff left ? Dost thou think six fami- 
lies of distinction can share this in quiet 1 There is a child, 
a book, and a dedication : send the girl to her grace, the 
volumes to the grocer, and the dedication to the devil. — 
[See ante, p. 442.] 
' [In the original MS.— 

" Some rhyming peer — Carli.sle or Carysfort." 
To which is subjoined this note : — " Of ' .John Joshua, Earl 
of Carysfort' I know nothing at present, but from an adver- 
tisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and Trage- 
dies by his Lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea. 
Being a rhymer himself, he will forgive the liberty I take 
with his name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious 
it is at tne close of that couplet ; and as for what follows 
and goes before, let him place it to the account of the other 
Thane ; since 1 caimot, under tliese ckcumstances, augur 



Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 

He'll risk no living for a little breath. 

Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line, 

(The Lord forgive him !) " Brr^vo ! grand ! divine !'" 

Hoarse with those praises, (which, by flatt'ry fed. 

Dependence barters for her bitter bread,) 

He strides and stamps along with creaking boot. 

Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 

Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 

As when the dying vicar will not die ! 

Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 

But all dissemblers overact their part 

Ye, who aspire to " build the lofty rhyme,"^ 
Believe not all who laud your false '• sublime ;" 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
'• Expunge that stanza, lop tiiat line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and h« answers, " Burn '." 
That instant thicAV your paper in the fire, 
Ask not his thoughts, or follow his d-^sire ; 
But if (true bard I) you scorn to condescend. 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains,*— 
We'll have no words — I've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favorite thought. 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then, 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 

Si defenders delictum quam vertere mailes, 
Nullum ultra verbum, aut operam insumebat tnanem, 
Quin sine rivali teque et tua solus amares. 

Vir bonus et prudcns versus reprehendet inertes: 
Culpabit duros ; incomptis allinet atrum 
Transverse calamo signum ; ambitiosa recidtt 



pro or con the contents of his ' foolscap crown octavos.' "— 
John Joshua Proby, first Earl of Carysfort, was joint post- 
master-general in 180,'), envoy to Berlin in 1806> and ambas- 
sador to Petersburg in 1807. Besides his poems, he published 
two pamphlets, to show the necessity of universal suffrage 
and short parliaments. He died in 1828.] 

2 Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more 
to his notice the sole survivor, the " ultimus Romanorum," 
the last of the Cruscanti !—" Edwin" the " profound," by 
our Lady of Punishment I here he is, as lively as in the days 
of " well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitzgerald had 
been the tail of poesy ; but, alas ! he is only the penul 
timate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNINO 
CHRONICLE. 

" What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think ! 
And so perhaps you'll say of me, 
In w hich your readers may agree. 
Still I write on, and tell you why ; 
Nothing's so bad, you can't deny, 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, &c. &c. 

ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS 

In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find 

It knows not its resources : 

And men. through life assume a part 
For which no talents they possess. 

Yet wonder that, with all tl>eir art. 
They meet no better with success, &c. Acc 

9 [Sec Milton's Lycidas.] 

* " Bastard of your Jrains."— Minerva being the first by 
Jupiter's headpiece, and a variety of equally unaccountable 
parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, &c. &c. &c 



4ti2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Give light to passages too much in sliade, 

Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you've made ; 

Your friend 's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 

However trifliuo;', which may seem absurd ; 

Such errincr trifles lead to serious ills, 

And furnish food for critics,' or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon, 
All men avoid bad writers' ready tongues, 
As yawning waiters fly^ Fitzscribble's' lungs , 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes — tedious each 
As prelate's homily, or placeman's speech ; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease. 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways. 
If by some ciiance he walks into a well, 
And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 
" A rope ! help, Christians, as ye hope for grace !" 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace ; 
For there his carcass ho might freely fling. 
From phrensy, or the humor of the thing. 
Though this has happen'd to more bards than one ; 
I'll tell you Budgell's story, — and have done 

Ornamenta ; parum Claris lucem dare coget ; 
Arguct ambiguc dictum ; mutanila riotabit ; 
Fiet Aristarchus : nee dicet, Cur ego amicum 
Offendam in nugis? hae nugre seria ducent 
In mala derisum semel exceptiunque sinistre. 

Ut mala quern scabies aut morbus regius urguet, 
Aut fanaticus error et iracunda Diana, 
Vesanum tetigisse timent fugiuntque poetam, 
Qui sapiunt ; agitant pueri, incautique sequuntur. 
Hie dum sublimes versus ructntur, et errat, 
Si veluti merulis intentus decidit auceps 
In puteum, foveamve ; Jicet, Sucourrite, longum 
Clamet, lo cives ! non sit qui tollcre caret. 
Si quis curet opem ferre, et demittere funem. 
Qui scis an prudens hue so dejicerit, atque 



1 " A crust for the critics." — Bayes, in the " Rehearsal." 

2 And the " waiters" are the only fortunate people who 
can " fly" from tliem , all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers 
to the "Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, to sit 
out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming, " Sic" 
(that is, by choking Fitz with bad wine, or worse poetry) 
" me servavit Apollo 1" 

3 [•' Fitzscribble," originally " Fitzgerald.'" See ante, p. 
431.] 

* On hi.«; table were found these words : " What Cato did, 
and .\ddison approved, cannot be wrong." But Addison did 
not "approve;" and if he had, it would not have mended 
the matter. He hn.' invited his daughter on the same water- 
party ; but Miss Budged, by some accident, escaped this last 
paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of "Atlicus," 
and the enemy of Pope: — [Eustace Budgell, a friend and 
relative of Addison's, '' leapt into the Thames" to escape a 
prosecution, on account of forging the will of Dr. Tindal ; 
in whicli Eustace had provided himself with a legacy of two 
thousand pounds. To this Pope alludes— 

" Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on my quill. 
And write whate'er he please— except my will."] 

s [" We talked (says Boswell) of a man's drowning him- 
self.— John so.n. '1 should never think it time to make away 
with myself.' I put the case of Eustace Budgell, who was 
accused of forging a will, and sunk himself in the Thames, 
before I he trial of its authenticity came on. ' Suppose, Sir,' 
said I. 'that a man is absolutely sure that, if he lives a few 
days miiget. fie siiaii oe aeierted in a Iruud.lne consequence 
of wlacl! will be mier disgrace, and expulsion Irom society. ' 
,Ton:i30N 'Then Sir, let him go abroad lo a distant 



Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood,) 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato,'"' leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown.^ 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him who loathes tho life he 

leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely chose. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse ; 
Dosed" with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground I 
And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage — 
Fear'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his ver-sifying fit, 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit, 
But Jiim, unhappy ! whom he seize*, — him 
lie flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
Probes to the quick where'er he makes his breach. 
And. gorges like a lawyer — or a leech.' 



Servari nolit? Dicam: Siculique poetae 
Narrabo intcritum. Deus immortalis haberi 
Dum cnpit Empedocles, ardentem frigidus ./Etnam 
Insiluit : sit jus, liceatque perire poetis: 
Invituin qui servat. idem facit occidenti. 
Nee semel hoc fecit ; nee, si retractus erit, jam • 
Fiet homo, et ponet famosae mortis amorem 
hiec satis apparet cur versus factitet : utrum 
Minxerit in patrios cineres, an triste bidental 
Jloveril incestus : certe furit, ac velut ursus, 
Objectos caveaj valuit si frangere elathros, 
Indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbns. 
Quem vero arripuit, tenet, occiditque legeiido, 
Non missura cutem, nisi plena cruoris, hirudo. 



countr)' ; let him go to some place where he is not l;nown. 
Don't let him go to the devil, where he is known.' "—See 
Boswell, vol. iv. p. 50, ed. 1835.] 

« If " dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to 
refer to the original for something still lower; and if any 
reader will translate " Minxent in patrios cineres," &.c. into 
a decent couplet, I will insert said couplet in lieu of the 
present. » 

' [In tracing the fortunes of men, it is not a little curious 
to observe, how often the course of a whole life has depend- 
ed on one single step. Had Lord Byron persisted in his 
original purpose of giving this poem to the press, instead of 
Childe Harold, it is more than probable that he would have 
been lost, as a great poet, to the world. Inferior as this 
Paraphrase is, in every respect, to his former Satire, and, in 
some places, even descending belovv the level of under- 
graduate versifiers, its failure, there can be little doubt, 
would have been certain and signal :— his former as.<ailanls 
would have resumed their advantage over him, and cither, 
in the bitterness of his mortification, he would ha\e flung 
Childe Harold into the fire ; or, had he summoned up sufB- 
cieiit confidence to publish that poem, iis reception, even 
if suflicient to retrieve him in the eyes of the public and his 
own, could never have, at all, resembled that c:i plosion 
of success,— that instantaneous and universal acclaiui .f 
admiration, into which, coming, as it were, fresh fi./n the 
land of song, he surprised the world, and in the midst of 
which he was borne, buoyant and self-a-i?ured, along, 
throuch a succession of new triumphs, each ino;e -soleudid 
than the lasi Happily, uu: oeuei juagineiu ol nis frieiirU 
averted such a risk. — Mooke i 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



4G3 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA.^ 



" Pallas te hoc vulnere^ Pallas 

Jmmolat, e; pcenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 

jEncid. lib, xii 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,^ 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living lifrht ; 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows 
On old jEgina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tendeiest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch'd thy better sous his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's' latest day 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never fiown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithceron's head, 
The cup of wo was quafF'd — the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign ;* 



1 [This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection 
of Alheniaii marbles was ultimately purchased for the na- 
tion, in 1816, at the cost of thirty-five tliousand pounds, was 
written at Alliens, in March, 1811, and prepared for publi- 
cation along witli llie " Hints from Horace ;" but, liUe that 
satire, suppressed by Lord Byron, from motives which the 
reader will easily understand. It was first given to the 
world in 1828. Few can won Aer that Lord Byron's feelings 
should have been powerfully excited by tlie spectacle of the 
despoiled Parthenon ; but it is only due to Lord Elg-in to 
keep in mind, that, had those precious marbles remained, 
they must, in all likelihood, have perished forever amidst 
the miserable scenes of violence which Athens has since 
witnessed ; and that their presence in England has already, 
by universal admission, been of the most essential advantage 
to the fine arts of our own country. The political allusions 
in this poem are rr.t r"ch as require much explanation. It 
contains many lines, which, it is hoped, the author, on ma- 
ture reflection, disapproved of— l)Ut is too vigorous a speci- 
men of his iambics to be omitted in <anv collective edition 
of his works.] 

2 [The splendid lines with which this satire opens, down 
CO " As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane," first appear- 
ed at the commencement of the third Canto of the Corsair, 
the author having, at that time, abandoned all notion of 
publishing the piece of which they originally made part.] 

8 Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset 
(the hour of execution,) notwithstanding the entreaties of 
nis disciples to wait till the sun went down. 



No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset. 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 
The groves of olive scatter'd darK and w uw, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,^ 
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm : 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye , 
And dull were his that pasb'd Ihem heedless by" 

Again the JEgean, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore. 
Whoso arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turii'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece I 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
But chiefly, Pallas I thine : when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy colunnis, fell more sadly fair 



* The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our o;vti 
country ; tlie days in winter are longer, but in summer of 
less duration. 

s The kiosk is a Turkish summer-liouse; the palm is with- 
out the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of 
Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. 
Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream 
at all. 

6 [During our residence of ten weeks at Athens, there was 
not, I believe, a day of which we did not devote a part to 
the contemplation of the noble monuments of Grecian ge- 
nius, that have outlived tlie ravages of time, and the outrage 
of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers. The Temple of 
Theseus, which was within five minutes' walk of our lodg- 
ings, IS the most perfect ancient edifice lu the world. In this 
fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity of de- 
sign peculiarly striking, are uniled willi the highest ele- 
gance ^nd accuracy of workmanship • the characteri.stic of 
the Doric style, whose chaste tieauty is not, m the opinion 
of the first artists, to be equalled by tne graces ot any of 
the other orders. A gentleman of Afhens, of great taste 
and skill, assured us that, after a continued contemplation 
of this temple, and the remains of the Parthenon, he could 
never again look with his accustomed satisfaction^ upon the 
Ionic and Corinthian ruins of Athens, mucli less upon the 
specimens of the more modern species of wclulectiire to 
be seen in Italy.— Hobhouse.] 



464 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
A.nd Pallas hail'd me in her own abode I 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's belf; but, ah! how changed 
Siiice o'er the Dardau field in arms she ranged ! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command. 
Her form appoar'd from Phidias' plastic hand: 
Gone were the terrors of her awful brow. 
Her idle a3gis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deigu'd to clasp. 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah I though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow. 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of wo ! 

" Mortal 1" — 'twas thus she spake — " that blush of 
shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free. 
Now honor'd less by all, and least, by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth,' 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.'^ 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,^ 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
What more I owe let grdtitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came. 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name ^ 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads. 
Below, )us name — above, behold his deeds !* 
Bo ever hail'd with equal houor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast. 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last: 
Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd: 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost 1 



1 [On thb plaster wall, on the west side of the chape!, 
these words have been very deeply cut :— 

Quod non fecerunt Goti, 

Hoc FECERUNT SCOTI. 

The mortar wall, yet fresh when we saw it, supplying the 
place of the statue now in Lord Elgin's collection, serves as 
a comment on this text. Tiiis eulogy of the Goths alludes 
to an unfounded story of a Greek historian, who relates that 
Alaric, either terrified by two phantoms, one of Minerva 
herself, the other of Achilles, terrible as when he strode 
towards the walls of Troy to his friends, or struck with a 
icverential respect, had spared the treasures, ornaments, 
end people of the venerable city.— Hobiiouse.1 

[In th# original MS.— 

Ah, Athens ! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth • 
Hell sends a paltry Scotchman v (jrse tha.i both."j 



Another name with his pollutes my shrine . 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shino ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 

She ceased awhile, and thua I dared reply, 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
" Daughter of Jove I in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Britain may the deed disclaim. 
Frcwu not on England ; England owns him not : 
Athc^ € no I thy plunderer was a Scot. 
Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyle's towers 
Survey Bocotia ; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land' 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command ; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Bach breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Dispatch her scheming children far and wide : 
Some east, some west, some everywhere but norfa 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave. 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land. 
And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place. 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

" Mortal !' the blue-eyed maid resumed, " once 
more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed: 
Without one sparli of intellectual fire. 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace. 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race 



'3 This is spoken of the city in general, and not of the 
Acropolis in particular. The temple of Jupiter Olympius, 
by some supposed the Pantheon, was finished by Hadrian ; 
sixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble 
and architecture 

< [On the original MS. is written— 

" Aspice quos Pallas Scoto concedit honores, 
Infri Stat nomen— facta supraque vide."j 

5 [For Lord Byron's detailed remarks on Lord Elgin's 
dealing with the Parthenon, see Appendi.*;, note A, lo the 
second canto of Childe Harold.] 

« IIjs lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears 
it, are carved conspicuously on the Parthenon ; above, in a 
part not far distant, are the torn remnants of the basso re- 
lieves, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove them. 

' " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'BroUag* 
har.. 



THE CURSE OF MINFRVA. 



4Gr» 



Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 

Aud Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 

Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 

Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 

To sell, and make— may Shame record the day ! — 

The state receiver of bis pilfer'd prey.' 

Meantime, the flattering, feehle dotard. West, 

Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 

With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 

And own himself an infant of fourscore." 

Be all the bruisers cuU'd from all St. Giles', 

That art and nature may compare their styles ; 

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. 

And marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop'' there. 

Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcomb? 

creep. 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to skim. 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mflurns o'er the difference of now and then ; 
Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men !' 
Draws sly comparisons of these with those, 
And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modern maid have swains like these I 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief. 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.* 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. 
And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
Li many a branding page and burning line ; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait. 
But fits thy ■country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar. 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.^ 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid. 
Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless s^ld 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield . 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 



1 [In 1816, thirty-five thousand pounds were voted by 
Parhament for the' purchase of the Elgin marbles.] 

3 Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection," (I suppose 
we shall hear of the " Abershaw" and " Jack Shephard" col- 
lection,) declares himself " a mere tyro" in art. 

' Poor CrioD vias sadly puzzled when the marbles were 
first exhibited at Elgin House : he asked if it was not " a 
stone shop ?"— He was right ; it is a shop. 

* [That the Elgin marbles will contribute to the improve- 
ment of art in England, cannot be doubted. They must 
certainly open the eyes of the British artists, and prove 
that the true and only road to simplicity and beauty is the 
fct'i ly of nature. But, had we a right to diminisli the in- 



59 



Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern Uood. 
So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

" Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand Ae 
hates. 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But whoi did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look there ; 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
' Bless'd paper credit ;" who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear. 
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
Bitt one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late : 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard. 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Tlius hail'd your rulers their patrician clod. 
As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a 

dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
And pirates barter all that's left behind.' 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores: 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom. 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 



terest of Athens for selfish motives, and prevent successive 
generations of other nations from seeing those admirable 
sculptures ? The Temple of Minerva was spared as a 
beacon to the world, to dn-ect it to the knowledge of purity 
of taste. What can we say to the disappointed traveller, 
who is now deprived cf the rich gratification which would 
have compensated his travel and his toil ? It will be little 
consolation to him to say, he may find the sculpture of the 
Parthenon in England.— H. W. Williams.] 

5 [The aflair of Copenhagen.] 

6 " Bless'd paper credit ! last and best supply, 

That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly ."— PorB 

' The Deal and Dover traflnckers in specie. 



40C 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Vain '3 each voice where tones could once com- 
mand ; 
K'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
And light with maddening hands tlie mutual pile. 

" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain ; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling brands, 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains, 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Beliona smiles ; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum. 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
The glorious death that consecrates his fall. 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms. 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 



But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought: 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight. 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battk won, 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but bogwa: 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with" what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? 
Nay, frown not, \lbion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres ''rom Tagus to the Rhine : 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife."* 



THE WALTZ: 



AN APOSTROPHIC HYMN.* 



" Qualis in Eurots ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercot Diana choros." 



ViBOIL. 



* Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems ; and so she charms the sight, 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

Dryden's Virgil. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 

Sir,— 

I AM a country gentleman of a laidland county. 
I might have been a parliament-mai: for a certain 
bcrough ; having had the offer of as many votes as 
General T. at the general election in 1812.^ But I 
was all for d9jnestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, 
on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid 
of honor. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till 
last season, when my wife and I were invited by the 
Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relatiou of my 
spouse) to pass the winter in town. Thinking no 
han'i, and our girls being come to a marriageable 
(or, a= they call it, marketable) age, and having 



I [" The beautiful but barren Hymettus, the whole coast 
of Attica, her hills and mountains, Pentelicus, Anchesmus, 
Philopappus, &c. &c., are in themselves poetical ; and 
would be so if the name of Athens, of Athenians, and her 
very ruins, were swept from the earth. But, am I to be 
told that the ' nature' of Attica would be more poetical 
without the ' art' of the Acropolis ? of the Temple of 
Theseus? and of the still all Greek and glorious monu- 
ments of her exquisitely artificial genius ? Ask the travel- 
ler what strikes him as most poetical, the Parthenon, or 
the rock on which it stands 1 The columns of Cape Colonna, 
Of the Cape itself.' The rocks at the foot of it, or the le- 
cnllection that Falconer's ship was bulged upon them 1 
T loie are a thousand rocks and capes far more picturesque 
th m those of the Acropolis and Cape Sunium in themselves. 
But It ic the 'art,' the columns, the temples, the wrecked 
vetisel, which give them their antique and their modern 
poetry, ajid not the spots themselves. I opposed, and will 



besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon 
the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, — 
of which, by the by, my wife grew so mtich ashamed 
in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a 
second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the 
box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the 
inside — that place being reserved for the Honorable 
Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera- 
knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing, 
(she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter 
end of the last century,) I unbooted, and went to a 
ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country 
dance, or, at most, cotillions, reels, and all the old 
paces to the newest tunes But, judge of my surprise, 
on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her 



ever oppose, the robbery of ruins from Athens, to instnict 
the English in sculpture ; but why did I do so ? The ruins 
are as poetical in Piccadilly as they were in the Parthenon ; 
but the Parthenon and its rock are less so without them. 
Such is the poetry of art." — Byron Letters, 1821.] 

2 [This trifle was written at Cheltenham in the autumn 
of 1812, and published anonymously in the spring of the 
following year. It was not very well received at the time 
by the public ; and the author was by no means anxious 
that it should be considered as his handiwork. " I hear," 
he says, in a letter to a friend, " that a certain malicious 
publication on waltzing is attributed to me. This report, 
I suppose, you will take care to contradict ; as the author, 
I am sure, will not like that I should wear his cap nnd 
beUs "J 

s State of the po'i, (last day,) 5. 



THE WALTZ. 



167 



arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking 
gentleman I never set eyes on before ; and his, to 
Bay truth, rather more than half round her waist, 

turning round, and round, f nd round, to a d d 

Eoe-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me 
of the " Black-joke," only more " affetuoso," till it 
made me quite giddy with wondering they were not 
so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought 
they would sit or fall down : — but no ; with Mrs. H.'s 
hand on his shoulder, " quam familiariter,"^ (as 
Terence said, when I was at school,) they walked 
about a minute, and then at it again, like two cock- 
chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what 
all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no 
older tlian our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard 
but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother 
would call her after the Princess of iSwappenbach) 
said, " Lord ! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are 
valtzing?" or waltzing, (I forget which ;) and then 
up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they 
went, and round-abouted it till supper-time. Now, 
that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and 
so does Mrs. H., (though I have broken my shins, 
and four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in 
practising the preliminary steps in a morning.) In- 
deed, so much do I like it, that having a turn for 
rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and 
songs in honor of all the victories, (but till lately I 
have had little practice in that way,) I sat down, and 
with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq.," and a few 
hints from Dr. Busby,^ (whose recitations I attend, 
and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner 
of delivering his father's late successful " Drury Lane 
Address,") I composed the following hymn, where- 
withal to make my sentiments known to the public ; 
whom, nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the 
critics. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. 

HORACE HORNEM. 



THE WALTZ. 



Muse of the many-twinkling feet !* whose charms 
Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 



1 My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what lie never remembered ; but I bought my title- 
page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shillmg bank to- 
ken, after much haggling for the even si.xpence. I grudged 
the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval 
and " No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the 
pope, because we can't bum him any more. 

2 [See ante, p. 431.] 

.3 [See " Rejected Addresses."] 

•• " Glance their many-twinkling feet.'' — Gray. 

6 To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the read- 
er pleases :— the one gained a pretty woman, whom he de- 
served, by fighting for ; and the other has been figliting in 
the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," 
without gaining any thing in Ihat country but the title of 
" liie Great Lord," and " the Lord ;" which savors of profa- 
nation, having been hitherto applied only to that Being to 
w'.ioin " Te Deuvis" for carnage are the rankest blasphemv.— 
It is to bo presumed the general will one day return to' his 
Sabine farm ; there 

" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain !" 

The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; 
wo do more— we contrive both to conquer and lose them in 



Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem'd a maid — 

Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 

Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine. 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 

Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 

Dance forth — sans armor thou shalt take the field, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Thy not too lawfully l «gotten " Waltz." 

Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young huBsar, 
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
A modern hei\; fought for modish manners ; 
On Hounslow's t eath to rival Wellesley's^ fame, 
Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his 

aim ; 
Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue,"' 
And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine, 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine,) 
Long be thine import from all duty free, 
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee : 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Into.xicates alone the heedless heart: 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And waltes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee we owe. 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 

And only left us thy d d debts and dances ! 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 
We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 
Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 



a shorter season. If the " great Lord's" Cincinnatian pro- 
gress m agriculture be no speedier than the proportional 
average of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the 
fanners' proverb, be "ploughing with dogs." 

By the by— one of this illustrious person's new titles is 
forgotten— it is, however, worth remembering — " Salvador 
del mundo ."' creJite, posteri .' If this be the appellation an- 
nexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a 
man who has rot yet saved them— query— are they worth 
saving, even in 'His world? for, according to the mildest 
modifications of any Christian creed, those three words 
make the odds much against them in the next. — " Saviour 
of the world," quotha ! t were to be wished that lie, or 
any one else, could save o corner of it— his country. Yst 
this stupid misnomer, although it shows the near connection 
between superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it 
proves there can be little to Uiead from those Catholics (in- 
quisitorial Catholics too) who can confer such an appella- 
tion on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will be entitled 
the " Virgin Mary:" if so. Lord George Gordon himself 
would have nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our 
Lady of Babylon. 

6 [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Com 
mittee was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking— 
" When energizing objects men t ursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot dc ?"] 



468 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



To Germany, and highnesses serene, 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen? 

To Germany, what owe we not besides? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 

Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood. 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud 

Who sent us — so be pardon'd all her faults — 

A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Walti. 

But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat!" 
Back to my theme — O Muse of motion ! say. 
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way? 

Bonie on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port, (while Hamburg yet had mails,) 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was chill'd to sleep ; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland I to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow' yet had news to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came — Waltz came — and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes : 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the bless'd despatch, 
Which Moniteur nor Mor»ing Post can match ; 
And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind. 
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
Of Hcyn6, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight. 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
Tiio welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, 
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land. 
Not decent David, when, before the ark. 
His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought : 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread. 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Display'd so much of leg, or more of neck. 
Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with the annual tributes ^f a spouse ; 

» The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be suf- 
ficiently commended— nor subscribed for. Amongst other 
details omitted in the various despatches of our eloquent 
ambassador, he did not state (>;ing too much occupied with 

the exploits of Colonel C •; in swimming rivers frozen, 

and galloping over roads impassable) that one entire pro- 
vince perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, 
as follows :— In General Rostopehin's consummate confla- 
gration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was so 
great, that the market was inadequate to the demand : and 
thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand persons were 
starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet ! The 
lamplighters of London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) 
a piece, and the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted 
a quantity of best moulds (four to the pound) to the relief 
of the survivmg Scythians ;— the scarcity will soon, by such 
exertions, and a proper attention to the guality rather than 
the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, 
in return, that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty 
thousand beeves for a day's meal to our suffering manufac- 
turers. 

a Dancing girls— who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. 

» It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussiere's 



To you of nine years less, who only bear 

The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear 

With added ornaments around them rolKd 

Of native brass, or law-awarded Fold ; 

To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 

To mar a son's, or make a daughter's, match ; 

To you, ye children of — whom chance accords— 

Always the ladies, and sometimes .he ■ lords; 

To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 

Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 

As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide. 

To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 

To one and all the lovely stranger came. 

And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz! — to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 
Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange — Waltz whispers thi.s remark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark !" 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime ! 
Oh say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round. 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas^ — tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne ? 
Ah, no I from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each toiuist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
With George the Third's — and ended long before ! — 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host : 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
No stifF-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache , 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,* women in their shape ;) 

time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that there he " no whis- 
kers ;" but how .ir these are indications of valor in tiie field, 
or elsewhere, may still be questionable. Much may be, and 
hath been avouched on both sides. In the oldon tirne phi- 
losophers had whiskers, and soldiers none— Sclpio himself 
was shaven— Hannibal thought his one eye liandsome 
enough without a beard ; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a 
beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the empress 
Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide)— Turenne had 
whiskers, Marlborough none— Bonaparte is unwhiskcred, 
the Regent whiskered ; " argal" greatness of mind and 
whiskers may or may not go togeilier : but (certainly the 
diiferent occurrences, smce the growth of the last mention- 
ed, go further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of 
Anselm did against long hair in the reign of Heniy I.— For- 
merly, red was a favorite color. See Lodowick Barrey's 
comedv of Ram Alley, 1C61 : Act I. Scene 1. 

" Taffeta. Now for a wager— What colorec! ?eard cc mes 
next b'' :he window 1 

" Adrtana. A black man's, I think. 

" Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, for that is mo-t id 
fashion." 

Tliere is " nothing new under the sun ;" Dul red, ihGH a 
favorite, has now subsided into a. favorite's color. 



THE WALTZ. 



409 



N 1 damsol faints when rather closely press'd, 
But more caressing seems when most caress'd ; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

SeJuctive Waltz !— though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore ; 
Wert^r — to decent vice though much inclined. 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
^Vould even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads; 
Vt'ith thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts. 
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of " Waltz !" 

Bless'd was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;' 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
New oniaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new)^ to follow those that fled ; 
New victories — nor can we prize thern less, 
Though Jenky wonders at his ov/n success ; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
Each new, quite new — (except some ancient tricks,)' 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broomsticks, all new 

sticks ! 
With vests or ribands — deck'd alike in hue. 
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue ; 

So saith the Muse ; my ,* what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
The ball begins — the honors of the house 
First duly done by daughter or by spouse. 



1 An anachronism— Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are 
before said to have opened the ball together : the bard 
means, (if he means any tiling,) Waltz was not so much in 
vogue ti! \ le Regent attained the acm6 of his popularity. 
Waltz, tlij :3mel, vhiskers, and the new government, illu- 
minated heaven and :-^rth, in all their glory, much about the 
same time ; of these the comet only has disappeared ; the 
other three continue to as mish us still. — Printer's Devil. 

2 Amongst others a new nmepence — a creditable coin now 
forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calcu- 
lation. 

3 " Oh that right should thus overcome might !" Who does 
not remember the " delicate investigation" in the " Merry 
Wives of Wmdsor?" — 

"Ford. Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, 
why then make sport at m.e : then let me be your jest ; I de- 
serve it. How now T whither bear you this ? 

" Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear it ^ 
— you were best meddle with buck-washing." 

* The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as 
he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names &this service, 
(being already in the Regent's :) it would not be fair to back 
ariy peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month 
wall add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes : — a 
distinguished consonant is said to be the favorite, much 
against the wishes of the knowing ones. 

» " We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor- 



Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster'e mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mistaken fcr a blush. 

From where the garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts* were once supposed to be; 

Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced ; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow hi their rank, 

The Earl of — Asterisk — and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir — Such-a-one — with those of fashion's host, 

For whose bless'd surnames — vide " Morning Post," 

(Or if for that impartial print too late. 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date) — 

Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow. 

The genial contact gently undergo ; 

Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 

If " nothing follows all this palming work ?"® 

True, honest Mirza I — you may trust my rhyme — 

Something does follow at a fitter time ; 

The breast thus publicly resign'd to man. 

In private may resist him if it can. 

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan,' and many more ! 
And thou, my Prince I whose sovereign taste and 

will 
It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night. 
Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this? 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, 
AVith half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 



'tis all gone— Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no 
great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they 
have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly cj 
possible. But there are also some men with hearts so tho- 
roughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often 
mentioned in natural history ; viz. a mass of solid stone — 
only to be opened by force — and when divided, you discover 
a toad in the centre, Uvely, and with the reputation of being 
venomous. 

6 In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and super- 
fluous, question— literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to 
Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera.— Vide Morier's Travels. 

' Cl once heard Sheridan repeat, in a ball-room, some 
verses, which he had lately written on waltzing ; and of 
which I remember the following — 

" With tranquil step, and timid, downcast glance, 
Behold the well-pair'd couple now advance. 
In such sweet posture our first parents moved. 
While, hand in hand, through Eden's bowers they roved, 
Ere yet the Devil, with promise fine and false, 
Turn'd their poor heads, and taught them how to waltJL 
One hand grasps hers, the other holds her hin : 
* * * * > 

For so the law's laid down by Baron Trip." 
This gentleman, whose name suits so aptly as a legal autho- 
rity on the subject of waltzing, was, at the time these verses 
were written, well known in the dancing circles.— MooitE.J 



470 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
Say — would you make those beauties quite 

cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
liound the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form. 
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warn: ? 
At once Jove's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Anothe) s ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
Come uear enoucfh — if not to touch — to taint : 



If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and witli it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuauj Waltz I and dare I thus blaspheme? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme 
Terpsichore, forgive I — at every ball 
My wife 71010 waltzes — and my daughters sJiall; 
My son — Cor stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me — m heirs to all his friends. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE/ 



" Expende Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 
InveniesT' Juvenal, So*, x.' 

" The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul ; his moral 
virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his government 
armounccd in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and 
an Exile, till ." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.3 



/, 



'Tig done — but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing: 

So abject — yet alive'! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones. 
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive?* 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.^ 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st th: rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save,- 
Thino only gift hath been the grave, 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 



1 [The reader has seen that Lord Byron, when publishing 
" The Corsair," in January, 1814, announced an apparently 
quite serious resolution to withdraw, for some years at 
least, from poetry. His letters of the February and March 
following abound in repetitions of the same determination. 
On the morning of the ninth of April, he writes, — " no more 
rhyme for — or rather from — me. I have taken my leave of 
that stage, and henceforth will mountebank it no longer." 
In the evening, a Gazette Extraordinary announced the ab- 
dication of Fontainebleau, and the Poet violated his vows 
next morning, by composing this Ode, which he immediately 
published, though without his name. His Diary says, " April 
10. To-day I have boxed one hour — written an ode to Na- 
poleon Bonaparte— copied it — eaten six biscuits— drunk four 
bottles of soda water, and redde away the rest of my time."] 

2 [" Produce the urn that Hannibal contains, 

And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains : 
And is this all !" 

I know not that this was ever done in the old world ; at least, 
with regard to Hannibal • but, in the statistical account of 
Scotland, 1 rind that Sir John Paterson had the curiosity to 
collect, and weigh, the ashes of a person discovered a few 
years since in the parish of Eccles ; which he was happily 
rnubled to do with great facility, as " the inside of llie coffin 



Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

To after-warriors more. 
Than higli Philosophy can preach. 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph, and the vanity. 
The rapture of the strife^ — 

The earthquake voice of Victory, 
To thee the breath of life ; 



was smooth, and the whole body visible." Wonderful to re- 
late, he found the whole did not exceed in weight one ou'ice 
and a half: And is this all 1 Alas! the guot libras ilselC 
is a satirical exaggeration. — Gifford.] 

s [" I send you an additional motto from Gibbon, which 
you will find singularly appropriate." — Lord Byron to Mr. 
Murray, April 12, 1814.] 

< [" I don't know— but I think /, even /, (an insect com- 
pared with this creature,) have set my life on casts not a 
millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may 
not be worth dving for. Yet, to outlive Lodi for this 111 On 
that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead I ' Ex- 
pende— quot libras in duce summo invenies ?' 1 knew they 
were light in the balance of mortality ; but I thought their 
living dust weighed more carats. Alas I this imperial 
diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to slick, in a 
glazier's pencil ; — the pen of the historian won't rate it worth 
a ducat. Psha I 'something too much of tliis.' But I won't 
give him up e'-fin now ; though all his admirers have, lil:e 
the Thanes, fallen from him."— Byron Diary, April 9 ] 

E " Certaminis gaudia" — the expression of Attila in his 
harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalous, 
given in Cassiodorus. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



471 



Tne sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd I — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 

The Desolator desolate I 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope, 
That with such change can calmly cope 1 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince— or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave I 

Ho who of c!d would rend the oak,' 
Dream'd not of the rebound ; 

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 
Alone — how look'd he round? 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength. 

An equal deed hast done at length. 
And darker fate hast found: 

He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman," when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home — ■ 
He dared depart in utter sconi 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheid abandon'd power. 

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 
Had lost its quickening spell,' 

Cast crowns for rosaries away. 
An empire for a cell ; 

A strict accountant of his beads, 

A subtle disputant on creeds, 
His dotage trifled well :* 

Yet better had he neither known 

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne." 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
The thunderbolt is wrunff — 



1 [" Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor 
little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal. It is his 
own fault. Like Milo, he would rend the oak ; but it closed 
again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts— lion, bear, 
down to the dirtiest jackal— may all tear him. That Mus- 
covite winter wedi^cd his arms ;— ever since, he has fought 

• with his feet and teetli. The last may still leave their 
marks: and 'I guess now,' (as the Yankees say,) that he 
will yet play them a pass."— Byron Diary, April 8.J 

" Sylla. — [We find the germ of this stanza in the Diarv of 
the evening before t was written :—" Methinks Sylla'did 
better ; for he revei.gjd, and resigned in the height of his 
sway, red with the slaughter of his foes — the finest instance 
of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocle- 
sian did well too— Amurath not amiss, had he become 
aught except a dervise— Charles the Fifth but so so : but 
Napoleon worst of all." — Byron Diary, April 9. J 

2 ["Alter '■potent spell' to ' quickening spell :' the first (as 
PoJonius says) 'is a vile phrase,' and means nothing, be- 
sides being commonplace and Ro.sa-Matildaish. After the 
resolution of not publishing, though our Ode is a thing of 
little lengtli and less consequence, it will be better alto- 
gether that it is anonymous." — Lord Buron to Mr. Murrau, 
April 11.] ^ ^' 

4 [Charles the Fifth, Empero of Germany, and King of 
Sp.iin, resigned, in 1555, liis imperial crown to his brother 



Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art. 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him. 

Who thus can hoard his own! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom I we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honor dies. 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night '^ 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales. Mortality I are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor decni'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem !^ 



Ferdinand, and the kingdom of Spain, to his son Philip, 
and retired to a monastery in Estremadura, where he con- 
formed, in his manner of living, to all the rigor of monastic 
austerity. Not satisfied with this, he dressed himself in his 
shroud, was laid in his coffin with much solemnity, joined 
in the prayers which were offered up for the rest of his 
soul, and mingled his tears with those which his attendants 
shed, as if they had been celebratmg a real funeral.] 

6 [" I looked into Lord Kaimes's ' Sketches of the History 
of filan,' and mentioned to Dr. Johnson his censure of 
Charles the Fifth for celebratmg his funeral obsequies in 
his lifetime, which, I told him, 1 had been used to think a 
solemn and afTecting act. Johnson. ' Why, Sir, a man 
may dispose his mind to think so of that act of Charles ; 
but it is so liable to ridicule, that if one man out of ten 
thousand laughs at it, he'll make the other nine fhouswid 
nine hundred and ninety-nine laugh Xoo.^ " — Bcyj.tU's 
Johnson, vol. vii. p. 78, ed. 1835.] 

6 [" But who would r'se in brightest day 

To set without one parting ray ?" — MS.] 

' [It is well known that Count Neipperg, a gentleman in 
the suite of the Emperor of Austria, who was first pre- 
sented to Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon's 
abdication, became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, and 
then her husband. He is said to have been a man of re- 
markably plain appearaice. The Count died in 1631.] 



472 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That clement may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
In loitering mood upon the sand. 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue' hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage' 
What thoughts will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one — " The world was mine I" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone. 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,* 

Wilt thou withstand the shock? 
And share with him, the unforgiven. 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accursed,* 
Vud that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ;* 
frie in his fall preserved his pride. 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



1 [Dionysius the Younger, esteemed a greater tjTant 
than his father, on being for the second time banished from 
Syracuse, retired to Corinth, where he was oblged to turn 
schoolmaster for a subsistence.] 

2 The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 
' Prometheus. 

< [In first draught — 

"He suffer'd for kmd acts to men, 
Who have not seen his like again, 

At least of kingly stock ; 
Since he was good, and thou but great, 
Thou canst not quarrel with thy fate."] 

» " The very fiend's arch mock — 

l<i lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." 

Shakspeare. 

[We believe there is no doubt of the truth of the anecdote 
here alluded to— of IVapoleon's having found leisure for an 
unworthy amour, the very evening of his arrival at Fon- 
tainebleau.] 

6 [The three last stanzas, which Lord Byron had been so- 
licited by Mr. Murray to write, in order to avoid the stamp 
duty then imposed upon publications not exceeding a sheet, 
were not published with the rest of the poem. " I don't 
like them at all," says Lord Byron, " and they had better 
be left out. The fact is, 1 can't do any thing I am asked to 
do, however gladly I would ; and at the end of a week my 
interest in a composition goes off."] 

' [In one of Lord Byron's MS. Diaries, begun at Ravenna 
in May, 1821, we find the following:—" What shall I write 7 
— another Journal ' I think not. Any thing that comes up- 
permost, and call it 

" My Dictionary. 

" Augustus.— I nave often been puzzled with his charac- 
ter, was he a great man 1 Assuredly. But not one of my 
GREAT men. I have always looked upon Sylla as the 
greatest character in history, for laying down his power at 
the moment when it was — 

' Too great to keep or to resign,' 
and tbus 'jesjiising '.hem all. As to the retention of his 



There was a day — there was an hour,* 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame. 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 

And gilded thy decline. 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

But thou forsooth must be a king. 

And don the purple vest, — 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire I say, 
Are all thy playthings suatch'd away ? 

Where may the wearied eye repose, ^ 

When gazing on the Great ;' 
Where neither guilty glory glows. 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the be«st — 
The Cincinnt !«;s of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate. 
Bequeath the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but One 



■^ 



power by Augustus, the thing wa? already settled. If he 
had given it up — the commonwealth was gone— the republic 
was long past all resuscitation. Had Brutus and Cassius 
gamed the battle of Philippi, it would not have restored 
the republic. Its days ended with the Gracchi ; the rest 
was a mere struggle of parties. You might as well cure a 
consumption, or restore a broken egg, as revive a state so 
long a prey to every uppermost soldier, as Rome had long 
been. As for a despotism, if Augustus could have been sure 
that all his successors would have been like himself— (I 
mean not as Octavius, but Augustus) — or Napoleon could 
have insured the world that none of his successors would 
have been like himself— the ancient or modern world might 
have gone on, like the empire of China, in a state of 
lethargic prosperity. Suppose, for instance, that, instead 
of Tiberius and Caligula, Augustus had been immediately 
succeeded by Nerva, Trajan, the Antonmes, or even by 
Titus and his father — what a difference in our estimate of 
himself 1 — So far from gaining by the contrast, I think that 
one-half of our dislike arises from his having been lieired by 
Tiberius— and one-half of Julius Ca;sar's fame, from his 
having had his empire consolidated by Augustus. — Sup- 
pose that there had been no Octavius, and Tiberius had 
'jumped the life' between, and at once succeeded Julius? — 
And yet it is difficult to say whether hereditary right or 
popular choice produce the worser sovereigns. The 
Roman Consuls make a goodly show ; but then they only 
reigned for a year, and were under a sort of personal obli- 
gation to distinguish themselves. It is still more difficult to 
say which form of government is the worst— all are so 
bad. As for democracy, it is the worst of the w hole ; for- 
what is, in fact, democracy?— an aristocracy of black- 
guards."] 

8 [On being reminded by a friend of his recent promise 
not to write any more for years—" There was," replied 
Lord Byron, " a mental reservation in my pact with the 
public, in behalf of anonymes ; and, even had there not, the 
provocation was such as to make it physically impossible to 
pass over this epoch of triumphant tarneness. 'Tis a sad 
business ; and after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and 
reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, UW—Elba 
becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. I can't think it ia 
all over vet." I 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



473 



HEBREW MELODIES^ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The subsequent poems were written at the request 
of my Jriend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selec- 
tion of Hibrew Melodies," and have been published, 
with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. 
Nathan. 

Januaiy, 1815. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.' 

She walks In beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress. 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT.* 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 



1 [Lord Byron never alludes to his share in these Melo- 
dies with coniplacency. Mr. Moore having, on one occa- 
sion, rallied him a little on the manner in which some of 
them had been set to music,—" Sunburn Nathan," lie ex- 
claims, " why do you always twit me with his Ebrew na- 
salities ? Have 1 not told you it was all Kinnaird's doing, 
and my own exquisite facility of temper V] 

2 [" Neither the ancient Jews," says Dr. Burney, " noi 
the modern, have ever had characters peculiar to music ; 
so that the melodies used in their religious ceremonies have, 
at all times, been traditional, and at the mercy of the sing- 
ers."— Kalkbrenner tells us, that " les.IuifsEspagnolslisent 
et chantent ieurs pseaumes bien differemment que les Juifs 
Hollandais, les Juifs Remains autrement que les Juifs de la 
Prusse et de la Hesse ; et tous cioient chanter comme on 
chantait dans le Temple de Jerusalem !" — Mist, de la Musique, 
torn. i. p. 34.] 

3 [These stanzas were written by Lord Byron, on return- 
ing from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) 
mlmotHorton, the wife of his relation, the present Governor 
of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. Wilinot Horton had ap- 
peared in mourning, with numerous spangles on her dress.] 

* [" In the reign of King David, music was held in the 
highest estimation by the Hebrews. The genius of that 
prince for music, and liis attachment to the study and prac- 
tice of it, as well as the great number of musicians appoint- 
ed by him for the performance of religious rites and cere- 
monies, could not fail to extend its influence and augment 
Its perfections ; for it was during this period, that music 
was first honored by being admitted in the ministry of sac- 



fiO 



Which Music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled he her tears, its chords are rivcu ! 

It soften'd men of iron mould. 

It ^ave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 

That felt not, fired not to the tone. 

Till David's lyre grew mightier than bis throne i 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God 1 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring. 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode !* 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above. 

In dreams that day's broad light can not removo ' 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish'd heart be fond. 

The eye the same, except in tears — 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die ! 
To soar from earth and find all fears. 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares ; 
With them the immortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



riflce, and worship of the ark ; as well as by being cultivated 
by a king." — Bubney.] 

6 [" When Lord Byron put the manuscript into my hand, 
it terminated with this line. As this, however, did not com- 
plete the verse, I wished him to help out the melody. He 
replied, ' Why, I have sent you to heaven — it would be dif- 
ficult to go further !' My attention for a few minutes was 
called to some other person, and his Lordship, wlioin I had 
hardly missed, exclaimed, ' Here, Nathan, I have brought 
you down again ;' and immediately presented me the beau- 
tiful fines which conclude the melody."— Nathan.] 

5 [The hymns of David excel no less in subUmity and ten- 
derness of expression, than in loftiness and purity of religious 
sentiment. In comparison with them, the sacred poetry of all 
other nations sinks into mediocrity. They have embodied so 
exquisitely the universal lant,uage of religious emotion, that 
(a few fierce and vindictive pasSiiges excepted, natural in the 
warrior-poet of a sterner agei they have entered, with un- 
questionable propriety, into the Christian ritual. The songs 
which cheered the soUtude of the desert caves of Engedi, 
or resounded from the voice of the Hebrew people as tliey 
wound a ong the glens or the hill-sides of Judea, have been 
repeated for ages in almost every part of the habitable 
world, — m the remotest islands of the ocean, amongst the 
forests of America, or the sands of Africa. How many hu- 
man hearts have they softened, purified, exalted ' — of how 
many wretched beings have they been the secret consolation ! 
—on how many communities have they drawn down ths 
blessings of Divine Providence, by bringing the affections 
in unison with their deep devotional fervor 1 — Milmam ] 



4-74 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : — 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there ; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's stateUer maids are gone I 

More bless'd each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter'd race ; 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must v/ander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our cwn may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
J^iid Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH ! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

On I weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; [dwell ! 
Mouru — where their God hath dwelt the Godless 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast. 
How shall yo flee away and be at rest I 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave. 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



3N JORDAN'S BANKS. 

On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 

On Sion's hi! the False One's votaries pray. 

The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 

Ys.\ there — even there — Oh God I thy thunders sleep; 

Tliere — where thy fiuger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire I 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ; 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear: 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
How long thy temple worshipless. Oh God ! 

1 [Jephtha, a bastard son of Gilead, having been wrong- 
fully expelleil from his father's house, had taken refuge in a 
wild country, and become a noted captain of freebootfrs. 
His kintlred, groanmg under foreign oppression, began to 
look to their valiant, though lawless compatriot, whose pro- 
fession, according to their usage, was no more dishonorable 
than that of a pirate m the elder days of Greece. They sent 
for him, and made tum head of their city. Before he went 
forth against the Ammonites, he made the memorable vow, 
that, if he returned victorious, he w ould sacrifice as a t urnt- 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER' 

SiNCK our Country, our God — Oh, my sire. 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er. 
And the mountains behold me no more '. 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my Father I be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the ;ast thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee. 
And my father and country aie free ! 

When this : ood of thy giving hath gush'd. 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride. 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAl'TY'S 
BLOOM. 

Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream. 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 

Will this unteach us to complain? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 

Thy loolcs are wan, thine eyes are wet 



MY SOUL IS DARK. 

My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'Twill flow, and ceaoe to burn my brain. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep. 
Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
Or else this heavy heart will bur.st ; 



offering whatever first met him on his entrance into his na 
live city. He gained a splendid victory. At the news of it, 
his only daughter came dancing forth', in the gladness of 
heart, and with jocund instruments of music, to salute the 
dehvererof his people. The miserable father rent his clothes 
in agony ; but the noble-spirited maiden would not hear of 
the disregard of the vow : she only demanded a sliort period 
to bewail up m the mountains, like the Antigone of Sopho 
cles, her dying without hope of becoming a bride or motJie- 
and then submitted to her fate. — Milman.J 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



475 



For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
And ached in sleepless silence long ; 

And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, 
And break at once — or yield to song.' 



i SAW THEE WEEP. . 

I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping'dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto tlie moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart ; 
Tlieir sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. . 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword I 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, while wo are free 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along. 

Shall be the battle- word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glvry wrong ; 

Thou shalt not be deplor-jc'.. 



1 [" It was generally conceived that Lord Byron's report- 
ed singularities approached on some occasions to derange- 
ment ; and at one period, indeed, it was very currently as- 
serted that his intellects were actually impau'ed. The re- 
por', y.'y served to amuse his Lordship. He referred to the 
circumstance, and declared that he would try how a mad- 
man could write : seizing the pen with eagerness, he for a 
moment fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy ; 
when, like a flash of inspiration, without erasing a single 
word, the above verses were the result." — Nathan.] 

2 [Haunted with that insatiable desire of searching into 
the secrets of futurity, inseparable from uncivilized man, 
Saul knew not to what quarter to turn. The priests, out- 
raged by his cruelty, liad forsaken him : the prophets stood 
aloof; ho dreams visited his couch; he had persecuted 
even the unlawful diviners. He hears at last of a female 
necromancer, a woman with tlie spirit of Ob; strangely 
similar m sound to the Obeah women in the West Indies. 
To the cave-dwelling of this woman, in Endor, the monarch 
proceeds in disguise. He commands her to raise the spirit 
of Samnel. At this daring demand, the woman first recog- 
nises, or pretends to recognise, her royal visiter. " Whom 
eecst thou?" says the king. — " Mighty ones ascending from 
the earth."—" Of wL<it form V — " An old man covered with 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
Fierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow. 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never we part. 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day ! 



SAUL.^ 



Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 

Bid the prophet's form appear. 
" Samuel, raise thy buried head! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His haiid was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not, and unbrealhing frame, 
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak. 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead? 
Is it thou, O King ? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done. 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day. 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul !"^ 



a mantle." Saul, in terror, bows down his head to the 
earth ; and, it should seem, not daring to look up, receives 
from the voice of the spectre the awful intimation of lus 
defeat and death. On the reality of this apparition we pre- 
tend not to decide : the figure, if figure there were, was not 
seen by Saul ; and, excepting the event of the approaching 
battle, the spirit said nothing which the living prophet had 
not said before, repeatedly and publicly. But the fact is 
curious, as showing the popular belief of tlie Jews in de- 
parted spirits to liave been the same with that of most other 
nations.— MiLM AN.] 

s [" Since we have spoken of witches," said Lord Byron, 
at Cephalonia, in 1623, "what think you of the witch of 
Endor ? 1 have always thought this tlie finest and most 
finished witch-scene that ever was written or conceived, 
and you will be of myopinion, if you consider all the cir- 
cumstances and the actors in th{ case, together with tho 
gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language. It beats all 
the ghost scenes I ever read. The finest conception on a 
similar subject is that of Goethe's Uevil, Mephistopheles ; 
and though, of course, you will give tte priority to the for- 
mer, as being inspired, yet the latter, if you know it, will 
appear to you— at least it does to me— one of the finest end 
most sublime specimens of human conception."] 



476 



BYRON'S WORKS 



"ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 

And health -md youth possess'd me ; 
My goblets blush'd from every vine. 

And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
I suun'd my heart in beauty's eyes. 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendor. 

I utrive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
M hich all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore. 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFER- 
ING CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah! whither strays the immortal mind? 
It cannot die, it cannot stray. 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ' 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of oyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unsee^. but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory hold 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled ep'th. 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest heaven had birthy 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes. 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its years as moments shall c.iQure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly; 
A nameless and eternal thnig, 

Forgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAR 

The King was on his throne. 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

In Juda^ deem'd divine — 
Jehovah » vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 

In that same hour and hall. 

The fingers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice ; 
All bloodless wax'd his look. 

And tremulous his voice. 
" Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 
And expound the words of fear. 

Which mar our royal mirth.'' 

Chaldea's seers are good. 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not yage, 

They saw — but knew no more 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command, 

He saw tliat writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made, 

His kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh'd, 

Is light and worthless clay. 
The shroud, his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone : 
The Mede is at his gate ! 

The Persian on his throno !" 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS; 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far. 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other days. 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless ravs 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold. 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but oh, how cold ! 




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HEBREW MELODIES. 



477 



WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st '.t to be, 

I need uot have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race: 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
If tho Exile on earth Is an Outcast on high, 
Live on in thy faith, but iu mine I will die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope — and in thit^e 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.» 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony, 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading. 
Ah ! cnuldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ? — and did they dare 

Obey my phrensy's jealous raving? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair : 

The sword that smote her 's o'er mf> waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She's gone, who shared my diadem ; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem, 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
JERUSALEM B\ TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy d'rae 
I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome . 
'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home. 
And forgot for e. moment my bondage to come ; 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 



» fMariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling under 
the g ispicion of infidelity, was put to death by his order. She 
was a womar. of unrivalled beauty, and a haughty spirit : un- 
happy in being the object nf passionate attachment, which 
bordered-on phrensy, to a man who had more or less concern in 



And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEFT. 

We sate down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in tho hue of his slaughters. 
Made Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below. 

They demanded tho song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know I 

May this right hand be wither'd forever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended. 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest wh?r Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd aud strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pa^s'd ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
still ! 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride : 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



the murder of her grandfather, father, brother, and uncle, and 
who had twice commanded her death, in case of his own. 
Ever after, Herod was haunted by the image of the murdered 
Mariamne, until disorder of the mind brought on disorder of 
the body, which led to temporary derangement — AIilman.] 



478 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE ME. 



FROM JOB. 



A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 



Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
And as my damp hair stiiFen'd, thus it spake : 

" Is man more just than God? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light !"' 



DOMESTIC PIECES.-1816. 



FARE THEE WELL.'' 



" Alas ! they have been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth, 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain • 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
***** 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder , 
A dreary sea now flows between, 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Christabel. 



Fare thee well ! and if forever, 

Still forever, fare thee well: 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmcsl Liiought could show ' 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee— 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's wo : 

Though my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one which once embraced me. 

To inflict a cureless wound? 



> [The Hebrew Melodies, though obviously inferior to 
Lord Byron's other works, display a skill in versification 
and a mastery in diction, which would have raised an infe- 
rio • artist to the very summit of distinction.— Jeffrey.] 

2 [ - was about tiie middle of April that his two celebrated 
copies of verses, " Fare thee well," and " A Sketch," made 
their appearance in the newspapers ; and while the latter 
poem was generally, and, it must be owned, justly con- 
demned, as a sort of literary assauU on an obscure female, 
whose situation ought to have placed her as much beneath 
his satire, as the undignified mode of his attack certainly 
raised her above it, with regard to the other poem, opinions 
were a good deal more divided. To many it appeared a 
strain of true conjugal tenderness,— a kind of appeal which 
no Vvonian with a heart could resist; while, by others, on 
the contrary, it was considered to be a mere shdwv effusion 
of sentiment, as dirficult for real fee in g to have produced 
as it was easy for fancy and art, and altogether unworthy 
ot the deep interests involved in the subject. To this latter 



Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away : 

Still thine own its life retaiueth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widow'd bed. 

And when thou would solace gather, 
When our child's first accents ilow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" 
Though his care she must forego? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
When her lip to thine is press'd, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thoe, 
Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more mayst see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowcst, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bcw. 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken. 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 



opinion I confess my own to have, at first, strongly Inclined ; 
and suspicious as I could not help thinking the sentiment 
that could, at such » moment, indulge in such verses, the 
taste that prompted or sanctioned their publication appeared 
to me even still more questionable. On reading, however, 
his own account of all ttie circumstances in the Memoranda, 
I found that on both points I had, in common with a large 
portion of the public, done him injustice. He there described, 
and in a manner whose sincerity there was no doubting, 
the swell of tender recollections under the influence of 
which, as he sat one night, musing in his study, these stanzas 
were produced, — the tears, as he said, falling fast over Iho 
paper as he wrote them. Neither did it appear, from that 
account, to have been from any wish or intention of his 
own, but through the injudicious zeal of a friend whom ho 
had suffered to take a copy, that the verses met the public 
eye. — Moore. The appearance of the MS. confirns this 
account of the circumstances under which it was wntteJ 
It is blotted all over with the marks of tears.] 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



479 



But 'tis done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still ; 
But the thoughts we i.annot bridle 

Force their way without the will. — 

Fare thee well ! — thus dismiited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816. 



A SKETCH.* 



" Honest— honest lago ! 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

Shakspeare. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 

Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 

Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 

And from its wages only to be guess'd — 

Raised from the toik't to the table, — where 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmoved, and forehead nnabash'd. 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 

The genial confidante, and general spy — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmanship she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows: 

What she had made the pupil of her art. 

None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

With longing breast and undeluded ear. 

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 

Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind, 

Deceit infect not — nor Contagion soil — 

Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down 

On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 

Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 

Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 

Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 

Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 

Serenely purest of her sex that live. 

But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive. 

Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 

She deems that all could be like her below : 

Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 

For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

Bat to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burden of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 
If early habits — those false links, which bind 
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 



1 [" I send you my last night's dream, and request to have 
fifty copies struck ofF, for private distribution. I wish Mr. 
Gifford to look at tliem. Thev are from life." — Lord Byron 
to Mr. Murray, March 30, 1616.'] 

3 cin first draught — " weltermg." — "I doubt about 'wel- 
tering.' We say ' weltering in blood ;' but do not they also 



Have given her power too deeply to instil 

The angry essence of her deadly will ; 

If like a snake she steal within your walls, 

Till the black slime betray her us she crawls ; 

If like a viper to the heart she wind, 

And leave the venom there she did not find ; ' 

What marvel that this hag of hatred works 

Eternal evil latent as she lurks. 

To make a Pandemonium wiiere she dwells, 

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 

With all the kind mendacity of hints, Tsmiles — 

While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with 

A thread of candor with a web of wiles ; 

A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming ; 

A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 

A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 

Mark, how the channels of her yeilow blood 

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud. 

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 

Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 

(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 

Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 

Look on her features ! and behold her mind 

As in a mirror of itself defined : 

Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 

There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 

Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 

This monster when their mistress left off" trade — 

This female dog-star of her little sky. 

Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Black — as thy will for others would create : 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust. 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed — 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

prayer, 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear. 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy namb — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy loss abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering^ in the infamy of years. 

March 20, 1S16. 



use ' weltering in the wind,' ' weltering on a gibbet V I have 
no dictionary, so look. In the mean 'ime, I have put ' fester- 
ing ;' which, perhaps, in any case ii the best word of the 
two. Shakspeare has it often, anl I do not think it too 
strong for the fig^ire in this thing. Quick ! quick ! quick ! 
quick !" — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, April 2.] 



480 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.' 

When all around grew drear and dark. 
And reason half withheld her ray — 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way ; 

In that deep midnight of the mind, 

And that internal strife of heart, 
When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart ; 

When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose, and set not to the last. 

Oh ! bless'd be thuie unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the uight, 

Forever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine. 

And teach it what to brave or bronk — 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree. 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert — and still wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind — and thee the most of all 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake 

And these, when all was lost beside. 

Were found and still are fix'd in thee ; — 

And bearing still a breast so tried. 
Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.' 

Though the day of my destiny 's over, 
And the star of my fate hath declined,' 



1 [The Poet's sister, the Honorable Mrs. Leigh.— These 
stanzas— the parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tender- 
ness had bec'n the author's sole consolation during the crisis 
of domestic misery— were, we believe, the last verses writ- 
ten by Lord ijyron in Enghind. In a note to Mr. Rogers, 
dated Apru IGth, he says,—" iMy sister is now with me, and 
leaves town to-morrow: we shall not meet again for some 
time at all events,— i/euer.' and, under these circumstances, 
I trust to stand excused to you and Mr. Sheridan, for being 
urable to wait upon him this evening." On the 25th, the 
r^et took a last leave of his native country.] 

2 [These beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's 
wounded feelings at the moment, were written in July, at the 
Carapagne D'odati, near Geneva, and transmitted to England 
for publication, with some other pieces. " Be careful," he 



Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 
It shrunk not to share it with me. 

And the love which my spirit hath painted 
It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from ifiee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave. 
Though I feel that my soul is dcliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not conteriin — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me — • 

'Tis of thee that I think — not of them.'' 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me. 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst bhake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor, mute, that the world might belie.' 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd, 

Thus much I at least may recall. 
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing. 

In the wide waste there still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816. 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA." 

Mv sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 



says, "in printingthe stanzas beginning, 'Though the day of 
my destiny's,' &c., which I think well of as a comi osition "] 
s [" Though the days of my glory are over. 

And the sun of my fame hath declined." — MS.] 
4 [" There is many a pang to pursue roe, 
And many a peril to stem : 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me , 
They niay crush, butthey shall not contemn." — MS J 
6 ["Though watchful, 'twas but to rec;aim me. 

Nor, silent, to sanction a lie."— MS.] 
6 [These stanzas—" Than which," says the Quarterly Re- 
view, for January. 1831, " there is, perhaps, nothing more 
mournfully and desolately beautiful in the whole range of 
Lord Byron's poetry" — were also written at Biodali and 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



491 



Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
Tiiere yet are two things in my destiny, — 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last. 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Recalling, as it lies heyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's' fate of yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly snocKe 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
The careful pilot of my proper wo. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward, 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: 
But now I fain would for a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair. 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armor we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brooks 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 



sent home at the time for publication, in case Mrs. Leigh 
should sanction it. " There is," he says, " amongst the man- 
uscripts an Epistle to my Sister, on which I should wish her 
opinion to be coi.Milted before publication ; if she objects, of 
course omit it." On the 5th of October he writes,—" My 
sister has decided on the omission of the lines. Upon this 
point, her option will be followed. As I have no copy of them, 
1 request that you will preserve one for me in MS. ; for I 
never can remember a line of that nor any other composition 
of mine. God help me ! if I proceed in this scribbling, I shall 
have frittered away my mind before I am thirty ; but poetry 
is at times a real relief to me. To-morrow I am for Italy." 
The Epistle was first given to the world in 1830.] 

' [AdiT.iral Byron was remarkable for never making a 
voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors 
by the facetious nume of " Foul- weather Jack." 



61 



Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something worthier do such scenes inspire . 
Here to be lonely is not desolate. 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

Oh that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show ; — 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dea Lake,^ 
By the old Hall which may be mine no more 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make. 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they aie 
Resign'd forever, or divided far 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask. 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I look again on thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun 
The earUest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learn'd the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept ; 
/ had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made mo all which they can make — a namb- 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue j 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 



" But, though it were tempest-toss'd. 
Still his bark could not be lost." 

He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Ansoii's 
voyage,) and circumnavigated the world, many years after, 
as commander of a similar expedition.] 

2 The Lake of Newstead Abbey. [Thus described In Don 
Juan : — 

" Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soflen'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around : the wild fowl nestled m the brake 
And sedges, biooding in their liquid bed ; 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood."; 



482 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fiU'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by 

And for th? remnant which may be to come 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal. 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around. 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
'From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 



LINES 

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.' 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ! 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here 
And is it thus? — it is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoilg 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold. 

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven clioose so near an instrument. 
Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 



> , Those verses were written immediately after the faihire 
of the negotiation for a reconciliation before Lord Byron left 
Switzerliind for Italy, but were not intended for the public 
eye : as, however, they have recently found their way into 
circulation, we include them in this collection.] 

2 [" Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, 
that he was not the first to make his domestic differences a 
topic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himsel.', 
ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one wa^, 
or could be known, held up everywhere, and by every art 
of nialice, as the most infamous of men, — because he had 
parted from his wife. He was exquisitively sensitive : he was 
wounded at once by a thousand arrows ; and all this with the 
most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all wlio were 
assailing him not one knew any thing of the real merits of 
the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and 
tirades ? No, certainly : it would have been nobler, better, 
wiser far, to have utterly scorned the assaults of such ene- 
mies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, be- 
cause this young, hot-blooded, proud, patrician poet did not, 
amidst the exacerbation of leelmgs wluch he could not con- 
trol, act m precisely the most dignified and wisest of all pos- 
sible mmners of action,— are we entitled, is the world at 
large entitled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative con- 
demnation ? Do we know all that he had suffered ?— have we 
imagination enough to comprehend what he sufTered, under 
circumstances such as these ?— have ice been tried in similar 
Circumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinch- 
ingly, and keep the weapon quiescent in the hand that trem- 
bled with all the excitements of insulted privacy, honor, and 
fuith ? Let p eople consider for a moment what it is t.'iat they 
aemand whe i the/insist upon a poet of Byron's class abstain- 



Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep ! — 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal. 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a wo as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Hadst naught to dread — in thy own weakness 

shielded. 
And in my love, which hath but too much 'yielded, 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare— 
And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 

On things that were not, and on things that are- 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt I 
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope— and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

TrafRcking with them in a purpose cold. 

For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways. 
The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times. 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
Deceit, averments incompatible. 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done !" 

Septembei, 1816. 



ing altogether from expressing in his works any thing of his 
own feelings in regard to any thing that immediately con- 
cerns his own history. We tell him in every possible form and 
shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry 
is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own 
personal feelings. We encourage him in every possible way 
to dissect his own heart for our entertainment— we tempt 
him by every bribe most likely to act powerfully on a young 
and imaginative man, to plunge into the darkest depths of 
self-knowledge ; to madden his brain with eternal self-scruti- 
nies, to find his pride and his pleasure in what otiiers shrink 
from as torture— we tempt him to indulge in these dangerous 
exercises, until they obviously acquire the power of leading 
him to the very brink of phrensy— we tempt him to find, and 
to see in this perilous vocation, the staple of his existence, 
the food of his ambition, the very essence of his glory,— and 
the moment that, by habits of our own creating, at least of 
our own encouraging and confirming, he is carried one single 
step bevond what we happen to approve of, we turn round 
with all the bitterness of spleen, and reproach him with the 
unmanhnesh .if entertaining the public with his feelings in 
regard to his separation from his wife. This was truly the 
conduct of a fair and liberal public ! To our view of the 
matter. Lord Byron, treated as he had been, tempted as he 
had been, and tortured and insulted as he was at the mo- 
ment, did no more forfeit his character by writing what he 
did write upon that unhappy occasion, than another man, 
under circumstances of the same nature, would have done, 
by telling something of his mind about it to an intimate 
friend across the fire. The public had forced hirn into the 
habits of familiarity, and they received his confidence with 
notiiing but anger and scorn."— Lqckhabt.] 



MONODY ON SHERIDAN. 



483 



MONODY 

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.' 

SPOKEN AT DRURY-tANE THEATRE.* 



When tho last sunshine of expiring day 

In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 

Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? 

With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 

While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 

Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 

Of light ajid darkness forms an arch sublime. 

Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 

The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, 

A holy concord — and a bright regret, 

A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 

'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer wo, 

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 

Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 

A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 

Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain. 

Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes. 
When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
Tho enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 



1 [Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this mono- 
dy was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the request of Mr. 
Douglas Kinnaird. "1 did as well as I could," says Lord 
Byron, "but where I have not my choice, I pretend to 
answer for nothing." A proof-sheet of the poem, with the 
words " by request of a friend" in the titlepage, having 
reached him,—" I request you," he says, "to expunge that 
same, unless you please to add, 'by a person of quality,' or 
' of wit and humor.' It is sad trash, and must have been 
done to make it ridiculous."] 

2 [Sheridan's own monody on Garrick was spoken from 
the same boards, by Mrs. Yates, in March, 1779. " One 
day," says Lord Byron, '' I saw him take it up. He lighted 
upon t'le dedication to the Dowager Lady Spencer. On 
seeing it, he flew into a rage and exclaimed, ' that it must 
be a Lrgery, as he had never dedicated any thing of his to 
such a d — d canting,' &c. &c. — and so he went on for half an 
hour abusmg his own dedication, or at least the object of it. 
If all writers were equally sincere, it would be luiJicrous." 
—Byron Diary, 1821.] 

3 [See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's 
speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the 
House of Commons. Mr. Pitt entreated the House to ad- 
journ, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question 
than could then occur after the immediate effect of that 
oration. — " Before my departure from England," says Gib- 
bon, " I was present at the august spectacle of Mr. Hastings's 
trial in Westminster Hall. It is not my province to absolve 
c.- condemn the governor of India; but Mr. Sheridan's 
eloo.uence demanded mv applause : nor could I hear with- 
out emonon tne personal compliment wnich he paid me in 
the presence of the British nation. This display of genius 
blazed four successive days," &c. On being asked by a 
brother Whig, at the conclusion of the speech, how he came 



But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 

These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 

Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all. 

To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 

From the charm'd council to the festive board, 

Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 

In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, [pride. 

The praised — the proud — who made his praise their 

When the loud cry of trampled Hiudostan' 

Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 

His was the thunder — his the avenging rod. 

The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 

Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 

Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.* 

And here. Oh . nere, where yet all young and warm, 
The gay creations of his spirit charm. 
The matchless dialogue — the derthless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; 
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought. 
Here in their first abode you still may meet, 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; 
A halo of the light of other days, 
Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo.* 



to compliment Gibbon with the epithet "luminous," Sheri- 
dan answered, in a half whisper, " I said ' voluminous.' "] 

4 [" I heard Sheridan only once, and that briefly ; but I 
liked his voice, his manner, and his wit. He is the only 
one of them I ever wished to hear at greater length." — 
Byron Diary, 1821.] 

6 [" Once I saw Sheridan cry. after a splendid dinner. I 
had the honor of sitting next him. The occasion of his 
tears was some observation or otlier upon the subject of the 
sturdiness of the Whigs in resisting office and keeping to 
their principles. Sheridan turned round :— ' Sir, it is easy 
for my Lord G. or Earl G. or Marquis B. or Lord H., with 
thousands upon thousands a year, some of t either presently 
derived or inherited in sinecure or acquisitions from the 
public money, to boast of their patriotism and keep aloof 
from temptation : but they do not know from what tempta- 
tion those have kept aloof who had equal pride, at least 
equal talents, and not unequal passions, and nevertheless 
knew not in the course of their lives what it was to have a 
shilling of their own.' And in saying this he wept. I have 
more than once heard him say, ' that he never had a shillinf< 
of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to extract a good 
many of otlier people's. In 1815, 1 found him at my lawyer's. 
After mutual greetings, he retired. Before recurring to my 
own business, I could not help inquiring that of Sheridan. 
' Oh,' replied the attorney, ' the usual thing ! to stave oflf 
an action.' — ' Well,' said I, ' and what do you mean to do V 
— ' Nothing at all for the present,' said he : ' would you have 
us proceed against old Sherry ? what would be the use of 
it V ana here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's 
good gifts of conversation. Such was Sheridan ! he could 
soften an attorney ! There has been nothing like it since 
the da>s of Orpheus." — Byron Diary, 1621.] 



484 



IIYRON'S WORKS. 



llurd iw lii« Into on whom tho public gm.o 
Ih i\\\\ f(H'i>v<»r l« (Iclnicl or pniiHo ; 
l{«>|ms(i (lonit'H li(>r i'(M|iii(Mu to liiN iiuiiio, 
Anil l''()lly lovcN (li(> iiinrlyrdoiii of l''iiiiio. 
'I'lio Mii('ri>l (Mioiiiy vvlioMd nI(>('|)1('nn oyo 
SIuikIh Mcnlinnl iicciiNtM' ■ ,jii(l;;i' and Kpy, 

'^ll(^ l'(ll« lll(^ Tool llln jcuioilH- llllll (llO Vlliu, 

'l'lii> cnvioiiH vvlio liid lii'ciillKi in otlnnN' piiiii, 

|{|^llold llio liosi ! dtvlii^litin;; to (lt>|inivr, 

Who Iriicli tint nIo|is of (Jlory to tin* fjiiivo, 

\Viilcli ovoiy I'linll Ihiit diirinif (if-ninn ovvom 

I lull' to liio miior wliicli il^< Imlli bcslowM, 

MiHidi'l llio linlli, nccnnnd.'ilo tint Vu\ 

And piliv tho pyiaiMMl ol'Cidnnnty I 

'riicHii nio liiM pmiion hiil IT jtiin'd to llioso 

(iiuint I'ovorly Hlnnild htiisjiio willi ditrp IJimimimo, 

If tint iiiy;li Spirit innNi forjrcl to Hoar, 

And Htoop to sirivo witli MiHory ul llio door,' 

'I'o Hoolliit IndiiMiity — and fac(v to i'i\ri\ 

IVlitnl sordid liai'i" -and \vrontl(t with DiKjM'aiMt, 

'To liiid in llo|>n l)nl llio r(>iio\v'd (■ar(^NS, 

Tliit Norponl-foid of Inrllicr l''ailhl<iWHniiSH : — 

IfNncli inuy Ho tlio ills \vlii<'li nion ansiiil, 

What murvol if at laNt tho niijjIdioNl fail? 

MroaNts to whom nil liio strcni^lh of f(M>lin!f \n\'o\\ 

Hear luMirtN ('htctrio — ('liary;(<d with tiro from lloaviMi, 

lilack with tiio rudit collision, inly torn, 

liy (doiids Miirromidod, uiul on wliirlwindH borno, 



Prlvon o'or tl>o loworiui; iitmoNnlipro tlint inirsod 

'riioiiiiiilM whirh liavo tiirn'd to tiiund(>r — Hcori'li- 
nnd Inn'Ht." 

Itnt far IVom m and trorn uiir mimic hihmio 
Sncli lhinj;H Mhonid ho — if snoh havo v\n i)t>oij ; 
OnrH JKi lln< (jrcnllcr \vinh, tin* iiindor taNk, 
To jijivo llio lrihiil(> (ilory nofd not ask, 
'To monrn tint vanhsli'd hiMim ami add iMir mito 
Of praJNo in paymoni of a loiij; dcli'dil. 
Y(t Orators! whom yol our councils yield, 
Monni for tlio veteran ll(<ro of yonr lii'ld ! 
'I'ho worthy rival of the wondrons 7V/( (•»■.'" 
WhoMit words wore spariis of Imniortidily ! 
Y<t Hards I to whom tint lemma's i\liiso is diMir, 
llo was yonr lMasl(-r cmidaltv him licif . 
V'lt men ol' wit and social i'lo(incni'c !' 
llo was yoMi brotlKM- • hi<ar his asln.i licnct 
While rowers of mind almost of bonndl<>ss'ii..iffe,'' 
('omplcte in kind — as various in llunr ■•lian;;o, 
>Vhilo lOkKpienctv- -Wit — I'oesy — anil . lirtii, 
'That hmnhlcr llurtnonist of cant on lOarlh, 
Sin'vivo wilhin onr mnds —while lives onr s(>nso 
(•!' pride in Merit's prond pre-eminence, 
l-onnr shall we seek his hkencJis --lony' in vain, 
And torn to all of him which may remain, 
Si^hint; that Nature form'd hut one snch man, 
And broke the die — in monli'injr Sheriilan. 

Dioduti, July 17, IHIO. 



TiiK J) HE am; 



I. 

Onu life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
l>eatb and existi>nce : Slei'|> hath its own world. 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breath. 
And toaix, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
'I'iiey leave a weinht upon our wakinjj thouirhts, 
'I'hoy lako ii wei(>lil iVom oil' our wakiufj toils, 

' I'l'ii... svus not nclion. Only a few ilavs liclbrc hlsilciilli, 
Slieiulaa wrote llnis lo Mr. ItoKcrs:- ■" ( am ulisolulcly im- 
iluiie luul bnilvcii hciuled. 'I'hey are Kohi)( to put the car|)i>Is 
OMI ot wmjuw, anil lucali lain Mrs. S.'s iDom luitl lake mr : 
XML will iinuove all (lilllcullv, l''ia- Cod's saKe lei me see 
VOll !" Mr. Moore was Ihe imiiieiliiile lu'arci of the reiliminl 
fonu. Tins wnswnllea on llie iJlli of Mav. On llic lllliof 
July, SluMiilaii's remaias weio (leimsileil In Wcslmmsler 
Alil.oy, lilM i.:ill l.riuviN I.emu Die DuI.e .)f lle.lli.ril, llie 
Kiiil ol t.auileiilaic, t'iixcl Muli;ravc, llie l.oni llisliop ol 
l.oniloa, l.oni tlollaiul, and I'.ari S|ieaeer. I 

» t" AliaaitoiiM liv Ihe skies, whose lieams liiivo nursed 
'I'licii very llunnlers, li(;hlcn scorch— and Imrsl," 

MS.) 

M''o\ I'lll nurke. t" Who 'Fox wi»s nsUod, wlilcli he 
thenuhl the best speei-h he had ever heard, he replied, 
• Sheiiilaii's on llie niihc.iehmeiil ul ItasluiKS m llie tlouso 
ot Coimnoas,' When he made II, l''i)\ adviscil liim lo sneak 
il over aHaia ia Weslauasler Itall on the Irlal, as imlhini; 
licllcr coiiUI be mmle ol llie subjecl : but Sheridan made his 
new speccli as ilillereni as po.ssibic, and, aceordiaw lo Ihe 
b(>Nl., indues, vcrv mlenor, nolwillislandia;! llie |iancKvric of 
llnrke, who e.xo)amicd dnrmK Ihe delivery olsiaiui iiassa.ncs 
of II 'There, that is Ihe Inie style siiaielhiiut bclwecn 
(iiietiy and jirose, and bcltor than cither.'" /i'i/kp/i l)Mnj, 
(Jioin Lurd lloUaiul,) l^i'Jl.l 

< I" lit society 1 have met Shoridau tVei|uei»llv. lie was 
Bni>erb ! I have seen hiin cut U]) VVhitI read, i|iii/, Madame 
do 8lai<l, anaihilaht ('olinaii, and do lilllo less by some 
utlu'iN ol (;ood laiut' (uul ability. 1 Ic.ivo mot liiiii at uU 



They do divido onr \w\\^ ; llioy bpcomo 

.\ portion of oni-sidves ns of onr limit, 

And look like heralds of eternity ; 

They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 

I like sibyls of Ibo I'utm'o ; they liavi' powiT — 

Tho tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 

They m.'ikit us what we were not - what Ilioy will, 

.And shake ns with the vision that's j;one by, 

Tho droiul of vunisli'd sliiulovvs — Are they no? 

places and piivties— at AVIiit<'liall with Ihe Molboiinios, at 
the Man|nis ui 'I'avislock's, iil l(,)bnis's the miclioiiccrs, at 
Sir lliiiiipliiv Davy's, at Siiin Itoccis'.'- m short, ni most 
Kinds III ciinipaiiv, and always loniid linn convivial and do- 
liidilliil."- Ilt/io-t nUiiii, that.'] 

" I" Lord Holland liilil tni>acuiiouspk'cenf,scntimcnlality 
in Slicndan. 'I'ho oilier nielli we were all (loliveriiiK onr 
rcspeclive and various oiuiniiiis upon hmi and other Iwmmis 
»iii;</ii(i)i.i, and mine was this ;— • Wlialiudr Sheridan lui.s 
done or chosen In do has be(<a ;>iir r.t;-<lli'nce aUvav * Ihe hrxt 
of Us kind. He has wnllcn Ihe besi Comedy, (.School lor 
Scandal,) Ihe bcsl drama (in inv mind, fur bcyoni' thai SI. 
(I'lles'.s lampiioa, Ihe llcfA(<ars' Opera,) the best lirce, (Iho 
("nlie- it IS only loo nood for a larcc,) and the lies' address, 
(MoiioloKUe on' (Jan ick,) and, to crown all, ilcliveied the 
vcrv I'csl iiraliiia (Ihe I'amons llcHnm speech) < icr con- 
ceived or heard in this connlry.' Smnebody lold Slieriihia 
this Hie next day, and, on lu>aiiiiK il, he binsl iMtu tears! 
I'oor llrinslcy I if they were lears o( pleas-irc, 1 woiilil 
riilhcr have suid these few, lint most sini'cic, words, lliaii 
liave wnllea the Iliad, or made liis own cclelniiled pliihp- 
pic. Nay, Ins own comedy never nralilied nio nunc ihan Id 
near thai he had derived li nionieiil's Kralifiealion Irom any 
liiaiso of mine." -//yroH J»iii;y, Dec. 17, lHi;i.i 

" till Ihe Ih'st drauKlit of this poiMii, Lord Uyron had vtv 
lilled II " 7'/if lh:iliiii/." Mr. Moore says, "it eosl liiiii many 
a Icar in wriliiiK," and juslly chaniclerl7.es It lis " llie mo.s'l 
moninlul, as well as picturesqun '.sioryota waiideiniK lilb' 
that ever came froiii the pen and heart ol man" It wild 
oomposod at Diodati, in July, Ibid.) 



THE DREAM. 



489 



fi) iK.t t!('5 ]y.\Ht nil Hlmdowf VVIiiil iini lliry'f 
(^rralidriN (/film mind V--'riio miml run ni.ilvo 
Siilpstiinr'n, itnd |(i'0|»|ii |iliuniiM oi' ilM own 
Willi l)i'ini,rM liriKlil<if lliMii Imvd Ix'cn, unci (rivo 
A liroiitli to f'orniH wliii;li <:iin onllivo idl (Ii'hIi. 
I would rixiuli 11 vimon wliirli I drmun'd 
I'lTrliiuicii in Hic-cp— for in iliiidl' it liioiinlit, 
A Hluiol)iTin|r Ihonijlil, in ••ii|i:d)|ii of youm, 
And <;uidl(:M a lunt( lif" inlo onn lioiir. 

II. 

I (law two ln-in^jH in tlm Iiik'h of yontli 

Slundint; nj>on ii hill, .'i ^fiillo hill, 

(< .'I'n uiid of mild drrlivity, lli'i IiikI 

Am 'l,vvr•^(^ llin (;ii|)() of ii lonjr rid^n olHni'li, 

S:i\() thai tlirro wuh no wu to lavn itH Iiiihc, 

Hilt a moKt livin(( lundH<:ii|)<s nnil (li" wav" 

or woodK iind (;"in)ii-lilH, anri Iho ahodcH of m<:U 

Scattnr'd at intcrvalH, and wi('.atliin|r Kmoko 

AriKinjf I'l-om kucIi rnHlic roolk;— tlio iiill 

Was crown'd with a jircidiar diadfm 

or ticiH, ill circular array, no lix'd, 

Not by the, iijiort of nature, hut o|' man ; 

'riii'Ho two, II maiden and a youth, wcro tlicro 

(«a/.in(r — tlm oiio on all that wuh hcncalh 

l'"air an lirrHidC— hut thn hoy |ra7,c,d on her; 

And holh Wfi'o /omifj, and oiio wim hcaiilirni : 

/\iii| hoth wcrii yoiiiif^ - yet not aliko in youth. 

Ah (hii Kwcct moon on tho hori/on'H vcr)ni, 

'I'lio maid waH on tlio fvo of womanhood ; 

'J'lic hoy had I'c.wcr HiimmcrH, hnt hJH In-art 

Mad. I'ar ont(rrown hJH y<(ar;i, and to hJH cyo 

'J'licrc waH hnt oiio helovi-d faci' on rarth, 

And that waH Nliinin;r on him ; hit had look'd 

IJ|iiiii it till it roiild not jiann away; 

I 111 had no breath, no heiiifr, hnt in hern: 

She wait hill voice ; ho did not Hjieak to her, 

Hill tremhled on hf^r wordn : hIio waH IiIh nijrht,' 

l''or llin eyo lollow'd InirH, and Haw with Iicih, 

Whieh <;olor'<l all hin ohjf(;tH: — Ik* had f!(!aHe(l 

To live within himmdl'; hIio wuh hin lifo, 

'i'liii o<;eaii to tho river of liiH thoiijdilH, 

Whiitli termiiiati'd all: iipon a lone, 

A loiic.h of In-lH, IiIh blocxi would ehh and flow, 

And liiM r;licek chaii|,n) tem|ieHtiio(iHly — hin Imart 

IJiiknoviiiif; of itH cuiiho of ajfony. 

lint hlio in then fond fiMdiiifjH had iioHhuro: 

Her ri^liH wcro i:j', for liiiii ; to her ho wuh 

Kvi'ii a:i a hroth'ir — hut no more; 'twan mucJv, 

I'"or hrollicrlcKH hIio wan, nave in the iiamo 

ller infant friondnhii) hud hcKtow'd on him ; 

Hernelf th'> Holitary Kcioii left 

Of a limd-honor'rl race.''' — It wan a namo [vvl 

Which ple.uHfid him, and yet jilr'aned him not — : 

Tiiii'i lau((ht him a decji armwrir — when hIkj lovod 

Anolhfr; ovfiii ntii/) hIid loved anotfier, 

AikI on Ihn Hiimmil of that hill hIio Hlood 



ly? 
iiiid 



' f " hIk! wan llin KiKht, 

For never diil tie turn IiIh glance until 

ller own lia'l leil tiy (.;:ty.iii« on an olijeet."— M.S.] 

'f8ee anil}, ji. .'I'.H. " ()iir iiaioii," Hiinl l.oril /lyroii in 
IHlil, " woiijd liave )ieali:il li; liln in wliicli l;loo(l liiirl Ix'eii 
hlieii Ijy oiii fatli<!rH~il woiilil tiiive joiruid liimlH, hroiut and 
riel'.-il would liave joined at liiiiHl one lieurl and Iwo per- 
fcii.rf not ili-iiiatelied in yearM, (hlie in two yearn my elderj — 
•ind- Hint— and— wlial Iiiin lieeii llie ri.'Hiilt 1"J 

■•' r'rtie riieliire wliieli I/ord Hyron Iihh liere drawn of liii 
y<. Jllidil love hliowh liow ne/iiiiH and feellnx eaii liievale the 
rbalilienol linn life, and Kiviiloliar eoiiiinoiiesteveiilKiiiidoli- 
jcelKaii iiiidyiiiK liiNtre. 'I'lieold liall al AiineKley, iiiiuer Uie 
nuiriu of tlifc " aiiUipie oraloiy," will loii;< ettll up to fancy tlie 
" tnui'ien und llic youth" who <aico titood in it ; wliilo tJie 



fjookinir afar if yet her iover'n Ktecd 
Kept pace with her expeetancy, and Hew. 

III. 

A change came o'l'r the Hpirit of my dream. 

There wan an aneient mannioii, and hei'oro 

Itn walln tlier<i wan a nieed caparinou'd : 

Within an iiiitiipie Oratory Htood 

The Hoy of whom I Hpake ; — he wuh uIoiK), 

And pale, and paein^r to and frO : anon 

lie Male him down, and Nci/ed a jien, and traeeo 

WoiiIh which I eoiilil not jnienn of; then he Ir^aa'd 

liiH liow'd head on hin haiidn, and nliook an 'Iwe.ro 

With a conviilnion - then arone ajrain. 

And with hin teidh and ijiiiveri.i^ .'.aiidH did tour 

What he had wriltc'ii, hut he Hlied no leivrH.'* 

And he did ealm hims*df, and lix hin brow 

into a kind of ipiiet: uh he piiiinf^d, 

The Ijady of hin love re-enter'rl there; 

She wan Mcreiie iinil nniiliiif; then, r.i,,' yel 

She knew nlie wan liy him heloved, — ^ll<) kn()W, 

l''or ipiickly coiiicM Hiich knowled|',e, that liiH heart 

Wan darken'd with her Hliadow, and hIio niiw 

That he wuh wretched, hut whe naw not all.'' 

ilr) roHc, and with a eold and jjentle frrnHp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er liix I'ltco 

A tahlet of unulterahle tlioii(r|ilH 

Wan lrar:ed, and tlnii it laded, kh it cunie ; 

lie dropp'd the hand he held, and with nIow Htepn 

Retired, hut not an hiddin^ her adie.ii, 

J'Vir they did jiarl with mutual HinileK ; he pii.HH'd 

I'Viim out the iiianhy |rate of that old ilall, 

And mounliii|^ on hin Kteed h<i went hin way ; 

Anil ne'er rejiiiMM'd that hoary thrcHhold more. 

IV. 

A chaii|re earim o'er the Mjiirit of my dream. 
The Hoy wan Njirunjr to manhood: in the wiidn 
Of fiery cliiiKtH he made hiiimelf a home, 
And hin Soul drank their xunheamH: lie waH ((irt 
With Hlraii(re and diinky anpeetn ; he wuh not 
iliniHelf like what he had heen ; on the Hen 
And on the Hliore he wan a wanderer ; 
There wan a iiianH of many imafreH 
('rowd<;d like waven upon me, hut he wun 
A jiart of all ; and in the liiKt he lay 
Ke]ioKiinr from the noontide nnltrinenH, 
('oucli'd amoii^r fallen eoliimnn, in the Hhado 
Of ruin'd walln that had niirvivcd the iiairien 
or llione who rear'd them ; hy hin nleepinjj HJdo 
Stood cameln frra/iiijr, and nome {goodly Hteedx 
W^^re fanteii'd near a fonntain ; and a ma.i 
Olad in a IIowiii|{ jrarh did watch the while, 
While many of hin Irihe Hlumher'd around: 
And they well! eanojiied hy ihe hliie nky, 
So fdoiidlcrai, clear, and (iiirely hitautiful, 
'i'hat (iod alone wan to he Heen in Heaven.* 



image of the " lover'H nteed," tlioiigli KiiKgeKted by tlio iinro- 
inuntierace-Kroundof NotlJiiKliiwii, will iiol tlieleNHeondueo 
to llir;)/r'Mi'nileliaiiii of the Hc,<:(ie. and (>li!ire a portion of llial 
li^jlil wliieli only 'ieniiiM could iJied over il. • Mooiii'..! 

* I" I had loan l)i;en in love with M. A. (;.,-.iiid never Irdd 
it, tlioui{li nlii: had iliKc.overed il wiliioiit. I recoileel my 
heiiHalionN, but eiwinol dcHcribo lliein, and il in uw well "— 
iliyrrm Duiry, lHi!'2.| 

' j'l'liin in true /irrp7n;f -nn V,ii*lcri\ [licliire |ierfeet in itn 
fore)/roiirid, and dintanee, and nliy, and no purl ol winch It, 
no dwell upon or lahored iim lo olmciir«! llie principal (ii^iire 
II JH ollirii III Ihe i.li){hl and aliri()r<l iiiiperceplilde loiichen 
liiiil liie li.iad of Uie n antitr in nliown, and thai a niiif/le 
nnarlf, nlruek from liln /aiKty, liKlilenn Willi a lonK train of 
iflu.nniitlioii Ihuluf tlie rcudor.— Hiu Waitku fcicuTT.j 



486 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



V. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold . 
Upon her face there was the tint of grief. 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye. 
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
What coulil her grief be ? — she had all she loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be ? — she had loved him not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



VI. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 

Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 

The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 

Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 

The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 

That in the antique Oratory shook 

His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 

As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 

The tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced — and then it faded as it came, 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 

The fittmg vows, but heard not his own words. 

And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been- 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall. 

And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour. 

And her who was his destiny, came back 

And thrust themselves between him and the light : 

What business had they there at such a time?* 



VII. 

A change caTne o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls phrensy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
Making the cold reality too real !^ 

VIIL 

A change came o'er the spirit of my droam 

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 

The beings which surrounded him were gone, 

Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 

For blight and desolation, compass'd round 

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 

In all which was served up to him, until. 

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,^ 

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 

But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 

Through that which had been death to many :T»en, 

And made him friends of mountains: with the stars 

Aiid the quick Spirit of the Universe 

He held his dialogues I and they did teach 

To him the magic of their mysteries ; 

To him the book of Night was open'd wide. 

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 

A marvel and a' secret — Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further change. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — the one 

To end in madness — both in misery * 

July, 1816. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO.^ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the ori- 
ginal MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and of Guarini's 



1 [This touching picture agrees closely, in many of its 
circumstances, with Lord Byron's own prose account of the 
wedding in his Memoranda ; in which he describes himself 
as waking, on the morning of his mai riage, with the most 
melancholy reflections, on seeing his wedding-suit spread 
out before him. In the same mood, he wandered about the 
grounds alone, till he wns summoned for the ceremony, and 
joined, for the first time, on that day, his bride and her 
family. He knelt down— he repeated the words after the 
clergyman ; but a inist was before his eyes— his thoughts 
were elsewhere ; and he was but awakened by the congratu- 
latioi.s of the bystanders to find that he was— married. — 
Moore.] 

* [" FoT it becomes the telescope of truth. 

And shows us all things naked as they are." — MS ] 

« Mitliridattfi of Pontiis. 



Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian 
to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb 
and the house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has 
a greater mterest for posterity, and httle or none for 



4 [This poem is written with great beauty and genius— but 
IS extremely painful. We cannot maintain our accustomed 
tone of levity, or even speak like calm literary judges, in the 
midst of these agonizing traces of a wounded and distem- 
pered spirit. Even our admiration is swallowed up in a 
most painful feeling of pity and of wonder. It is impossible 
to mistake these for fictitious sorrows, conjured up for the 
purpose of poetical eftect. There is a dreadful tone of sin- 
cerity, and an energy tliat cannot be counteneited. in the 
expression of wretchedness, and alienation from human- 
kind, which occurs in every line of this poem.— Jeffkey.] 

6 [In a moment of dissatisfaction with himself, or during 
some melancholy mood, w hen his soul felt the worthlessness 
of fame and glory. Lord Byron told the world that his muse 
should, for a long season, shroud herself in solitude, (see 
ante, p. 470 ;) and every true lover of genius lamented that 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



487 



the cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was confined in 
the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed atten- 
tion than the residence or the monument of Ariosto — 
at least it had this effect on me. There are two in- 
scriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the 
cjII .itself, inviting, luiuecossarily, the wonder and the 
indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much de- 
cayed, and depopulated: the castle still exists entire; 
and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
beheaded, according to the annal of Gihbon.' 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 



her lofty music was to cease. But there was a tide in his 
spirit obeying the laws of its nature, and not to be controUed 
by any human will. When he said that he was to be silent, 
he looked, perhaps, into the inner regions of his soul, and 
saw there a dnn, liard, and cheerless waste, like the sand of 
the seashore ; but the ebbed waves of passion in due course 
leiurned, and the scene was restored to its former beauty 
and magnificence,— its foam, its splendors, and its thunder. 
The mind of a mighty poet cannot submit even to chains of 
its own imposing : when it feels most enslaved, even then, 
perhaps, is it abont to become most free ; and one sudden 
flash may raise it from the darkness of its despondency up to 
the pure air of untroubled confidence. It required, therefore, 
but small knowledge of human nature, to assure ourselves 
thai the obligation under which Lord Byron had laid him- 
self could not bind, and that the potent spirit within him 
would laugh to scorn whatever dared to curb the phrensy of 
i',s own inspirations. 

It was not long, therefore, till he again came forth in his 
p;'rfect strength, and exercised thaf dominion over our 
spirits which is truly a power too noble to be possessed 
without being wielded. Though all his heroes are of one 
family, yet are they a noble band of brothers, whose coun- 
tenances and whose souls are strongly distinguished by 
peculiar characteristics. Each personage, as he advances 
before us, reminds us of some other being, whose looks, 
Ihoughts, words, and deeds had troubled us by their wild 
and perturbed grandeur. But though all the same, yet are 
they all strangely dilf'erent. We hail each successive ex- 
istence with a profounder sympathy ; and we are lost in 
wonder, in fear, and in sorrow, at the infinitely varied 
struggles, the endless and agonizing modifications of the 
human passions, as they drive along through every gate 
and avenue of the soul, darkening or brightening, elevating 
or laying prostrate. 

From svct agitating and terrific pictures, it is delightful to 
turn to those compositions in which Lord Byron has allowed 
his soul to sink down into gentl°r and more ordinary feelings- 
Many beautiful and pathetic strains have flowed from his 
heart, of which the tenderness is as touching as the 
giandeur of his nobler works is agitating and sublime. To 
those, indeed, who looked deeply into his poetry, there 
never was at any time a want of pathos ; but it was a 
pathos so subduing and so profound, that even the poet 
Iiimself seemed afraid of being delivered up unto it ; nay, 
he seemed ashamed of being overcome by emotions, which 
the gloomy pride of his intellect often vainly strove to 
scorn ; and he dashed the weakness from his heart, and the 
tear from liis eyes, like a man suddenly assailed by feelings 
which he wished to hide, and which, though true to his na- 
ture, were inconsistent with the character which that mys- 
terious nature had been forced, as in self-defence, to assume. 

But there is one poem in which he has almost wholly laid 
aside all remembrance of the darker and stormier passions : 
m which the tone of his spirit and his voice at once is 
changed, and where he who seemed to care only for 
agonies, and remorse, and despair, and death, and in- 
fiunity, in all their most appalling forms, shows that he has 
a heart that can feed on tlie purest sympathies of our na- 
ture, and deliver itself up to the sorrows, the sadness, and 
the melancholy of humbler souls. The " Prisoner of Chil- 
lon" is a poem over which Infancy has shed its first mys- 
terious tears for sorrows so alien to its own happy inno- 
cence,— over which the gentle, pure, and pious soul of 



Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,'^ 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient tiiirst of light and air 
Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once. Captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave.' 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
For I have battled with mine agony. 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 



Woman has brooded with ineffable, and ycning, and 
bursting tenderness of affection, — and over wh.'.' l Md Age, 
almost loosened from this world, has bowed i is hoary 
head in delighted approbation of that fraternal love, whose 
beauty and simplicity fling a radiance over llie earth he is 
about to leave, and exhibit our fallen nature in near ap- 
proximation to the glories of its altimute destiny. The 
" Lament" possesses much of the tenderness and pathos of 
the " Prisoner of Chillon." Lord Byron has not deJivered 
himself unto anyone wild and fearful vision of the impris- 
oned Tasso, — he has not dared to allow himself to rush 
forward with headlong passion into the horrors of his dun- 
geon, and to describe, as he could fearfully have done, the 
conflict and agony of his uttermost despair, — but he shows 
us the poet sitting in his cell, and singing there— a low, 
melancholy, wailing Lament, sometimes, indeed, bordering 
on utter wretchedness, but oftener partaking of a settled 
grief, occasionally subdued into mournful resignation, 
cheered by delightful remembrances, and elevated by the 
confident hope of an immortal fame. His is the gathered 
grief of many years, over which his soul lias brooded, till 
she has in some measure lost the power of misery ; and 
this soliloquy is one which we can beheve he might have 
uttered to himself any morning, or noon, or night of his 
solitude, as he seemed to be half communing with his own 
heart, and half addressing the ear of that human nature 
from which he was shut out, but of which he felt the con- 
tinual and abiding presence within his imagination. — Pro- 
fessor Wilson.] 

1 [The original MS. of this poem is dated, " The Apen- 
nines, April 20, 1S17." It was written in consequence of 
Lord Byron having visited Ferrara, for a sitigle day, on his 
way to Florence. In a letter from Rome, he says — •' The 
' Lament of Tasso,' which I sent from Florence, has, I 
trust, arrived. I look upon it as a ' These be good rhymes !' 
as Pope's papa said to him when he was a boy."] 

- [Tasso's biographer, the Abate Serassi, has left it with- 
out doubt, that the first cause of the poet's punishment was 
his desire to be occasionally, or altogether, free from his 
servitude at the court of Alfonso. In 1575, Tasso resolved 
to visit Rome, and enjoy the indulgence of the jubilee ; 
" anu tliis error," says tlie Abate, " increasing the suspicion 
already entertained, that he was in search of another 
service, was the origin of his misfortunes. On his return 
to Ferrara, the Duke refused to admit him to an audience, 
and he was repulsed from the houses of all the dependants 
of the court ; and not one of the promises which the Car- 
dinal Albano had obtained for him was carried into effect. 
Then it was that Tasso— after having suffered these hard- 
ships for some time, seeing himself constantly discounten- 
anced by the Duke and the Princesses, abandoned by his 
friends, and derideil by his enemies — could no longer con- 
tain himself within the bounds of moderation, but, giving 
vent to his choler, publicly :..roke forth into the most in- 
jurious expressions imaginable, both against th« Duke and 
all the house of Este, cursing his past seivice, and re 
tracting all the praises he had ever given in his verses to 
those princes, or to any individual connected with them, 
declaring that they were all a gang of poltroons, ingrates, 
and scoundrels, (poltroni, ingrati, e ribaldi.) For this of- 
fence he was arrested, conducted to the hospital of St 
Anna, and confined in a solitary cell as a madman." — 
Serassi, Vita del Tasso.] 

3 [In the Hospital of St. Anna, at Ferrara, they show a 



488 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The narrow circus of my dunjreon wall, 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 

And revell'd among men and things diviuo, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honor of the sacred war for Him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 

For he has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won and how adored. 

II. 

But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done : — ' 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears, 

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 

But thou, my j'oung creation . my soul's child ! 

Which ever playing round mo came and smiled. 

And woo'd mo from myself with thy sweet sightj 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 

For I have anguish yet to bear — and how? 

I know not that — but in the innate force 

Of my own .spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 

Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 

Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply T^ 

I was indeed delirious in my heart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them go, or torture as they will. 

My heart can multiply thine image still ; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 

To have all feeling save the one decay, 

And every passion into one dilate. 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



cell, over the door of which is the following inscription : — 
" Rispettate, O posteri, la celebrity di questa stanza, dove 
Torquato Tasso, infermo piii di tristezza che delirio, di- 
tenuto dimorb anni vii. mesi ii., scrisse verse e prose, e fu 
rimesso m liberti ad instanza del la citt;'i di Bergamo, nel 
giorno vi. Luglio, 158G." — The dungeon is beJovv the ground 
floor of the hospital, and the light penetrates through its 
grated window from a small yard, which seems to have been 
common to other cells. It is nine paces long, between five 
and six wide, and about seven feet high. The bedstead, so 
they tell, has been carried off piecemeal, and the door half 
cut away, by the devotion of those whom "the verse and 
prose" of the prisoner have brought to Ferrara. The poet 
was confined in this room from the middle of March, 1579, 
to December, 1580, when he was removed to a contiguous 
apartment much larger, in which, to use his own expres- 
sions, he could 'philosophize and walk about."' The in- 
scription is incorrect as to the immediate cause of his en- 
largement, which was promised to the city of Bergamo, but 
was carried into effect at the intercession of Don Vmcenzo 
Gonzaga, Prince of Mantua. — Hobhouse.] 

1 [The opening lines bring the poet before us at once, as if 
the door of the dungeon was thrown open. From this bitter 
complaint, how nobly the unconquered bard rises into calm, 
and serene, and dignified exultation over the beauty of " that 
young creation, his soul's child," the GierusalenameLiberata: 
The exultation of conscious genius then dies away, and we 
beheld him, "bound between distraction and disease," no 
longer in an inspired mood, but sunk into the lowest prostra- 
tion of human misery. Theie is something terrible in this 
transition from divine rapture to degraded agony. — Wilson.] 

2 [In a letter written to his friend Scipio Gonzaga, shortly 
alter his confineirient, Tasso exclaims—" Ah, wretched mc I 
I had designed to write, besides two epic poems of moci noble 



III. 

Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in captivity. 

And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 

And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 

There bo some here with worse than phrensy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labor'd mind. 

And dim the little light that's left behind 

With needless torture, as their tyrant will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill •} 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have pasa'd ; 

'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close* 

Sc ''^t it be — for then I shall repose. 

IV. 

I have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
I had forgotten half I wc.-'d forget. 
But it revives — Oh ! would were my lot 
To be forgetful as I am forg; t ! — 
Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
In this vast lazar-house of many woes? 
Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 
Nor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind ; 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall. 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call- 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all,* 
Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
Debarring me the usage of my own. 
Blighting my life in best of its career. 
Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear ? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 
And teach them inward Sorrow's stilled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 
Which undermines our Stoical success? 
No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 



argument, four tragedies, of which I had formed the plan. I 
had schemed, too, many works in prose, on subjects the most 
lofty, and most useful to human life ; I had designed to write 
philosophy v\ ith eloquence, in such a manner that there might 
remain of me an eternal memory in the world. Alas! I had 
expected to close my life with glory and renown ; but now, 
oppressed by the burden of so many calamities, I have lost 
every prospect of reputation and of honor. The fear of per- 
petual imprisonment increases my melancholy ; the indig- 
nities which I suffer augment it , and the squalor of my 
beard, my hair, and habit, the yordidness and filth, ex- 
ceedingly annoy mc. Sure am I, that, if she who so little 
has corresponded to my attachment— if she saw me in such 
a state, and in such affliction— she would have some com 
passion on me." — Opere, t. x. p. 387.] 

3 [For nearly the first year of his confinement Tasso en- 
dured all the horrors of a solitary cell, and was under the 
care of a jailer whose chief virtue, although he was a poet 
and a man of letters, was a cruel obedience to the com- 
mands of his prince. His name was Agcitino Mosti. 
Tasso says of him, in a letter to his sister, " ed usa meco 
ogni sorte di rigore ed inumanita." — Hobhouse.J 

■1 [This fearful picture is finely contrasted with that which 
Tasso draws of himself in youth, when nature and medita- 
tion were forming his wild, romantic, and impassioned 
genius. Indeed , the great excellence of the " Lament" con- 
sists in the ebbing and flowing of the noble prisoner'.s soul ; — 
his feelings often come suddenly from afar off,— sometimes 
gentle airs are breathing, and then all at once arise the 
storms and tempest,— the gloom, though hlack as night 
while it endures, gives way to frequent bursts of radiance 
—and when the wild strain is closed, our pity and commis- 
eration are blended with a sustaining and elevating sense 
of the grandeur and majesty of his character.— Wilson J 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



489 



Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business wliere thou art a guest ; 
Thy jrotlier hates— but I can not detest ;* 
Thou Ditiest not — but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair,* 
But all unquench'd is still my better part. 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
A3 dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud. 
Till struck,— forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frame, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by mo : — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas I 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou vpert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty Uiat dismay'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain.^ 

VL 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, — which did per^'ade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers. 

And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 



> [Not long after his imprisonment, Tasso appealed to the 
mercy of Alfonso, in a canzone of great beauty, couched in 
terms so respectful and pathetic, as must have moved, it 
might be thought, the severest bosom to relent. The heart 
of Alfonso was, however, impregnable to the appeal-; and 
Tasso, in another ode to the prmcesses, whose pity he in- 
voked in the name of their own mother, who had herself 
known, if not the like horrors, the like solitude of imprison- 
ment, and bitterness of soul, made a similar appeal. " Con- 
Bidered merely as poems," says Black, "these canzoni are 
extremely beautiful ; but, if we contemplate them as the 
productions of a mind diseased, they form important docu- 
ments in the history of man."— L(/c of Tasso, vol. ii. p. 408.] 

2 [As to the iudifTererce which the Princess is said to have 
exhibited for the misfornines of Tasso, and the little eflbrt 
the made to obtain his liberty, this is one of the negative 
arguments founded on an hypothesis that may be easily de- 
stroyed by a thousand others equally plausible Was not the 
Princess anxious to avoid her own ruin .' In taking too warm 
an interest for the poet, did she not risk destroying herself, 
without saving him!— Foscolo.] 



(52 



Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
Though I was chid for wandering ; and the Wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made, 
And such a truant boy would end in wo. 
And that the only lesson was a blow ; — 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep. 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
Rcturn'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions v;hich arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till tlie day 
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee ; 
And then I lost my being all to be 
Absorb'd in thine — the world was pass'd away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me 1 

vn. 

I loved all Solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all conmiunion witli existence, save 
The maniac and his tyrant ; — had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave,^ 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we sufl'er more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 

VIIL 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline,' 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is ve.xing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath sufFer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
But Spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 

3 [Tasso's profound and unconquerable love for Leonora, 
sustaining itself without hope throughout years of darkness 
and solitude, breathes a moral dignity over all his senti- 
ments, and we feel the strength and power of his noble spirit 
in the un-upbraiding devoteduess of his passion. — Wil- 
son.] 

4 [" My mind like theirs adapted to its grave."— IMS. ] 

6 [" Nor do I lament," wTote Tasso, shortly after his con- 
finement, "that my heart is deluged with almost constant 
misery, that my head is always heavy and often painful, 
that my sight and hearing are much impaired, and that all 
my frame is become spare and meager; but, passing alj 
this with a short sigh, what I would bewail is the infirmity 
of my mind. My mind sleeps, not thinks ; my fancy is chill, 
and forms no pictures; my negligent senses will no lorger 
furnish the images of things ; my hand is slu-ggish in wnliihg, 
and my pen seems as if it shrunk from the office. I feel as 
if I were chained in all my operations, and as if I were over- 
come by an unwonted numbness and oppressive stupor — 
Ojperc, t. viii. p. 258.1 



490 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

I caLO was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 

My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 

My train against these bars, as the sun flash'd 

In mockery through them ; — If I bear and bore 

The much I have recounted, and the more 

Which hath no words, — 'tis that I would r.ot die 

And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 

Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame 

Stamp Madness deep into my memory, 

And woo Compassion to a blighted name. 

Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 

No — it shall be immortal I — and I make 

A future temple of my present cell. 

Which nations yet shall visit for my sake.* 

While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 

The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, 

And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearlhless halls, 



A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, — 

A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 

While strangers wonder o'er ♦by unpeopled walls !* 

And thou, Leonora ! — thou — who wert ashamed 

That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 

Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed 

By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 

A taint of that he would impute to me — 

From long infection of a den like this. 

Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss, 

Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 

And battlements which guard his joyous hours 

Of banquet, dance, ano -evel, are forgot, 

Or left uniended in a dull .-epose, 

This — this — shall be a consecrated spot ! 

But thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throws 

Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 

One half the laurel which o'ershatles my grave.' 

No power in death can tear our names apart, 

As none in life could rend thee froin my heart. 

Yes, Leonora ! it ihall be our fate 

To be entwined forever — but too late !* 



ODE ON VENICE.^ 



Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
Wiiat should thy sous do? — any thing but weep 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers — as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep, 
Is with the dasliing of the spring-tide foam, 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are they to those that were ; and thus they creep, 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. 
Oh ! agony — that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest I Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 



1 [" Which I "ft,er"days I ^^^^^ "^^^^ ^^^ ""^ sake."— MS.] 

2 [Those who indulge in the dreams of earthly retribution 
will observe, that the cruelty of Alfonso was not left wifhuut 
its recompense, even in his own person. He survived Ihe 
affection of his subjects and of his dependants, who deserted 
him at his death ; and suffered his body to be interred with- 
out princely or decent honors. His last wishes were neg- 
lected ; his testament cancelled. His kinsman, Don Cajsar, 
shrank from the excommunication of the Vatican, and, after 
c short struggle, or rather suspense, Ferrara passed away for- 
e.cr from the dominion of the house of Este. — Hobhouse.] 

3 [In July, 15S6, after a confinement of more than seven 
years, Tasso was released from his dungeon. In the hopfe of 
receiving his mother's dowry, and of again beholding his sis- 
ter Cornelia, he shortly after visited Naples, where his pres- 
ence was welcomed with every demonstration of esteem and 
admiration Beingon a visit at Mola di Gaeta, he received the 
following remarkable tribute of respect. Marco diSciarra, the 
notorious captain of a numerous troop of banditti, hearing 
"^•here the great poet was, sent to compliment him, and of- 
fered him not only a free passage, but protection by the way, 
and assured him that he and his followers would be proud 
to execute his oiders. See Manso, Vita del Tasso, p. 219.] 

* [The " pleajures of imagination" have been explained 



And every monument the stranger meets, 

Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 

And even the Lion all subdued appears, 

And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, 

With dull and daily dissonance, repeats 

The echo of thy tyrant's voice along 

The soft waves, once all musical to song. 

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 

Of gondolas — and to the busy hum 

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 

Were but the overheating of the heart. 

And flow of too much happiness, which needs 

The aid of age to turn its course apart 

From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 

Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. 

But these are better than the gloomy errors, 

The weeds of nations in their last decay, 



and justified by Addison in prose, and by Akenside in verse ; 
but there are moments of real life when its miseries and its 
necessities seem to overpower and destroy them. The his- 
tory of mankind, however, furnishes proofs that no bodily 
suffering, no adverse circumstances, operating on our ma- 
terial nature, will extinguish the spirit of imagination. Per- 
haps there is no instance of this so very affecting and so very 
sublime as the case of Tasso. They who have seen the dark, 
horror-striking dungeon-hole at Ferrara, in which he was 
confined seven years under the imputation of madness, will 
have had*this truth impressed upon their hearts in a manner 
never to be erased. In this vault, of which 1 he sight makes 
the hardest heart shudder, the poet employed hunself in fin- 
ishing and correcting his immortal epic poem. Lord Byron's 
" Lament" on this subject is as sublime and profound a les- 
son in morality, and in the pictures of the recesses of the 
human soul, as it is a production most eloquent, most pa- 
thetic, most vigorous, and most elevating among tlie gifts 
of the Muse. The bosom which is not touched with it— 
the fancy which is not warmed,— the understanding which 
is not enlightened and exalted by it, is not (it for human in- 
tercourse. If Lord Byron had written nothing but this, to 
deny him the praise of a grand poet wouUl have been fla- 
grant injustice or gross stupidity.— Brydges.] 

6 I This Ode was transmitted from Venice, in 1819, a.or;g 
with " Mazeppa."] 



ODE ON VENICE. 



491 



"When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors. 

And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 

And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 

The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 

When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 

Of tho cold staggering race which Death is winning, 

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 

Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay. 

To him appears renewal of his breath, 

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; — 

And then he talks of life, and how again 

Ke feels his spirits soaring — albeit weak, 

And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 

And as he whispers knows not that ho gasps. 

That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 

And so the film comes o'er him — and the dizzy 

Chamber swims round and round — and shadows busy. 

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 

Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 

And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 

That which it was the moment ero our birth. 

II. 

There is no hope for nations I — Search the page 

Of many thousand years — the daily scene. 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to be which hath been, 
Hath taught us naught or little : still we lean 
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with the air; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order — they must go [slaughter. 
Even where their driver goads them, though to 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water. 
What have they given your children in return? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. 
What ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal. 
And deem this proof of loyaltj' the real ; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths i/.' free, and History of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme I — Ye see and read, 
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed ! 
Save the few spirits, who, despite of all. 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd. 
Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the crowd, 
Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore, — in which long yoked they plough'd 
The sand, — or if there sprung the yellow grain, 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much bow'd, 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes ! the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a terra, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair tho blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 



Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

III. 

Glory and Empire . once upon these towers 

With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate I 
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 
But did not quench, her spirit — in ht-r fate 
All were cnwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they humbled — with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
She was tho voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order — born of Love, 
She drank -ao blood, nor fatten'd on the dead. 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For tliese restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Which, if it waned and dwindled. Earth may thank 
The city it has clothed in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The name of Freedom to her glorious straggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common wo, 
And call'd the " kingdom" of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, we know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

IV. 

The name of Commonwealth is pass'd and gone 
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe ; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown, 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime. 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
Bequoath'd — a heritage of heart and hand, 
And proud distinction from each other land, 
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublinie, 
Above the far Atlantic I — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. 
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag. 
May strike to those whose red right hands have bought 
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. — Still, still, forever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river. 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains. 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltering : — better oe 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the ocean add, 
One spirit to the souls our fathers had, 
One freeman more, America, to thee I 



492 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE 



OF PULCJ.» 



ADVERTISEMENT 

The Morgaiite Ma^giore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides A'ith the Orlando 
Innamorato the honor of having formed and sug- 
gested the style and stor}' of Ariosto. The great 
defects of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the 

1 [Tlie following translation was executed at Ravenna in 
February, 1820, and first saw the li^lit in the pages of the 
unfortunate journal called *' The Liberal." The merit of 
it, a*) Lord Byron over and over states in his letters, consists 
in the wonderful vcrbum pro verba closeness of the version. 
It WA^, in fact, an exercise of skill in this art, and cannot 
be fairly estimated, without continuous reference to the 
original Italian, which the reader will therefore now find 
placed opposite to the text. Those who want full informa- 
tion, and clear philosophical views, as to the origin of the 
Romantic Poetry of the Italians, will do well to read at 
length an article on that subject, from the pen of the late 
Ugo Foscolo, in the forty-second number of the Quarterly 
Review We extract from it the passage in which that 
learned writer applies himself more particularly to the 
Morgante of Pulci. After sh')wing that all the poets of this 
class adopted as the groundwork of their fictions, the old 
wild materials which had for ages formed the stock in trade 
of the professed story-tellers,— in those days a class of per- 
sons holding the same place in Christendom, and more es- 
pecially in Italy, which their brothers still maintain all over 
the East,— Foscolo thus proceeds : — 

**The customary forms of the narrwtive all find a place in romantic 
poetry : such are llie sententious reflections sufcgesied by the matters which 
he has Jusr related, or arising- in anticipation ot thoee which he is about to 
rebate, and which the story-teller' always opens when he resumes his recita- 
tions: his defence of his own merits ajg-ainst the attacks of rivals in trade; 
and his tbrmal leave-takings when he parts from his audience, and invites 
them to meet him ag-ain on the morrow. This method of winding up each 
portion of the puem is a favorite amnnor the romajitic poets; who constantly 
finish their cantos with a distich, of which the words may vary, but the sense 
is uniform. 

* Air altro canto ve fard sentiro, 
Se all' altro canto mi verrele a udire.'— -4no*ro. 
Or at the end of another oanto, according '.o Harrington's translation,— 
' I now cut off abruptly hcc" my rhyme. 
And keep my tale unlo ujiother inne.' 
•'The,forms and materials of thes? popular stories were adopted by wri- 
ters of a' superior class, who consider-d the vuJorar tales of 'heir oredecessora 
as blocks of marble finely tinted anl variegated by the liand of nature, bnt 
which mi^hi afTord a masterpiece, when tastefully worked and polished. 
The romantic: poets treated the traditionary fictions just as Dante did the 
legends invented by the monks to maintain their mastery over weak minds, 
lie formed them nuo a poem, which became the admiration of every age and 
nation; but Oante and Petrarca were poets, who, though universally cele- 
brated,* were not universally understood. The learned found employment in 
WTitin-r commeius upon their poems: but the nation, without even except- 
ing llie higher ranks, knew them only by name. At the beginning of the 
fitTeenth century, a few obscure authors began to write romances in prose 
and in rhyme, taking for their subject the wars of Charlemaoriie and Orlando, 
or sometimes the adventures of Arthur and the Knights of tne Round Table. 
These works were so pleasing, that they were rapidly multiplied : but the 
bards of romance caretl little about style oi T»Tsificaiion,— they sought for 
.' adventures, and enchantments, and miracles. We here obtain at least a 
partiai explanation of t!ie rapid decline of Italian poetry, and the amazing 
corruption of the Italian I'v.iguage, which took place immediate.*!" alter the 
death of Petrarch, and 'I'b',:^ proceeded from bad to worse unti. the era of 
Lorenzo dc' Medici. 

»'lt was then that Pulci composed his Morgante for the amusement of 
Madonna Lucrezia, the mother of Lorenzo ; and he used to recite it at table 
to Ficmo, and Politian, and Lorenzo, and the other illustrious characters 
who then flourished at Florence: yet Pulci adhered strictly to the original 
plan of the popular story-tellers; and if his successors have embellished 
them 80 that they can scarcely be recognised, it is certain that in no other 
poem can they be found so genuine and native as in the Morgante. Pulci 
accommodated himself, though sportively, to the genius of his age; classical 
taste and sound criticism beg-an to prevail, and gieat endeavors were making 
by the learned to separate historical truth from the chaos of fable and tra- 
dition, so that, though Pulci introduced the most extravagant fables, he 
affected to complain of the errors of his predecessors. *I grieve,' he said, 
M'or my emperor Charlemagne: for 1 see that his history has been bndly 
Tririt*.en ind worse understood.* 

*E del mio Carlo imperado^ m' increbbe; 
E' staia questa isioria, a quel ch io veggiij, 
Vi Carlo, ma^e intesa e scritta peggic* 

■ And whilst he quotes the "reat historian Leonardo Arelir.o with respeci, 
fcc professes ;o believe the autlonty of the holy A.rchbishop Turnin, wVo is 
^eo one of ';J2 heroes cf the j oem. In another passage, where he imitates 
the apologit- of the siory-'.elle e, he makes a neat allusion to the taste of his 
audicni:.c, *I know,' he sr.ys, that I must proceed straightforward, end 
not tcU a siagle lie iu the coarse of my tale. This is not a story of mere in- 



narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style Ariofeto, 
m his continuation, by a judicious mixture of t.h6 
gayety of Pulci, has avoided the one; and Bej.ii, in 
his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has corrected the 
other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor 
and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly been 
to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He 



vention : and if I go one sUj out of the right road, one ihastjses, anothlr 
criticises, a third scolds— they try to drive me mad— but i.i fact they are out 
of their senses.' 

* Pulci's versification is remarkably fluenl. Yet he is deficient in melody ; 

■ ' '" pure, and his expressions flow liiLturally ; but his phrases are 

d lie frequencly writes untj-rammatically. His 

enerates into hs-shneEs; and his love of brevity f,revents the de- 

lopment of his poet.', t .j'agerV He bears all the marks of rude genius 



hi3la..„ ... 

abrupt tnd unconnected. 



wascapalile of delicate pieasararj' yet his smdes are usually bitter and 
ere. His humor never arises from jxmts, but from unexpected situations 



trongly contrasted. The Emperor Charlemagne stnt 
of Spain to be lianged for high treason ; and Archbishop Torpiu kindly offoi 
bis services ou the 



*E* disse: lovo', Marsilio, che tu i^ucjc 
Dove In ordinasti il iradimento. 
Disse Turpino : Io voglio fare il boja. 
Carlo rispose: Ed io son ben contento 
Che sia trattato di quesii due cani 
L' opera santa ccui le sanie majii.* 
"Here wc have an emperor superintending the execution cf a kine, who 
is hanged in the presence of a vast multitude, all of whom are greiitly edi- 
fied at beholding an archbishop officiating in the character of a finisher of 
the law. Before this adventure took place, Caradoro had desf atchijd ar am- 
bassador Io the emperor, complaining of the shameful cond-ict of ft wicked 
Paladin, who had seduced the princess his daughter. The orator Joes not 
present himself with modern diplomatic courtesy. 

• Macon t' abbatta come traditore, 
O disleale e ingiusto imperadore ! 

A Caradoro h slato scritto, O Carlo, 
O Carlo : O Carlo ' (e crollava la testa) 
De la tua corte, che non puoi negarlo, 
De la sua figlia cosa disonesta.' 

"* O Charles,' he cried, * Charles, Charles!'— and Q3 he cried 
He shook his head—' a sad complaint I bring 
Of shameful acts which cannot be denied* . 
King Caradore has ascertained the thing. 
Which comes moreover proved and verified 
By letters from your own side of the water 
Respecting the behavior of his daughter.' 

" Such scenes may appear somewhat strange ; but Caradoro's embassy^ 
and the execution of King Marsilius, are loTd in strict conformity to tho 
notions of the common people, and as they must still be described if we 
wished to imitate the popular Btory-tellers. If Pulci be occasionally re- 
fined and delicate, his snatches nf amenity resulted from the national char- 
acter of the Florentines, and the revival of letters. But at the same time, 
we must trace to national character, and to the influence of his daily com- 
panions, the bufl'oonery which, in the opinion of foreigners, frequently dis- 
graces the poem. M. Ginguene has criticised Pulci in the usual style of hij 
countrymen. He attributes modern manners to .ancient times, and takes 
it for granted that the individuals of every olhtr nation think and act like 
modern Frenchmen. On these principles, he concludes that Pulci, bo»h 
with respect to his subject and to hij mode of treating it, intended only to 
write burlesque poetry; because, as he says, such buffoonery could not 
have been introduced into a composition recited to Lorenzo de' Medici and 
his enlightened quests, if the author had intended to be in earnest. In the 
fine portrait of Lorenzo given by Machiavelli at the end of his Florentine 
history, the historian complains that he took more pleasure in the company 
of jesters and buffoons than beseemed such a man. It is a little singular 
that Benedetto Varchi, a contemporary historian, makes the same com- 
plaint of Machiavelli himself. Indeed, many known anecdotes of Michia- 
velli, no less than his I'ugitive pieces, prove "that it was only when he was 
acting the statesman that he wished to be grave ■ and that he could laugh 
like other men when he laid aside his dignity. We do not think he waa 
in the wrong. But, whaiever opinion may be formed on the subject, wc 
shall yet be forced to conclude that great men may be compelled to blamo 
the manners of their times, without being able to withstand their influenca 
In other respects, the poem of Pulci is serious, both in subject and in tone. 
And here we shall repea: a general ooservation, which we advise our oader* 
to apply to all the romantic poems of the Italians — That their coin jc 'rsmor 
arises from the contrast between the constant endeavors of the taritej to ad- 
here Io theforms and subjects of the popular stOTy-telkrs, and the effortc 
made at the same time by the genius of these writers to render such mctteriaU 
interesting and sublime. 

"This simple elucidation of the causes of the poetica character of ihs 
Morgante has been overlooked by the critics; and they have thercfoie Iiq- 
puled with great earnestness during the last two centuries, whether tho 
Moro-ante is written in jest or earnest; and whether Pulci is not Ka 
ptheTst, wlio wrote in verse' for the express purpose of scoffing at all religxn. 
Mr. ..leriva/'e iiiciines, in his Orlando in Ronce»valles, tfi the opinion of 
M. Ginguene, that the Morgante ie decidedly to tie considereJ a& a bur- 
lesque poemi Liid a satire Lgainst the Christian religion. Yet Mr. Meri- 
vale hiir.seif acknowledges thtt it is wound up wi'.h a tragical effect, ar.d 
dignified by religious sentiment- and is therefore forced to • lecve the 
question amongst the unexplained, and perhaps inexplicable, phenomena 
of the human mind.' If a similar question hao not been clrcady decided, 
both in regard to Shakspeare and to Ariosto, il might be stil. 2,Vubje:-t of 
dispute wnether the former intended to write tragedies, uiCt vcacuiei the 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



493 



is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very 
lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of 
the ingenious Wliistlecraft. The serious poems on 
Roncesvalles in the same language, and more par- 
ticularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be 
traced to the same source. It has never yet been de- 
cided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or was 
not to deride the religion which is one of his favorite 
topics. It appears to me, that such an intention 
would have been no less hazardous to the poet than to 
the priest, particularly in that age and country ; and 
the permission to publish the poem, and its reception 
among the classics of ialy, prove that it neither was 
nor is so interpreted That he intended to ridicule 
the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play 
with the simple dulness of his converted giant, seems 
evident enough ; but surely it were as unjust to ac- 
cuse Wim of irreligion on this account, as to denounce 
Fieldiu*, for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, 
Supple^ and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or 
Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in the 
"Tales of my Landlord." 

Ill the following translation I have used the liberty 
of the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses 
Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or 
Carlomauo ; Rondel, or Rondello, &-c., as it suits his 
convenience ; so has the translator. In other respects 



other did not mean to burlesque his heroes. It is a happy thing- that, with 
reg-ard to those two great writers, the war has ended by the forlunate inter- 
renlion of ihe g-eneral body of readers, who, on such occasions, form their 
hid^ment with less eriiduioii and with lets prejudice than the critics. 
But Pulci is little read, and his ag-e is little known. We are tuld by 
Mr. Merivale, that * the points of abstruse theolog-y are discussed in the 
Morg'aute with a deofree ofskeptica! freedom which we should ima^itie to be 
altogether remote from the spirit of the fifteenth century.' Mr. Merivale 
follows M. Gni^uene, who follows Voltaire. And the philosopher of Ferr.ey, 
who was always beating" up in all quarters for allies against Christianity, col- 
lected all the scriptural passages of Pulci, upon which he commsr.ted in his 
own WAV. But it is only since the Council of Trent, that any doubt which 
mig-ht be raised on a religious dogma exposed an author to the charge of 
impiety wiiilst, in the fifteenth century, a Catholic might be sincerely 
devout, and yet allow himself a certain degree of laliiude in theological 
doubt. At one and the same time the Floreii'.ines might well believe in 
the Gospel and laugh at a doctor of divinity, fcr it was exactly at this 
era that they had been spectators of the memorable controversies between 
the representatives of the eastern and western churches. Greek and Latin 
bishops from ever^ corner of Christendom had assembled at Florence for 
the purpose of trying whether they could possibly understand each other; 
and wlien they separated, they haled each other worse than before. At the 
very time when Pulci was composing his Morgante, the clero^y of Florejice 
protested against the excommunications pronounced by Sixtus iV,, and 
with expressions by wliich his holiness was anathematized in his turn. 
During" these proceedings, an archbishop, convicted of beluga papal emis- 
sary, was hanged from one of the windows of the government palace at 
Florence: this event may have suggested to Pulci the idea of converting 
onoiher archbishop into a hangman. Tlie romantic poets substituted 
literary and scientific observations for the trivial digressions of the story- 
tellers. This was a great improvement; and although it was not welt 
managed by Pulci, yet he presents us witli much curious incidental matter. 
In quoting his pliilosophical friend and contemporary Matteo Palmieri, he 
explains ttie instinct ot brutes by a bold hypothesis — he supposes that they 
i.ie animated by evil spirits. This idea gave no oflence to the theologians 
of the fifteenth century ; but it excited much orthodox indignation when 
Fatlter Bougeant, a French monk, broug"ht it forward as a new theory of 
his own. Mr. Merivale, after observing that Pulci died before ihe discovery 
of America by Columbus, quotes a passag'e * wliich will become a very in- 
teresting document for the philosophical historian.' We give it in his prose 
translation :— *The water is level through its whole extent, although, like thi 
earth, it has the form of a °:lobe. Mankind in those ages were much mor 
ignorant than now. Hercules would blueh at this day for having fixed his 
columns. Vessels will soon pass far beyond them. They may soon reach 
another hemisphere, because every thing tends to its centre ; in like manner 
as, by a divine mystery, the earth is suspended in the midst, of the starsj here 
below art' cities and empires, which were ancient. The inhabitants ot those 
regions wpre called Antipodes. They have plants and animals as well as 
you, and wage wars us well as you.* — Morgante^ c. xxv. st. 229, &.c. 

"The more we consider the traces of ancient science, which break in 
transient flashes through the darkness of the middle ages, and which grad- 
ually reilluminated the horizon, the more shall we be disposed to adopt 
the hypothesis suggested by Bailly, and supported by him with seductive 
eloquence. He maintained that all the acquirements of the Greeks and 
Romans had been transmitted to them as the wrecks and fragments of the 
knowled»"e once possessed by primtcval nations, by empires of sages and 
philosophers, who were afterwards swept from the face of the globe by 
some overwhelming- catastrophe. His theory may be considered as ex- 
travagant ; but if tlie'literary productions of the Romans were not yet ex- 
tant. It would seem incredible, that, after the lapse of a few centuri<?s, the 
civilization of the Augustan age could have been succeeded in Italy by such 
barbarity. The ItaUans were so ignorant, that they forgot their family 
names ; and before the eleventh century individuals were known only by 
their Christian names. They had an indistinct idea, in the middle a£:es, of 
the existence of the antipodes ; but it was a reminiscence of ancient know- 
ledge. Dante has indicated the number and position of the stars composing 
the polar constellation of the Austral hemisphere. At the same time he tells 
U8, that wlicn Lucifer was hurled from the celestial regions, the archdevil 
Utiisfi^ed the gbb£; half his body remained an our side of tho ccutre of the 



the version is faithful to the best of tho translator's 
ability in combining his interpretation of the ono 
lancruage with the not very easy task of reducing it 
to tlie same versification in the other. The reader, 
on comparing it with the original, is requested to 
remember that tno antiquated language of Pulci, 
however pure, is not easy to the generality of Italians 
themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan prov- 
erbs ; and he may therefore be more indulgent to the 
present attempt. Hoff far the translator has suc- 
ceeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was 
induced to make the experiment partly by his lovo 
for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, 
of which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, 
and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreign- 
er to become accurately conversant. The Italian 
language is Ike a capricious beauty, who accciJs her 
smiles to all, her favors to few, and sometimes least to 
those who have courted her longest. T; c translator 
wished also to present in an English dress a part at 
least of a poem never yet rendered iuU a ^ ^ -thern 
language ; at the same time that it has been the 
original of some of the most celebrated productions on 
this side of the Alps, as well as of those recent ex- 
periments in poetry in England which have been al- 
ready mentioned. 



earth, and half on the other aide. The shock given to the earth by his fp.ll 
drove a great portion of the waters of the ocean to tlie southern hemisphere, 
and only one high mountain rem.ained uncovered, upon which Dante places 
his purgatory. As the fall of Xucifer happened before the creation of 
Adam, it is evident that Dante did not admit that the soutliern hemisphere 
had ever been inhabited ; but, about thirty years afterwards, Petrarch, who 
was better versed in the ancient writers, ventured to hint that the suij shona 
upon mouals who were unknown to us. 

*Nella stagion che il ciel rapido inchiua 
Vers' occidente, e che il di noslro vela 
A gftiite che di Ik fc-se 1* aspetta.* 
•* In the course of half a century after Petrarch, another step was gained. 
The existence of the antipodes was fully demonstrated. Pulci raises a devil 
to announce the fact; but it had been taught to him by his fellow-citisfin 
Paolo Toscanelli, an excellent astronomer and mathematician, who wrote in 
his old age to Christopher Columbus, exhorting him to undertake his expe- 
dition. A few stanzas have been translated by Mr. Merivale, with some 
sliglit variations, which do not wTong the original. They may be considored 
as a specimen of Pulci's poetry, when he writes with imagination and feel- 
ing. Orlando bids fajrewell to his dying horse. 

•His faithful steed, that long had served him well 
In peace and war, now closed his languid eye, 
KneelM at his feet, and seemM to say, * Farewell ! 
I've brought thee to the destined port, and die.* 
Orlando lelt anew his sorrows swell 
When he beheld his Bhgliadoro lie 
StretchM on the field, that crystal fount beside, 
Stili'en'd his limbs, and cold his warlike pride - 

And, *0 my much-loved steed, my ff-eneruU£ friend, 
Companion of my better years I' lie said; 
* And have I lived to see so sad an end 
Of all thy toils, and thy brave spirit fiea. 
O pardon me, if e'er I did offend 
Wuh hasty wrong that mild and faithful head I'— 
Just then, his eyes a momentary light 
Flash'd quick;— then closed again in endless night.' 
" When Orlando is expiring- on the field of battle, an ang-cl de^ceusd *ft 
hira, and promises that Alda his wife shall join him in para.a'.se. 

* Bright with ctarnal youth and fadeless blooin, 
Thine Aldabella thou shalt behold once ir-orc. 
Partaker of a bliss beyond the tomb 

With her whom Sinai's holy hills adore, 
Crown'd with fresh flowers, whose co.or and perfuuo 
Surpass what Spring's rich bosom ever bore— 
Thy mourning widow here she will remain. 
And be in Heaven thy joyful spouse again.' 
"Whilst the soul of Orlando was soaring' to heaven, a soft and piatndve 
strain was heard, and angelic voices joined in celestial harmony. Tliey sanff 
the psalm. ' When Israel went out of Kgypt;* and the singers were known 
to ' i angels from the trembling of their wings. 

• Poi si senti con un suon dolce e fioco 
Certa armonia con si soavi accenti 
Che ben parea d* angelici stromenti. 

* -f * * * * 

* In exitu Israel, cantar, de JEgypto^ 
Sentito fu dagli angeli solenne 

Che si coiiobbe al tremolar le penue.* 
" Dante has inserted passages from the Vulgate m his Divina Commedia; 
and Petrarch, the most religious of poets, quotes Scripture even whea ha 
is courting. Yet they were not accused of impiety. Neither did Pulci ir.cur 
ihe danger of a posthumous excommunication until after the Refonnation, 
when Plus V. (a Dominican, who was turned into a saint by a subsequent 
pope) promoted the welfare of holy mother church b- i-urning a few wicked 
books, and hanfj-ing a few troublesome a:uliiors. The notion thai Pulci TTia 
in tlie odor of nei-sy Influenced the ocir.icr c*' Milton. T^*ho only speaks of the 
Morgante as a 'sforlful romance Milton was anxi 



anxiouf to pruvo iDot 



494 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IL MOHGANTE MAGGIORE. 



CANTO FRIMO. 



In priiicipio era il Verbo appresso a Dio ; 
Ed era Iddio il Verbo, e 'I Verbo lui : 
Questo era iiel principio, al parer mio ; 
E nulla si puo far sanza cestui : 
Pert), giusto Signer benigno e pio, 
Mandami solo un de gli angeli tiii, 
Che m' accompagni, e rechimi a memoria 
Una famosa antica e degna etoria. 

II. 

E tu Vergine, figlia, e madre, e sposa 
Di quel Signer, che ti dette le chiave 
Del cielo e dell' abisso, e d' ogni cosa, 
Quel di che Gabriel tuo ti disse Ave ! 
Perche tu so' de' tuo' servi pietesa, 
Con doice "-'me, e stil grato e soave, 
Ajuta i vrn miei benignamente, 
E 'nfiae al fine allumina la mente. 

III. 

Era nel tempo, quando Filemena 
Con la sorella si lamenta e plora, 
Che si ricorda di sua antica pena, 
E pe' boschetti le ninfe innamora 
E Febo il carro temperate mena, 
Che '1 sue Fetonte 1' ammaestra ancera ; 
Ed appariva appunte all' orizzonte, 
Tal die Titen si graffiava la frente. 

IV. 

Quand' io varai la mia barchetta, prima 
Per ubbidir chi sempre ubbidir debbe 
La mente, e faticarsi in prosa e in rima, 
E del mio Carlo Imperador m' increbbe ; 
Che so qnanti la penna ha pesto in cima, 
Che tutti la sua gloria prevarrebbe : 
E stata ouella isteria, a quel ch' i' veggie, 
Di Carlo male intesa, e scritta peggio. 

V. 

Diceva gia Lionardo Aretine, 

■ Che s' eijli avesse avute scritter degno, 
Com' egli ebbe un Ormanue il suo Pipino 
Ch' avesse diligenzia avuto o ingegno ; 
Sarebbe Carlo Magne un uem divine ; 
Per5 ch' egli ebbe gran vitterie e regno, 
E foce per la chiesa e per la fede 
Certe assai piu, che uen si dice o crede. 



Catholic writers had ridiculed popish divines, and that the Bible had been 
subjected lo privaie jtul^rment, notwithstanding the popes had prohibited 
the reading of it. His artlor did not allow him lo stop and examine whether 
this prohibition mi^iii not be posterior to the deatli of Pulci. Milton had 
studied Pulci lo idvania^e. The knowledg-e which he ascribes to his devils, 
their despairing lepeniance, the lutly senliments which he bestows upon 
some of them, and, above all, the jirinciple that, notwithstanding their 
crime and its p.ini>l"nenr, thev retain the erandpurand perfection of angelic 
' ' ' " well as in the i'araUise tost, 

■res. When great poets bor- 
iius, they iurn their acquisitions to suth ad- 
detect their thefts, and still more difficult to 



natu 



m the Mors 
nilaled utile 



Ariosio and Tasso nave ir 
row from their infenoi 3 m 
vantage that it is difficult 
blame thein. 

"The poem is filled with kings, knights, giants, and devils. There are 
many battles and many duels. Wars rise out of wars, and empires are 
conquered in a day. Pulci treats us with plenty of mug c and c:icliantnient. 
His love adventures arc not peculiarly interesting; and, with the excep- 
tion of four or live leading personages, his characters are of no moment. The 
table- turns wholly upon the hatred which Gaiiellon, the felon knight of 
Magan:a, bears towards Oilando and the rest of the Christian Paladins. 
Charlemaj;ne is easily practised upon by Gaiiellon, his prime confidant and 
man of business. So lie treats Orlando and his friends in the most scurvy 
manner imaginable, and sends them out to hard service in the wars against 
tVcncc. Gandlon is dispatched to Spain to treat with King Marsilius, 
tfiijig td«> iueuriiCted to obtain the cession cf a kingdom for Orlando ; but 



THE MORGANTE MAGGIOKE. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 



In the begii'.ning was the Word next God ; 

God was the Wcrd, the Word no less was he: 
This was in the beginning, to my mode 

Of thinking, and wiinout him naught could be : 
Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 
One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 

IL 

And lacu, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and every thing beside. 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail !" to theo, 

Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied. 

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind, 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

IIL 

'Twas in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 

Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
And makes the nymphs enamor'd, to the hand 

Of Phaeton by Phoebus loved so well 

His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow 

IV. 

^Vhen I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind. 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Empejor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his gleiy were inclined, 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly, and wrote woise. 



Leonardo Aretino said already, 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter ; 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter. 
Who for the church and Christian faith had wrought, 
Certes, far more than yet is said or thought. 



he concerts a treacherous device with the Spaniards, and Orlando ia ktlleii 
at the battle of Roncesvalles. The intrigues of Ganeilon, bis spile, his 
patience, his obslinacv, his dis,«imulation, his affected humility, an.l his in- 
exhaustible powers of' iiungiie, are admirably depicted; and his character 
constitutes the chief and finest feature in the poem. Charlemagne ia a 
worthy monarch, but easily gulled. Orlando is a real hero, chaste and dis- 
interested, and who fights in good earnest for the propagation of the failli. 
He baptizes the giant Morganie, who afterwards serves him like a faithful 
squire. There is another giaul, whose name is Margutte. Morgant? fall* 
In with Margutte; and they become sworn brothers Margutle is a very in- 
fidel giant, ready 10 confess his failin°rs> and full of drollery. He seta all 
a-langhing, readers, giants, devils, ana heroes- auil he finishes tis caixi by 
laughing till he bursts."] 

I ["About the Morgante Maggiore, I won't have a .Ine 
omilted. It may circulate or it may not, but all the (criticism 
on earth shan't touch a line, unless it be because it is badly 
translated. New you say, and I say, and others say, that 
the translation is a gootl one, and so it shall go to press as 
it is. Pulci must answer f jr his own irreligion : I answer 
for the translation only." — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, 1820. — 
" Why don't you publish my Pulci,— the best thing I ever 
wrote."— i6. 1821.] 



MORGANTE 


MAGGIORE. 495 


VI. 


VL 


Guardisi ancora a sail Liberatore 


You still may see at Saint Liberatore 


Quella badia 1&. presso a Manoppello, 


The abbey, no great way from Manopell, 


Giu ne gli Abbruzzi fatta per suo onore, 


Erected in the Abruzzi to his glory, 


Dove fu la battaglia e 'I gran flaggello 


Because of the great battle in which fell 


D' un re pagan, che Carlo imperadore 


A pagan king, according to the story, 


Uccise, e tanto del suo popol fello : 


And felon people whom Charles sent to hell : 


E vedcsl tanto ossa, e tanto il sanno, 


And there are bones so many, and so many, 


Che tutte in Giusaffa poi si vedranno. 


Ne|ir them GiusafFa's would seem few, if any. 


VII. 


vn. 


Ma il mondo cieco e ignorante uon prezza 


But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 


Le sue virtii, com' io vorrei vedere: 


His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 


E tu, Fiorenza, de la sua grandezza 


Florence, by his great bounty don't arise. 


Possiedi, e sempre potrai possedere 


And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 


Ogni costume ed ogni gentilezza 


All proper customs and true courtesies: 


Cite si potesse aquistare o avere 


Whate'er thou hast acquired from them till now 


Col senno col tesoro o con la lancia 


With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance. 


Dal nobil sangue e venuto di Francia. 


Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 


VIII. 


vin. 


Dodici paladini aveva in corte 


Twelve palaan.s nad Charles in court, of whor.i 


Carlo ; e '1 piu savio a famoso era Orlando 


The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 


Gan traditor lo condusse a la morte 


Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 


In Roncisvalle un trattato ordinando ; 


In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd too. 


La, dove il corno son6 tanto forte 


While the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 


Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando 


Of their sad rout, though he did all knight can do ; 


Ne la sua commedia Dante qui dice, 


And Dante in his comedy has given 


E mettelo con Carlo in ciel felice. 


To him a happy seat with Charles in heaven. 


IX. 


IX. 


Era per Pasqua quella di natale : 


'Twas Christmas day ; in Paris all his court 


Carlo la corte avea tutta in Parigi: 


Charles held ; the chief, I say, Orlando was, 


Orlando, com' io dico, il principale 


The Dane ; Astolfo there too did resort, 


Evvi, il Danese, Astolfo, e Ansuigi: 


Also Ansuigi, the gay time to pass 


Fannosi feste e cose trionfale, 


In festival and in triumphal sport. 


E molto celebravan San Dionigi ; 


The much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause; 


Angiolin di Bajona, ed Ulivieri 


Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 


V era venuto, e '1 gentil BerlinghierL 

t 


And gentle Belinghieri too came there : 


X. 

Eravi Avolio ed Avino ed Ottone, 


X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othono 


Di Normandia, Riccardo Paladino, 


Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 


E '1 savio Namo, e '1 vecchio Salamone, 


Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 


Gualtier da Monlione, e Baldovino 


Walter of Lion's Mount and Baldovin, 


Ch 'era figliuol del tristo Ganellone. 


Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 


Troppo lieto era il figliuol di Pipino; 


Were there, exciting too much gladness in 


Tanto che spesso d' allegrezza genie 


The son of Pepin: — when his knights came hither, 


Veggendo tutti i paladini insieme. 


He groan'd with joy to see them altogether. 


XI. 


XI. 


Ma la Fortuna attenta sta nascosa, 


But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 


Per guastar sempre ciascun nostro eiFetto 


Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring : 


Mentre che Carlo cosi si riposa, 


While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed 


Orlando governava in fatto e in detto 


Orlando ruled court, Charles, and every thing ; 


La corte e Carlo Magno ed ogni cosa: 


Cursed Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 


Gan per invidia scoppia il maladetto, 


To vent his spite, that thus witli Charles the king 


E cominciava un di eon Carlo a dire : 


One day he openly began to say. 


Abbiam noi sempre Orlando ad ubbidire ? 


" Orlando must we always then obey? 


XIL 


XII. 


1 5 ho creduto mille volte dirti : 


" A thousand times I've been about to say. 


Orlando ha in se troppa presunzione : 


Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 


Noi siam qui conti, re, duchi a servirti, 


Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy f way, 


E Namo, Ottone, Uggieri e Salamone, 


Hamo, and Otho, Ogicr, Solomon, 


Per onorarti ognun, per ubbidirti : 


Each have to honor thee and to obey ; 


Che cestui abbi ogni reputazione 


But he has too much credit near the throne. 


Noi sofFerrem ; ma siam deliborati 


Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 


Da un fanciullo uon osser govemati. 


By such a boy to be no longer guided. 



490 BYRON'S 


WORKS. 


XIII. 


XIII. 


Tu cominciasti insino in Aspramoute 


" And even at Aspramont thou didst beghi 


A dargli a iiiteuder che fusse gagliardo, 


To let him know ho was a gallant knight. 


E facesse gran cose a quella fonte ; 


And by the fount did much the day to win ; 


Ma se noil fusso stato il buon Gherardo, 


But I know who that day had won the fight 


lo so che la vittoria era d' Almonte : 


If it had not for good Gherardo been : 


Ma egli ebbe senipre 1' occhio a lo stendardo : 


The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 


Che si voleva quel di coronarlo : 


He kept upon tiio standard, and the laurels 


Questo f) colui ch' ha meritato, Carlo 


In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 


XIV. 


XIV. 


Se ti ricorda giii sendo in Guascogna, 


" If thou rcmemberest being in Gascony, 


Quando e' vi venno la gente di Spagna, 


When there advanced the nations out of Spain, 


11 popol de' cristiani avea vergogna, 


The Christian cause had suffer'd shamefully. 


Se noil mostrava la sua forza magna. 


Hac .loi his valor driven them back again. 


11 ver convien pur dir, quando e' bisogna : 


Best speak the truth when there's a reason why: 


Sappi ch' ognuno imperador si lagna: 


Know then, oh emperor! that all complain: 


Quant' io per me, ripassero que' monti 


As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 


Ch' io passai 'n qua con sesaantaduo conti. 


O'er which I cross'd with two i.nd sixty counts. 


XV. 


XV. 


Ld tua grandezza dispensar si vuole, 


" 'Tis fit thy grandeur should dispense relief. 


E far che ciascun abbi la sua parte : 


So that each here may have his proper part, 


La corte tutta quanta se no duole : 


For the whole court is more or less in grief: 


Tu credi che costui sia forse Marte? 


Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in lieart?" 


Orlando un giorno udi queste parole, 


Orlando one day heard this speech in brief. 


Che si sedeva soletto in disparte : 


As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 


Dispiacquegli di Gan quel che diceva; 


Displeased he was Avith Gan because ho said it. 


Ma molto piii che Carlo gli credeva. 


But much more still that Charles should give him credit 


XVI. 


XVI. 


E voile con la spada uccider Gano ; 


And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 


Ma Uiivieri in quel mezzo si mise, 


But Oliver thrust in between the pair. 


E Durlindana gli trasse di mano, 


And from his hand extracted Durbndan, 


E cosi il me' clie seppo gli divise. 


And thus at length they separated were. 


Orlando si sdegnft con Carlo Mano, 


Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 


E poco men che quivi non 1' uccise ; 


Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 


E dipartissi di Parigi solo, 


Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 


E scoppia e 'mpazza di sdegno e di duolo 


And burst and niadden'd with disdain and grief. 


XVII. 


XVII. 


Ad Ermellina moglie del Dancse 


From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 


Tolse Cortana, e poi tolse Roudello ; 


He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 


E 'n verso Brara il suo cainmin poi prtse. 


And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 


Alda la bella, come vide quelle. 


And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 


Per abbracciarlo le braccia disteso. 


Strctch'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again: 


Orlando, che ismarrito avea il cervello. 


Orlando, in whose brain all was not well. 


Com' ella disso : ben venga il mio Orlando 


As " Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said. 


Gli voile in su la testa dar col brando. 


Raised up his swoid to smite her on the head, 


XVIII. 


XVIII. 


Come colui che la furia consiglia. 


Like him a fury counsels ; his revenge 


Egli pareva a Gan dar veramente: 


On Gan in that rash act ho seem'd to take, 


Alda la bella si fo' maraviglia: 


Which Aldabella thought extremely strange ; 


Orlando si ravvido prestamente : 


But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 


E la sua sposa pigliava la briglia, 


And his spouse took his bridle on this change. 


E sceso dal caval subitamente : 


And ho dismounted from his horse, and spake 


Ed ogni cosa narrava a costei, 


Of every thing which pass'd without demur. 


E riposossi alcun giorno con lei. 


And then reposed himself some days with her. 


XIX 


XIX. 


Poi si parti portato dal furore, 


Then full of wrath departed from the place. 


E termini) passare in Pagania ; 


And far as pagan countries roam'd astray. 


E mentre che cavulca, il traditore 


And while he rode, yet still at every pace 


Di Gan sempre ricorda per la via 


The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 


E cavalcando d' uno in altro errore, 


And wandering on in error a long space. 


In un descrto truova inia badia 


An abbey wliich in a lone desert lay. 


In luoghi oscuri o paesi lontani. 


'Midst glens obscure, and distant lands, he foujid, 


Ch' era a' confiii' tra cristiaui e pagani. 


Which form'd the Christian's and the pagan's bound. 



MORGANTE 


MAGGIORE. 497 


XX 


XX. 


L' abate si chiamava Chiaramonte, 


The abbot was call'd Clermont, and by blood 


Era del saague disceso d' Auglante : 


Descended from Anglanto : under cover 


Di sopra a la badia v' era un gran monte, 


Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 


Dove abitava alcuii fiero gigaiite, 


But certain savage giants look'd him over; 


De' quali uiio avea nomo Passamonte, 


One Passamont was foremost of the brood, 


L' altro Alabastro, e '1 terzo era Morgante . 


And Alabaster and Morgante hover 


Con certe frombe gittavan da alto, 


Second and third, with certain slings, and throw 


Ed ogni di facevan qualche assalto. 


In daily jeopardy the place below. 


XXI. 


XXI. 


I monachetti non potieno usclre 


The monks could pass the convent gate no more, 


Del monistero o per legne o per acque : 


Nor leave their cells for water or for wood ; 


Orlando piechia, e non volieno aprire, 


Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 


Fin che a 1' abate a la fine pur piacque ; 


Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 


Entrato dronto cominciava a dire, 


Enter'd, he «aid that he was taught to adore 


Come colui, che di Maria gii naequo 


Him who ■re.s born of Mary's holiest blood, 


Adora, ed era cristian battezzato, 


And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 


E com' egli era a la badia arrivato. 


How to the abbey he had found his road. 


XXII. 


XXII. 


Disse 1' abate : il ben venuto si a 


Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 


Di quel ch' io ho volentier ti daremo, 


We give you freely, since that you beitve 


Poi che tu credi al figliuol di Maria ; 


With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 


E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo, 


And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 


AcciO che non 1' imputi a villaiiia. 


The cause of our delay to let you in 


Perchfe a 1' entrar resistenza iacemo, 


To be rusticity, you shall receive 


E non ti voile aprir quel monachetto : 


The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 


Cosi intervien chi vive con sospetto. 


Thus those who in suspicion live must do. 


XXIII. 


XXIII. 


Quando ci venni al principio abitare 


" When hither to inhabit first we came 


Queste montagno, bench6 sieno osciire 


These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 


Come tu vedi ; pur si potea stare 


As you perceive, yet without fear or blame 


Sanza sospetto, ch' ell' eran sicure : 


They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 


Sol da le fiere t' avevi a guardare ; 


From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 


Fernoci spesso di brutte paure ; 


'Twas fit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 


Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starei, 


But now, if here we'd stay, we needs must guard 


Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci. 


Against domestic beasts with watch and ward. 


XXIV. 


XXIV. 


Queste ci fan piuttosto stare a segno 


" These make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 


Sonci appariti tre fieri giganti, 


For late there have appear'd three giants rough ; 


Non so di quel paese o di qual regno, 


What nation or what kingdom bore the batch 


Ma molto son feroci tutti quanti : 


I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 


La forza o '1 malvoler giunt' a lo 'ngegno 


When force and malice with some genius match. 


Sai che pu6 '1 tutto ; e noi non siam bastanti ; 


You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 


Questi perturban si 1' orazion nostra. 


And these so much our orisons derange, 


Che non so piu che far, s' altri uol mostra. 


I know not what to do, till matters change. 


XXV. 


XXV. 


Gli antichi padri nostri nel deserto, 


" Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 


Se le lor opre sajite erano e giuste, 


For just and holy works were duly fed ; 


Dbl ben servir da Dio n' avean buon merto ; 


Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 


Nfe credor sol vivessiii di locuste : 


That manna was rain'd down from heaven instead , 


Piovea dal ciel la manna, questo 6 certo ; 


But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in [bread, 


Ma qui convien che spesso assaggi e guste 


Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down for 


Sassi che piovon di sopra quel monte. 


From off yon mountain daily raining faster, 


Che gettano Alabastro e Passamonte. 


And flung by Passamont and Alabaster 


XXVI. 


XXVI. 


E '1 terzo ch b Morgante, assai piii fiero, 


" The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 


Isveglie e pini e faggi e cerri e gli oppi, 


Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 


E gettagli infin qui : questo 6 pur vero ; 


And flings them, our community to bury ; 


Non posso far che d' ira non iscoppi. 


And all that I can do but more provokes." 


Mentre che parlan cosi in cimitero. 


While thus they parley in the cemetery, 


Un sasso par che Rondel quasi sgroppi ; 


A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 


Che da' giganti giii venne da alto 


Which nearly crush'd Roudell, came tumliliug over, 


Tanto, ch' e' prese sotto il tetto un salto. 


So that he took a long leap under cover. 



63 



498 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XXVII. 

Tirati drcnto, cavalier, per Dio, 

Disse r abate, che la manna casca. 
Risponde Orlando : caro abate mio, 
Costiii non vuol che '1 mio caval piu pasca : 
Veggo che lo guarrebbe del restio : 
Quel sasso par che di buon braccio nasca. 
Rispcso 'J aanto padre : io non t' inganno, 
Credo che '1 moute uu giorno gitteranno. 

XXVIII. 

Orlando govemar fece Rondello, 
E ordinar per se da colazione : 
Poi disse : abate, io voglio andare a quelle 
Che dette a! mio caval con quel cantone. 
Disse r abate : come car fratello 
Consiglierotti sanza passione? 

10 ti sconforto, baron, dl tal gita ; 
Ch' io so che tu vi lascerai la vita. 

XXIX. 

Quel Passamonte porta in man ire dardi : 
Chi frombe, chi bastoii, chi muzzafrusti ,' 
Sai che giganti piii di noi gagliardi 
Son per ragion, che son anco piu giusti ; 
E pur se vuoi andar fa che ti guardi, 
Che questi son villan molto e robusti. 
Rispose Orlando : io lo vedrC) per certo ; 
Ed avviossi a pie su pel deserto. 

XXX. 

Disse r abate col segnarlo in fronte : 
Va, che da Dio e me sia benedetto. 
Orlando, poi che salito ebbe il monte. 
Si dirizz5, come 1' abate detto 
Gli avea, dove sta quel Passamonte ; 

11 quale Orlando veggendo soletto, 
Molto lo squadra di drieto e davante ; 
Poi domandO, se star volea per faute ? 

XXXI. 

E' prometteva di farlo godere. 
Orlando disse : pazzo Saracino, 

10 vengo a te, com' 6 di Dio volere, 
Per darti morte, e noa per ragazzino ; 
A' monaci suoi fatto hai dispiacere ; 
Non pu6 piu comportarti can mastino. 
Questo gigante armar si corse a furia, 
Quando senti ch' e' gli diceva iugiuria, 

XXXII. 

E ritomato ove aspettava Orlando, 

11 qual non s' era partito da bomba ; 
Subito venne la corda girando, 

E lascia un sasso andar fuor de la froraba, 

Che in su la testa giugnea rotolando 

Al conte Orlando, e I'.elmetto rimbomba; 

E' cadde per la pena tramortito ; 

Ma piu che morto par, tanto 6 slordito. 

XXXIII. 

Fiissamonte pens6 che fusso morto, 

E disse : io voglio andarmi a disarmare : 
Questo poltron per chi m' aveva scorto? 
Ma Cristo i suoi non suole abbandonare, 
Massimo Orlando, ch' egli arebbe il torto. 
Mentro il gigante 1' arme va a spogllare, 
Orlando in questo tempo si risente, 
E rivocava e la forza e la mente. 



XXVII. 

" For God-sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 

The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried. 
" This fellow does not wish my horse should feed. 

Dear abbot," Roland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim applied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
They'll one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXVIII. 

Orlando bade them take care of Rondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own : 

" Abbot," he said, " I wlU to find that fellow 
Who flung at my good horse yon corner stone." 

Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow , 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from «his strife. 

As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" That Passamont has in his hand three darts 

Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you 
must ; 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just: 

If go you will, guard well against their arts, 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answer'd, " This I'll see, be sure. 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you with God's benison and mine :" 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in tliis design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant, 

Then ask'd him, " If he wish'd to stay as Rervantl*' 

XXXI. 

And promised him an office of great ease 

But, said Orlando, " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as footboy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace 

Vile dog ! 'tis past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious, 
When he received an answer so injurious, 

XXXII. 

And being return'd to where Orlando stood,' 

Who had not moved him from the spot, and swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude^ 
As show'd a sample of his skill in slinging; 

It roll'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 

And head, and set both head and helmet ringing, 

So that he swoon'd with pain as if he died. 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupified 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thought him slain outright, 
Said, " I will go, and while he lies along. 

Disarm me: why such craven did I fight?" 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long. 

Especially Orlando, such a knight, 
As to desert would almost be a wrono-. 

While the giant goes to put off" his defences, 

Orlando has recall'd his force Eind senses : 



XXXIV. 

E jrrid6 forte : gigante, ove vai ? 

Ben ti pensasti d' avermi ammazzato ! 
Volgiti a drieto, che, s' ale non hai, 
Non puoi da me fuggir, can rinnegato : 
A tradimento ingiuriato m' hai. 
Donde il gigante allor maravigliato 
Si volse a drieto, e riteneva il passo ; 
Poi si chinb per tor di terra uu sasso. 

XXXV. 

Orlando avea Cortaua ignuda in mano ; 
Trasse a la testa; e Cortana tf^gliava: 
Per mezzo il teschio parti dej pagano, 
E Passamonte morto rovinava: 
E nel eadere il superbo e villano 
Divotamente Macon bestemmiava ; 
Ma mentre che bestemmia il crude e acerbo, 
Orlando ringraziava il Padre e '1 Verbo. 

XXXVI. 

Dicendo : quanta grazia oggi m' ha' data . 
Sempre ti sono, o signor mio, tenuto ; 
Per te conosco la vita salvata ; 
Pert) che dal gigante era abbattuto: 
Ogiii cosa a ragion fai misurata ; 
Non val nostro poter sanza il tuo ajuto. 
Priegoti, sopra me tenga la mano, 
Tanto che ancor ritorni a Carlo Mano 

XXXVII. 

Poi ch' ebbe questo detto sen' andf)e, 
Tanto che trouva Alabastro piti basso 
Che si stbrzava, quando e' lo trov6e, 
Di sveglier d' una ripa fnori un masse. 
Orlando, com'e' giunse a quel, grid&e ; 
Che pensi tu, ghiotton, gittar quel sasso? 
Quando Alabastro questo gride intende. 
Subitamente la sua fromba preude. 

XXXVIII. 

E'trasse d' una pietra molto grossa, 

Tanto ch' Orlando bisogno schermisse ; 
Che se 1' avesse giunto la percossa, 
Non bisognava il medico venisse. 
Orlando adoper5 poi la sua possa ; 
Nel pettignon tutta la spada misse : 
E morto cadde questo babalone, 
E non dimentic6 per5 Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante avevu 1 sue modo un palagio 
Fatto di frascho e di schegge e di terra: 
Quivi, secondo lui, si posa ad agio ; 
Quivi la notte si rinchiude e serra. 
Orlando picchia, e daragli disagio, 
Perchfe il gigante dal sonno si sferra; 
Vennegli aprir come una cosa matta ; 
Ch' uu' aspra visione aveva fatta. 

XL. 

E'gli parea ch' un feroce serpente 

L' avea assalito, e chiamar Macometto ; 
Ma Macometto non valea niente : 
Ond' e' chiamava Gesii benedetto ; 
E liberate 1' avea finalmente. 
Venne alia porta, ed ebbe cesi dette ; 
Chi buzza qua? pur sempre borbottando 
Tu '1 saprai tesf ., gU rispose Orlaudo. 



XXXIV. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, where dost go? 

Thou thought'st me doubtless for the bier outlaid ; 

To the right aljout — without wings thou'rt tee slow- 
To fly my vengeance — currish renegade . 

'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low 
The giant his astonishment betray'd. 

And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on, 

And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone ' 

XXXV. 

Orlando had Certana bare in hand ; 

Te split the head in twain was what he schemed: — 
Cortaua clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd, 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude, rude blasphemies he heard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXVI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 

And I to thee, oh Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would naught be found: 
I pray thee take heed of me, till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

• xxxvn. 

And having said thus much, he went his way ; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach'd him, loud 'gan say, 

" How thiuk'st thou, glutton, such a stone to throw?'' 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring. 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

XXXVIIL 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fulfill'd its mission. 

And Roland not avail'd him of his targe. 

There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn te charge. 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword. The lout fell : but o'erthrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth, 

And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode. 
And shut liimself at night within his berth. 

Orlando knock'd, and knock'd again, to goad 
The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth 

The door to open, like a crazy thing. 

For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thought that a fierce serpent had attack'd him ; 

And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him ; 

But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all the fears which rack'd him ; 

And to the gate ho came with great regret — 
"Who knocks here?" grumbling all the while, Eaid he 
" That," said Orlaudo, " you will quickly see. 



600 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



XLI. 

Vengo per farti, come a' tuo' fratelli, 
Far de' peccati tuoi la penit^nzia, 
Da' mouaci mandato. cattivelli, 
Come state 6 divina providenzia ; 
Pel mal ch' avete fatto a torto a quelli, 
E date in ciel cosi questa sonteiizia ; 
Sappi, che freddo g\k piii ch' un pilastro 
Lasciato ho Passamonte e '1 tuo Alabastro. 

XLII. 

Disse Morgante : o gentil cavaliere, 
Per lo tuo Die non mi dir viHania : 
Di grazia il nome tuo vorrei sapere ; 
Se se' Cristian, deh dillo in cortesia. 
Rispose Orlando: di cotal mastiere 
Contenterotti per la fede mia : 
Adoro Cristo, ch' b Signor verace ; 
E puoi tu adorarlo, se ti piace. 

XLIII. 

Rispose il Saracin con umil voce : 

10 ho fatto una strana visione, 
Che m' assaliva un serpente feroce : 
Non mi valeva per chiamar Macone ; 
Onde al tuo Dio che fu confitto in croce 
Rivolsi presto la mia intenzione : 

E' mi soccorse, e fui libero e sano, 
E son disposto al tutto esscr Cristiano. 

XLIV. 

Rispose Orlando : baron giusto e pio, 
Se questo buon voler terrai nel core, 
L' anima tua ara. quel vero Dio 
Che ci pub sol gradir d' eterno onore : 
E s' tu vorrai, sarai compagno mio, 
E amerotti con perfetto amore : 
Gl' idoli vostri son bugiardi o vani : 

11 vero Dio fe lo Dio do' Cristiani. 

XLV. 

Venne questo Signor sanza peccato 
Ne la sua madro vergine pulzella : 
Se conoscessi quel Signor beato, 
Sanza '1 qual non resplende sole o stella, 
Aresti gia Macon tuo rinnegato, 
E la sua fede iniqua ingiusta e fella : 
Battezzati al mio Dio di buon talento 
Morgante gli risposo . io ton contento. 

XLVI. 

E corse Orlando subito abbracciare : 
Orlando gran carezze gli facea, 
E disse : a la badi'a ti vo' menare. 
Morgante, andianci presto, respondea: 
Co' monaci la pace ci vuol fare. 
De la qual cosa Orlando in so godea, 
Dicendo ; fratel mio divotc e buono, 
lo yb che chiegga a I' abate perdono. 

XLVII. 

Da poi che Dio ralluminato t' ha, 
Ed acettato per la sua umiltade ; 
Vuolsi che tu ancor usi umilti. 
Disse Morgante : per la tua bontade, 
Poi che il tuo Dio mio sempre omai sar&, 
Dimmio del nome tuo la veritade, 
Poi di me dispor puoi al tuo comando ; 
Ond' e' gli disse, com' egli era Orlando. 



XLI. 

"I come to preach to you, as to your brothers, 
Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 

For Providence divine, in you and others. 

Condemns the evil done my new acquaii^tanco 

'Tis writ on high — your wrong nuist pay anothai's ; 
From heaven itself is issued out this sentence 

Know then, that colder now than a pilriter 

I left your Passamoj't and Alabaster" 

XLII. 

Morgante said, " Oh, gentle cavalic* I 

Now by thy God say me no villan^ ; 
The favor of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, " So much to your oar 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, who is the genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored " 

XLIIL 

The Saracen rejoin'd in humble tone, 

" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 
A savage serpent fell on me alone. 

And Macon would not pity my condition , 
Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 

Upon the cross, preferr'd I- my petition ; 
His timely succor set me safe anr. free. 
And I a Christian am disposed t^j be." 

XLIV 

Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious. 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, you will not then deny us 
Eternal honor, you will go above. 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us 
And I will love you with a perfect love 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 

The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 

" The Lord descended to the virgin breast 

Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 
If you acknowledge the Redeemer bless'd. 

Without whom neither sun nor star can shiue, 
Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 

Your renegado god, and worship mine, — 
Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 
To which Morgante answer'd, " I'm content." 

XLVI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew. 
And made much of his convert, as he criod, 

" To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied ; 

" I to the friars have for peace to sue." 

Which thing Orlando heard with inward pnde, 

Saying, " My brother, so devout and good. 

Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLVII. 

" Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his own. 
Humility should be your first oblation." 

Morgante said, " For goodness' sake, make known — 
Since that your God is to be mine — your station, 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Then will I every thing at your command do." 
On which the other said, he was Orlando. 



MORGANTE 


MAGGIORE. 501 


XLVIII. 


XLVIII. 


Disse il gigante : Gesii benedetto 


" Then," quoth the giant, " blessed be Jesu 


Per inille volte riugraziato sia ; 


A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 


Sentito t' ho nomar, baron perfetto, 


Oft, perfect baron! have I heard of you 


Per tutti i tempi de la vita mia : 


Through all the different periods of my days : 


E, com' io dissi, sempremai suggetto 


And, as I said, to be your vassal too 


Esser ti vo' per la tua gagliardia. 


I wish, for your great gallantry always." 


Insieme molte cose ragioiiaro, 


Thus reasoning, tliey continued much to say, 


E 'n verso la badia poi s' inviaro 


And onwards to the abbey went their way. 


XLIX. 


XLIX. 


E per la via da que' gigaiiti morti 


And by the M-ay about the giants dead 


Orlando con Morgant" si ragiona : 


Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 


De la lor niorte vo' ch j ti couforti ; 


For their decease, I pray you, comforted ; 


E poi clie place a Dio, a me perdona ; 


And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me ; 


A' monaci avean fatto mille torti ; 


A thousand wrongs unto the monks they bred. 


E la nostra scrittura aperto suona. 


And our true Scripture soundeth openly. 


11 beu remuncrato, e '1 mal punito ; 


Good is rewarded, and chastised the ill. 


E raai nou ha questo Siguor fallito, 


Which the Lord never faileth to fulfil : 


L. 

Per6 ch' egli ama la giustizia tanto, 


L. 

" Because his love of justice unto all 


Che vuol, che sempre il suo giudicio morda 


la such, he wills his judgment should devour 


Oguun ch' abbi peccato tanto o quauto ; 


All who have sin, however great or small ; 


E cosi il ben ristorar si ricorda : 


But good he well remembers to restore. 


E nou saria senza giustizia santo : 


Nor without justice holy could we call 


Adunque al suo voler presto t' accorda ; 


Him, whom I now require you to adore. 


Che debbe oguun voler quel che vuol questo 


All men must make his will their wishes sway. 


Ed accordarsi volentieri e presto. 


And quickly and spontaneously obey. 


LI. 


LI. 


E sonsi i nostri dottori accordati, 


" And here our doctors are of one accord, 


Pigliando tutti una conclusione, 


Coming on this point to the same conclusion, — 


Che que che eon nel ciel glorificati, 


That in their thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord 


% S' avessin nel pensier compassione 


If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 


De' miseri parent! die dannati 


For their unfortunate relations stored 


Son ne lo inferno in gran confusione, 


In hell below, and damn'd in great confusion, — 


La lor felicity, nulla sarebbe ; 


Their happiness would be reduced to naught. 


E vedi che qui ingiusto Iddio parrebbe. 


And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 


LIL 


LII. 


Ma egli anno posto in Gesii femia spenf> ; 


" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 


E tanto pare a lor, quauto a lui pare ; 


Which seems to him, to them too must appear 


Affermau ciO) ch' e' fa, che facci bene, 


Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 


E che non possi in nessun modo erraie , 


He never can in any purpose err. 


Se padre o madre fe nell' eterne pene, 


If sire or mother suffer endless thrall. 


Di questo non si possoa conturbare : 


They don't disturb themselves for him or her; 


Che quel ciid place a Dio, sol place a loro 


What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 


Questo s' osserva ne 1' etemo coro. 


Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 


LIIL 


LIIL 


Al savio suol bastar poche parole, 


" A word unto the wise," Morgante said, 


Disse Morgante ; tu il potrai vedere, 
Do' niiei fratelli, Orlando, se mi duole, 


" Is wont to be enough, and you shall see 


How much I grieve about my brethren dead ; 


E s' io m' accorder5 di Dio al volero, 


And if the will of God seem good to me, 


Come tu di' che in ciel servar si suole : 


Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd — 


Morti co' morti ; or pensiam di godere ; 


Ashes to ashes, — merry let us be ! 


Io vo tagliar lo maui a tutti quanti, 


I will cut off the hands from both their trunfcfi, 


E porterolle a que' monaci santi, 


And carry them unto the holy monks. 


LIV. 


LIV 


Acci6 ch' ognun sia piti sicuro e certo, 


" So that all persons may be sure and certaiu 


Com' e' sou morti, e non abbin paura 


That they are dead, and have no further fear 


Andar soletti per questo desorto ; 


To wander solitary this desert in. 


E perche veggan la mia mente pura 


And that they may perceive my spirit clear 


A quel Siguor che m' ha il suo regno aperto. 


By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the curtain 


E tratto fuor di tenebre si oscura. 


Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 


E poi tagliO le mani a' due fratelli, 


He cut his brethren's hands off at these words. 


E lasciagli a le fiere ed agli uccelli. 


And left them to the savage beasta and birds. 



502 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LV. 

A la b?.dia insieme se ne vanno, 
Ove 1' abate assai dubbioso aspetta : 
I monaci che '1 fatto aiitfor nou sanno, 
Correvaiio a 1' abate tutti in fretta, 
Dicendo paurosi e pien' d' afFanno: 
Volete vio cestui drento si metta? 
Quando 1' abate vedeva il gigante, 
Si turbf) tutto nel prime sembiante. 

LVI. 

Orlando che turbato cosi il vede, 
Gli disse presto : abate, datti pace, 
Questo e Cristiano, e in Cristo nostro crede, 
E riunegato ha il suo Macon fallace. 
Morgante i moncherin mostr6 per fede, 
Come i giganti ciascuu morto glace ; 
Donde 1' abate ringraziavia Iddio, 
Dicendo ; or m' hai couteuto, Signer mio 

LVII. 

E risguardava, e squadrava Morgante, 
La sua grandezza e mia volta e due, 
E poi gli disse : O famoso gigante, 
Sappi ch' io non mi maraviglio pitie, 
Che tu svegliessi e gittassi le piante, 
Quand' io riguardo or le fattezze tue : 
Tu sarai or perfetto e vero amico 
A Cristo, quanto tu gli eri nimico. 

LVIII. 

Un nostro apostol, Saul gik chiamato, 
Persegui molto la fede di Cristo : 
Un giomo poi da Io spirto infiammato, 
Perchfe pur mi persegui ? disse Cristo : 
E' si rawide allor del suo peccato 
AndO poi predicando sempre Cristo ; 
E fatto b or de la fede una tromba. 
La qual per tutto risuona e rimbomba. 

LIX. 

Cosi farai tu ancor, Morgante mio : 
E chi s' emenda, fe scritto nel Vangelo, 
Che maggior festa fa d' un solo Iddio, 
Che di novantanove altri su in cielo : 
Io ti conforto ch' ogni tuo disio 
Rivolga a quel Signer con giusto zelo, 
Che tu sarai felice in sempiterne, 
Ch' eri perdute, e dannato all' inferno. 

LX. 

E grande onore a Morgante faceva 
L' abate, e molti di si son posti : 
Un giorno, come ad Orlando piaceva, 
A spasso in qnk e in \k si sone andati : 
L' abate in una camera sua aveva 
Molte armadure e certi archi appiccati: 
Morgante gliene piacque un che ne vede ; 
Onde e' sel cinse bench' oprar nol crede 

LXL 

Avea quel luogo d' acqua carestia : 
Orlando disse come buon fratello : 
Morgante, vo' che di placer ti sia 
Andar per 1' acqua ; end' e' rispose a quelle ; 
Comanda ci6 che vuoi che fatto sia ; 
E posesi in ispalla un gran tinellc, 
Ed avviossi l£ verse una fonte 
Dove solea ber sempre apple del moute. 



LV. 

Then to the abbey they went on together. 
Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks, who knew net yet the fact, ran thither 
To their superior, all In breathless rout. 

Saying with tremor, " Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out ?" 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 

Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be comphant. 

LVI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, " Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 

And hath renounced his Macon false ;" which here 
Morgante with .'"e hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate ouite clear : 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored, 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh Lord !" 

LVII. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And mere than once contemplated his size ; 

And then he said, " Oh giant celebrated ! 
Knew, that no more my wonder will arise, 

How you could tear and fling tlie trees you late did 
When I beheld your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LVIII. 

" And one of our apostles, Saul once named. 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 

' Why dost thou persecute me thus?' said Christ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim'd. 
And went forever after preaching Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

" So, my Morgante, you may do likewise ; 

He who repents — thus writes the Evangelist — 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you'll exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before !" 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray'd. 

And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows ; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him 

LXL 

There being a want of water in the place, 

Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 
" Morgante, I could wish you In this case 

To go for water." " You shall be obey'd 
In all commands," was the reply, " straightways." 

Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid. 
And went out on his way unto a fountain. 
Where he was wont to drink below the mountain. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



603 



LXII. 

Giunto a la fonte, seiite mi gran fracasso 
Di subito venir per la foresta : 
Una saetta cavo del turcasso, 
Posela a 1' arco, ed alzava la testa ; 
Ecco apparire lui gran gregge al passo 
Di porci, e vanno con molta tenipesta ; 
E arrivorno alia fontana appunto 
Donde il gigante e da lor sopraggiunto. 

Lxiir. 

Morgante a la vontura a un saetta ; 
Appunto ne 1' oreccliio lo 'ncarnava : 
Da 1' altro lato pass6 la verretta ; 
Onde il cinghial giii morto gambettava ; 
Un altro, quasi per fame vendetta, 
Addosso al gran gigante irato audava ; 
E perch 6 e' giunse troppo tosto al varco, 
Non fu Morgante a tempo a trar con 1' arco. 

LXIV. 

Vedendosi venuto il porco adosso, 

Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone' 

Per modo che gl' infranse insino a 1' osso, 

E morto allato a quell' altro lo pone : 

Gli altri porci veggendo quel percosso, 

Si misson tutti in fCiga pel vallone ; 

Morgante si lev6 il tinello in collo, 

Ch' era pien d' acqua, e non si muove un crollo 

LXV. 

Da 1' una spalla il tinello avea posto, 

Da 1' altra i porci, e spacciava il terreno ; 
E torna a la badi'a, eli' 6 pur discosto, 
Ch' una gocciola d' acqua non va in seno. 
Orlando che '1 vedea' tornar si tosto 
Co' ])orci morti, e con quel vaso pieuo ; 
Maravigliossi che sia tanfo forte ; 
Cos! r abate ; e spalancaii le porte. 

LXVI. 
I monaci veggendo 1' acqua fresca 
Si rallegrorno, ma piii de' cinghiali ; 
Ch' ogni animal si rallegra de 1' esca ; 
E posano a dorniire i breviali : 
Ognun s' afFanna, e non par che gl' incresca, 
Acci5 che questa came non s' insali, 
E che poi secca sapesse di victo. 
E la digiune si restorno a drieto. 

LXVII. 

E femo a scoppia corpo per un tratto, 
E scuffian, die parien de 1' acqua usciti ; 
Tanto che 'I cane sen doleva e '1 gatto, 
Che gli ossi rimaneau troppo puliti. 
L' abate, poi die molto onoro ha fatto 
A tutti, un di dopo questi conviti 
Dette a Morgante un destrier molto bello, 
Che lungo tempo tenuto avea quello. 

LXVIII. 

Morgante in su 'n un prato il caval mena, 
E vuol che corra, e che facci ogni pruova, 
E pensa che di ferro abbi la schiena, 
O forse non credeva schiacciar 1' uova : 
Questo caval s' accoscia per la peiia, 
E scoppia, e 'n su la terra si ritruova. 
Dicca Morgante : lieva su, rozzone ; 
E va pur punzficchiando co lo sprone. 

- 1" Gli dette in su la testa un gran punzone." It is 
Strange that Pulci sliould have literally anticipated the 
technical terras of my old friend and master, Jackson, and 
the art which he haa carried to its highest pitch. " A punch 



LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise ho hears, 
Which suddenly along the forest spread ; 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears, 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours ; 

So that the giant 's joiu'd by all the boars. 

LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow, 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear, 

Aiiid pass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near 

Another, to revenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career. 

And reach'd the passage with so swift a foot, 

Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIV. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him )loso, 
He gave him such a punch upon he head. 

As floor'd him so that he no mor? crose. 
Smashing the very bone ; and ho fell dead 

Next to the other. Having seen such blows. 
The other pigs along the valley fled ; 

Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 

Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor shook. 

LXV. 

The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 
The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd apace 

On to the abbey, though by no means near. 
Nor spill'd one drop of water in his race. 

Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vaso, 

Marvell'd to see his strength so very great ; 

So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXVI. 

The monks, who saw the water fresh and good. 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ; — 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 

They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 

That the flesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Of ranknoss and of rot there is no fear. 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to all did honor great, 

A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd. 
Which he long time had for himself maiiitain'd. 

LXVIII. 

The horse Morgante to a meadow led. 
To gallop, and to put him to the proof, 

Thinking that he a back of iron had, 

Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead. 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoot 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur!" 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 



on the head," or " a punch in the head," — "un punzone in su 
la testa,"— is the exact and frequent phrase of our best 
pugilists, who little dream that they are talking the pures 
Tuscan. 



504 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXIX. 

Ma fiiialmente couvien ch' egli smonte, 
E disse : io son pur leggier come penna, 
Ed h scoppiato ; che ne di' tu, conte ? 
Rispose Orlando : un arbore d' antenna 
Mi par piuttosta, e la gaggia la fronte : 
Lascialo andar, che la fortuna accenna 
Che meco appiede ne venga, Morgante. 
Ed io cosi verra, disse il gigante. 

LXX. 

Quando ser&, mestier, tu mi vedrai 
Com' io mi prover6 ne la battaglla. 
Orlando disse: io credo tu farai 
Come buon cavalier, se Dio mi vaglia ; 
Ed anco me dormir non mirerai : 
Di questo tuo caval non te ne caglia : 
Vorrebbesi portarlo in qualche bosco ; 
Ma il modo n6 la via non ci conosco. 

LXXI. 

Disse il gigante : io il porter6 ben io, 
Da poi che portar me non ha voluto, 
Per render ben per mal, come fa Dio ; 
Ma vo' che a porlo addosso mi dia ajuto. 
Orlando gli dicea : Morgante mio, 
S' al mio consiglio ti sarai attenuto, 
Questo caval tu non ve '1 porteresti, 
Cho ti fara, come tu a lui facesti. 

LXXII. 

Guarda che non facesse la vendetta, 
Come fece giil Nesso cosi morto : 
Non so se la sua istoria hai intcso o letta ; 
E' ti fari scoppiar ; dalti confoho. 
Disse Morgante : ajuta ch' io me '1 metta 
Addosso, e poi vedrai s' io ve Io porto : 
Io porterei, Orlando mio gentile. 
Con le campane la quel campanile. 

LXXIII. 

Disse 1' abate: il campanil v' b bene ; 
Ma le campane voi 1' avete rotte. 
Dicea Morgante, e' ne porton le pene 
Color che morti son Ih. in quelle grotte , 
E levossi il cavallo in su le schieue, 
E disse : guarda s' io sento di gotte, 
Orlando, nelle gambe, e s' io Io posso ; 
E fe' duo salti col cavallo addosso. 

LXXIV. 

Era Morgante come una montagna : 
Se facea questo, non 6 maraviglia ; 
Ma pure Orlando con seco si lagna ; 
Perche pur era omai di sua famiglia ; 
Temenza avea non pigliasse magagna. 
Un' altra volta costui riconsiglia : 
Posalo ancor, nol portare al deserto. 
Disse Morgante : il porterO per certo. 

LXXV. 

E portollo, e gittollo in luogo strano, 
E torn6 a la badia subitamente. 
Diceva Orlando: or che piii dimorianoT 
Morgaate, qui non facciam noi niente ; 
E presa un giorno I' abate per mano, 
E duwa a quel molto discretamente, 
Che vuol partir de la sua reverenzia, 
E domandava e perdono e licenzia. 



LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, " I am as light as any feather. 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count?" 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front : — 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." 

To which the giant answer'd, " So I will. 

LXX. 

" When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, " I really think you'll be. 

If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 

But never mind your horse, though out of sight 

'Twere best fe: carry him into some wood, 

If but ihe means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 

The giant buid, " Then carry him I will. 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 

To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 

But lend a hand to place him on my back.'' 

Orlando answer'd, " If my counsel still 
May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 

To lift or carry this dead courser, who, 

As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXIL 

" Take care he don't revenge himself, though dead, 
As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 

I don't know if the fact you've heard or read ; 
But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 

" But help him on my back," Morgante said, 
" And you shall see what weight I can endure. 

In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey. 

With all the bells, I'd carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

The abbot said, " The steeple may do well. 
But, for the bells, you've broken them, I wot." 

Morgante answer'd, " Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ;" 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell, 
He said, " Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ;" — 

And then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIV. 

Morgante .was like any mountain framed : 

So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy ; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maim'd, 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by. 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert in " 
Morgante said, " I'll carry him for certain." 

LXXV 

He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away, 
And to the abbey then returu'd with speed 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay? 
Morgante, here is naught to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day. 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE. 



;05 



LXXVI. 

E de gli onor ricevuti da qnesti, 

Qualche volta poteiido, arft, buon merito ; 
E dice : io inteiido ristorare e presto 
I persi giorni del tempo preterite : 
E' sou piii di che licenzia arei cliiesto, 
Boiiiguo padre, se non ch' io mi perito ; 
Non so mostrarvi quel che drento eento ; . 
Tan to vi veggo del mio star contento. 

LXXVII. 

Io me ne porto per sempre nel core 
L' abate, la badia, questo isserto ; 
Tanto v' ho posto in picciol tempo amore , 
Rendavi su nel ciel per me buon merto 
Quel vero Dio, quello eterno Signore, 
Che vi serba il suo regno al fine aperto : 
Noi aspettiam vostra benedizione, 
Raccomandiamci a le vostre orazione 

LXXVIII. 

Quando 1' abate il conte Orlando intese, 
Rintenerl nel cor per la dolcezza, 
Tanto fervor nel petto se gli accese ; 
E disse : cavalier, se a tua prodezza 
Non sono stato benigno e cortese. 
Come conviensi a la gran gentillezza ; 
Che so che ci6 ch' i' ho fatto e stato poco, 
Incolpa la ignoranzia nostra, e il loco. 

LXXIX. 

No! ti potremo di messe onorare, 
Di prediche di laude e paternostrl, 
Piuttosto che da cena o desinare, 
O d' altri convenevol che da chiostri : 
Tu m' hai di te si fatto innamorare 
Per mille alte eccellenzie che tu mostri ; 
Ch' io me ne vengo ove tu andrai cou teco, 
E d' altra parte tu resti qui meeo. 

LXXX. 

Tanto ch' a questo par contraddizione ; 
Ma so che tu se' savio, e 'ntendi e gustl, 
E inteudi il mio parlar per discrizione ; 
De' beneficj tuoi pietosi e giusti 
Renda il Signore a te munerazione. 
Da cui mandato in queste selve fusti ; 
Per le virtu del qual liberi siamo, 
E grazie a lui e a te noi ne reudiamo. 

LXXXI. 

Tu ci hai sajvato 1' anima e la vita: 
Tanta perturbazion g\k que' giganti 
Ci detton, che la strada era smarrita 
Da ritrovar Gesu con gli altri santi 
Per6 troppo ci duol la tua partita, 
E sconsolati restiam tutti quanti ; 
Nfe ritener possiamti i mesi a gli anni: 
Cho tu non se' da vestir questi panni, 

LXXXII. 

Ma da portar la lancia e 1' armadura : 
E puossi meritar con essa, come 
Con questa cappa ; e leggi la scrittura : 
Questo gigante al ciel drizz6 le some 
Per tua virtii ; va in pace a tua ventura 
Chi tu ti sia, ch' io non ricerco il nome ; 
Ma dir6 sempre, s' io son domandato, 
Ch' un augiol qui da Dio fussi mandato. 



u 



LXXVI. 

The honors they continued to receive 

Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim'd 

He said, " I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 

The lost days of time past, vi'hich may be blamed ; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave, 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXVII. 

" But in my heart I bear through every clime. 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude — 

So much I love you in so short a time ; 

For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing, 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressing." 

LXXVIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard, 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness, 

Such fervor in his bosom bred each word ; 
And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appear'd, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I have done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and this poor place. 

LXXIX. 

" We can indeed but honor you with masses. 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and pater-nosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners, (fitting other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters ;) 

But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

That whereso'er you go I too shall be. 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

" This may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste, 
And understand my speech with full conviction. 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With the Lord's great reward and benediction, 

By whom you were directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due, 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, that the way was lost, 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you would not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to wear our sober cloth ; 

LXXXIL 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance ; indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cowl; 

In proof of which the Scripture you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll ; 

But, if I'm ask'd, this answer shall be given. 

That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 



50G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXXIII. 

Se c' b armadura o ccsa che tu voglia, 
Vattene in zambra e pigliane tu stessi, 
E cuopri a questo gigaute le scoglia. 
Rlspose Orlando : se armadura avessi 
Prima che noi iiscissim de la soglia, 
Che quBsto mio compaguo difendessi : 
Questo accetto io, e sarammi piacere. 
Disse r abate : venite a vedere. 

LXXXIV. 

E in certa cameretta entrati sono, 
Che d' armadure vecchie era copiosa ; 
Dice 1' abate : tutte ve le dono, 
Morgante va rovistando ogni cosa ; 
Ma solo un certo sbergo gli fu buono, 
Ch'avea tutta \k maglia rugginosa: 
Maravigliossi che lo cuopra appuuto : 
Che mai piti gnun forse glien' era aggiunto. 

LXXXV. 

Questo fu d' un gigante smisurata, 
Ch 'a la badia fu niorto per antico 
Dal gran Milon d' Angrante, ch' arrivato ; 
V era, s' appunto questa istoria dico ; 
Ed era ne le mura istoriato, 
Come e' fu morto questo gran niinico, 
Che fece a la badia gia lunga guerra : 
E Milon v' b com' e' 1' abbatte in terra. 

LXXXVI. 

Veggendo questa istoria il conte Orlando, 
Fra suo cor disse : o Die, che sai sol tutto, 
Come venne Milon qui capitando, 
Che ha questo gigante qui distrutto? 
E lesse certe lettre lacrimando, 
Che non pote tenir piu il viso asciutto. 
Com' io diro ne la seguente istoria: 
Di mal vi guardi il Re de 1' alta gloria. 



LXXXIII. 

" If you want armor or aught else, go in. 

Look o'er the wardrobe, and take wha vou choosd, 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin." 
Orlando answer'd, " If there should lie joose 

Some armor, ere our journey we begin, 

Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 

The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain Joset, where the wall 
Was cover'd with old armor like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 

Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirtcsa, was too small 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 

Which ne'er had suited others so compactly. 

LXXXV. 

'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 

By the great Milo of Agrante fell, 
Before the abbey many years ago. 

The story ou the wall was figured well 
In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 

Who long had waged a war implacable : 
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew him. 
And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

LXXXVI. 

Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 

In his own heart, " Oh God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things! how was Milo hither led? 
Who caused the giant in this place to die?" 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So4;hat he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As I will tell in the ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE.^ 



" 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before." 

Campbell. 



DEDnATION. 

Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime 

Where I was born, but where I would not die. 

Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme. 
Harsh Runic copy of the South 's sublime, 

Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony. 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 

1 [This poem, which Lord Byron, in sending it to Mr. 
Murray, called " the best thing he had ever done, if not un- 
intelligible," was written, in the summer of 1819, at 

" that place 

Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea, 
Ravenna !— where from Dante's sacred tomb 
He had so oft, as many a verse declares. 
Drawn inspiration." — Rogers. 
The Prophecy, however, was first published in May, 1821. 
It is dedicated tu the Clomitess Guiccioli, who thus describes 
The origin of its composition :— '• On my departure from 
Veiii«, Lord Byron had promised lo come and see me at 



Thou, iu the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
Spakest ; and for thee to speak and bo obey'd 

Are one ; iut only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms dis- 
play'd, 

So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
Ah ! to what effort would it not persuade ? 

Ravenna, June 21, 1819. 



Ravenna. Dante's tomb, the classical pine wood,* the relics 
of antiquity which are to be found in that place, afforded a suf- 
ficient pretext for me to invite him to come, and for him to 
accept my invitation. He came in the month of June, 1819, 
arriving at Ravenna on the day of the festival of the Corpus 
Domini. Being deprived at this time of Iiip books, liis horses, 
and all that occupied him at Venice, 1 begged him to gratiftr 
me by writing something on the subject of Danle ; and, with 
his usual facility and rapidity, he composed his Prophecy."] 



[" 'Twas in a grove of spreading pines he straved," tc. 
Dryden's Theodore and Honorin.] 



Cjinto I. 



THE PROl'HECY OF DANTE. 



507 



PREFACE. 

In the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in 
the summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author 
that liaving composed something on the subject of 
Tasso'g confinement, he should do the same on 
Dante's exile, — the tomb of the poet forming one of 
the principal objects of interest in that city, bpth to 
the native and to the stranger. 

" On this hint I spake," and the result has been 
the following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered 
to the reader. If they are understood and approved, 
it is my purpose to continue the poem in various 
other cantos, to its natural conclusion in the present 
age. The reader is requested to suppose that r'ante 
addresses him in the interval between the conclusion 
of the Divina Commedia and his death, and shortly 
before the latter event, foretelling the fortunes of 
Italy in general in the ensuing centuries. In adopt- 
ing this plan I have had in my mind the Cassandra 
of Lycophron, and the Prophecy of Nereus by 
Horace, as well as the Prophecies of Holy Writ. 
The measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, 
which I am not aware to have seen hitherto tried in 
our language, except it may be by Mr. Hayley, of 
whose translation I never saw but one extract, quoted 
in the notes to Caliph Vathek ; so that — if I do not 
err — this poem may be considered as a metrical 
experiment. The cantos are short, and about the 
same length of those of the poet, whose name I 
have borrowed, and most probably taken in vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the pres- 
ent day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good 
or bad, to escape translation. I have had the fortune 
to see the fourth canto of Childe Harold translated 
into Italian versi sciolti, — that is, a poem written in 
the Spenserean stanza into blank verse, without re- 
gard to the natural divisions of the stanza or of the 
sense. If the present poem, being on a national topic, 
should chance to undergo the same fate, I would re- 
quest the Italian reader to remember that when I 
have failed in the imitation of his great " Pesdre 
Alighier," I have failed in imitating that whicL al. 
study and few understand, since to this very day it is 
not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory 
in the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count Mar- 
chetti's ingenious and probable conjecture may be 
considered as having decided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am 
not quite sure that he would be pleased with my suc- 
cess, since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, 
are particularly jealous of all that is left them as a 



1 [Dante Alighieri was born in Florence in May, 1265, of 
an ancient and honorable family. In the early part of his 
life he gained some credit in a military character, and dis- 
tinguished himself by his bravery in an action where the 
Florentines obtained a signal victory over the citizens of 
Arezzo. He became still more eminent by the acquisition 
of court honors ; and at the age of thirty-tive he rose to be 
one of the chief magistrates of Florence, when that dignity 
was conferred by the suffrages of the people. From this 
exaltation the poet himself dated his principal misfortunes. 
Italy was at that time distracted by the contending factions 
of the Ghibelines and Guelphs, — among the latter Dante 
took an active part. In one of the proscriptions he was 
banished, his possessions confiscated, and he died in exile 
in 1321. Boccaccio thus describes his person and manners : 
— " He was of the middle stature, of a mild disposition, and, 
from the tune he arrived at manhood, grave in his manner 
and ispoitinenl. His clothes were plain, and his dress al- 
ways conformable to his years : his face was long ; his nose 
aquiline ; his eyes rather large than otherwise. His com- 

Elexioii was dark, melanc holy, and pensive. In his meals 
c was extremely moderate ; in his manners most co'Uieous 



nation — theii .iterature ; and in the present bitterness 
of the classic and romantic war, are but ill-disposed to 
permit a foreigner even to approve or imitate them, 
without finding some fault with his ultramontane pre- 
siunption. I can easily enter into all tbis, knowing 
what would be thought in England of an Italian imi- 
tator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, or Pinde- 
monte, or Arici, should be held up to the rising gen- 
eration as a model for their future poetical essays. 
But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to 
the Italian reader, when my business is with the 
English one ; and be they few or many, I must take 
my leave of both. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



CANTO THE yiRST. 



Once more in man's frail world . which I had left 
So long tha 'twas forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 

My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without repeal. 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
Midst whom my own bright Beatrice' bless'd 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad I first, last, best. 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love. 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That naught on earth could more my bosom move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like the arkless dove, 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete.^ 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love,* and bright 



and civil ; and, both in public and private life, he was ad- 
mirably decorous."] 

2 The reader is requested to adopt. the Italian pronuncia- 
tion of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables. 

3 " Che sol per le belle opre 

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e 1' altre stelle 
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso, 
Cosi se guardi fiso 
Pensar ben dei cii' ogni terren' piacere." 

Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of Beatrice, 
Strophe third. 

4 [According to Boccaccio, Dante was a lover long before 
he was a soldier, and his passion for the Beatrice whom he 
has immortalized commenced while he was m his ninth 
year, and she in her eighth year. It is said that their first 
meeting was at a banquet ii; the house of Folco Poi'.inaro, 
her father ; and certain it is, that the impression then made 
on the susceptible and constant heart of Dante was not 
obliterated by her death, wliich happened after an interval 
of sixteen years.— Oaky.] 



508 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Still in these dim old eyes, now overwroug^ht 

With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By ty.'aniious faction, and the brawling crowd, 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die, 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench 'd the old exile's spirit, stem and high. 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set. 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days. 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 

The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure, 

Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vain-glorious list of those 
Wh'^ dabble in the pettiness of fame. 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 

I would have had my Florence great and free :* 
Oh Florence ! Florence I unto me thou wast 

Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, " but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who /or that country would expire, 
But did not merit to expire by her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire. 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
The day may come she would be proud to have 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer* 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsootli is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 



* " L' Esilio che m' e dato onor mi tegno. 

* * . * * * 

Cader tra' bouni e pur di lode degno." 

Sonnet of Dante, 

ai which he re. -esents Right, Generosity, and Temperance 
as banished from among men, and seeking refuge from Love, 
who inhabits his bosom. 

2 " Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti 
communis pervenerit, talis psrveniens igne comburatur, sic 
quod moriatur." Second sentence of Florence .against Dante, 
and the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy of 
tlie sentence.— [On the 2Tth of January, 1302, Dante was 
mu cted eight thousand lire, and condemned to two years' 
banisnnw.'iit ; and in case the fine was not paid, his goods 
were to be confiscated. On the eleventh of ^larch, the same 
year, ho was sentenced to a punishment due only to the 
most Jesperate of malefactors. The decree, that he and his 
afcso< I itt's in exile should be burned, if they fell into the 
Lanc'i of Iheir enemies, was first discovered, m 1772, by, the 



No, — she denied me what was mine — my roof, 
And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb 

Too long her armed wrath Viath kept uloof 

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, 

The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each pert 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 

These things are not made for forgetfulness, 
Florence shell be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Though late repented ; yet — yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine, 
My own Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine. 
And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, 

WViich would protect the murderess like a shrine 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 

Though, like old Marius' from Minturnae's niTsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may bum 

At times with evil feelings hot U d harsh, 
And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
WhT long have sufFer'd more than mortal wo, 

And yet being mortal still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 

With the oft-bafHed, slakeless thirst of change. 
When we shall mount again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and At6 range 

O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks Great God . 

Take these thoughts from me — to thy hands I yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield 1 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain. 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field — 

In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence.^ — I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which {o see 
And live was never granted until now. 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 

The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 



Conte Lu'lovico Savioli. See Tiraboschi, where the sen- 
tence is given at length.] 

3 [Under the pretence of opposing the power of Sylla, 
Marius, who had been fivi- times elected to the consulship, 
aimed at the sovereign pi wer. Stapylton says, that tlie 
Minturnian fens, in which he was discovered by Sylla 's 
emissaries, were in Switzerland 1 For this accurate pie<,e 
of topography, he was indebted to the old scholiast. T)ie 
spot, however, lies on the right hand of the ferry of Garig'i- 
ano, as you go from Rome to Naples. — Gifford.] 

* [In one so highly endowed by nature, and so consum- 
mate by instruction, we may well sympathize with a reseot- 
ment which exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh 
But the heart of Dante was naturally sensillc. and ei.'n len- 
der : his poetry is full of comparisons from rural hfe ; and the 
sincerity of his early passion for Beatrice pieices 'hrough the 
veil of allegory that surrounds her. But the merr.ory of his 
injuries pursued him into the immensity of etcrr.rJ light; 
and in the company of saints and angtls, his uiiioigiriDg 
spirit daricens at the name of Florence. — Hallam } 



Cavto ii. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



509 



Of half a century bloody and black, 
And the frail few years I may yet expect 

Hoary and h^jpelcss, but less hard to bear, 

For I havy Cteen too long and deeply vvreck'd 
On the lone ock of desolate Despair, 

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 

Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare 
Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my waiH 

I am not of this people, nor this age, 

And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 
Which shall preserve these times when not a page 

Of their perturbed annals could attract 

An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 
Did not my verse embalm full many an act 

Worthless as they who wrought it : 'tis the doom 

Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 
In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 

Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 

Then future thousands crowd around their tomb. 
And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 

The name of him — who now is but a name, 

And weisting homage o'er the sullen stone, 
Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 

And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die 

Is nothing ; but to wither thus — to tame 
My mind down from its own infinity — 

To live in narrow ways with little men, 

A common sight to every common eye, 
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 

Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 

That make communion sweet, and soften pain — ■ 
To feel me in the solitude of kings 

Without the power that makes them bear a crown — 

To envy every dove his nest and wings 
Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 

On Arno, till he perches, it may be,. 

Within my all inexorable town. 
Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,' 

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 

Destruction for a dowry^ — this to see 
And feel, aud know without repair, hath taugit 

A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 

I have not vilely found, nor basely sought; 
T';3y made an Exile — not a slave of me. 



CANTO THE SECOND, 



The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, [thought 

When words were things that came to pass, aud 
Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 

Their children's children's doom already brought 



1 This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of 
the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso 
Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. She 
is described as being " Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe 
Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus," according 
to Giannozzo Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalized 
with Boccace, in his Life of Dante, for saying that literary 
men should not marry. " Qui il Boccaccio non ha pa- 
zienza, e dice, le mogli esser contrarie agU studj ; e non si 
ricorda che Socrate il piu nobile filosofo che mai fosse, 
ebbe moglie e figliuoli e uffici della Repnbblica nella sua 
Citta ; e Aristotele che, &c. &c., ebbe due mogli in varj 
tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.— E Marco Tullio 
— e Catoue— e Varrone,— e Seneca— ebbero moglie," &c. 
&c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the 
exception of Seneca, and, for any thing I know, of Aris- 
totle, are not the most felicitous. TuUy's Terentia, and 
Socra'.es' Xantippe, bv no means con*r*^uted to their hus- 
bands happiness, whatever they m.ga, a.s to their philosophy 



Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 

What the great Seers of Israel wore within, 
That spirit was on them, and is on m«. 

And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 

Of conflict none will hoar, or hearing heed 
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 

Italia? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own ; 

We can have but one country, and even yet 

Thou'rt mine^— my oones shall be within thy breast, 
My soul within thy language, which once set 

With our old Roman sway in the wide West. 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which «Ypress'd 

The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs, 

Shall find alike such sounds Tor every theme 
That every word, as brilliant as thy skies. 

Shall realize a poet's proudest dream. 

And make thee Europe's nightingale of song , 
So that all present speech to tLliio shall seem 

The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 

Confess its barbarism when compared with thine. 
This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong. 

Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline. 
Wo ! wo ! the veil of coming centuries 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 

Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise. 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation. 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station, 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 

But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the word, 
" Let there be darkness !" and thou grow'st a tomb 

Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword. 
Thou, Italy 1 so fair that Paradise, 
Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 

Ah ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever golden fields, 
Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 

For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky heaven gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue ; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 

Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
Aud form'd the Eternal City's ornaments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrow ; 

Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints, 



— Cato gave away his wife— of Varro's we know nothing — 
and of Seneca's only that she was disposed to die with him, 
but recovered, and lived several years afterwards. But, 
says Lionardo, " L' uomo e animale civile, secondo place a 
tutti i filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest 
proof of the animaVs civism is " la prima congiunzione, 
dalla quale multiphcata nasce la Citl&." 

s [The violence of Gemma's temper proved a source ol 
the bitterest suffering to Dante ; and in that passage of the 
Inferno, where one of the characters says— 

" La iiera moglie piu ch' altro, mi nuoce," 

" me, my wife, 

Of savage temper, more than aught beside. 
Hath to this evil brought," 

his own conjugal unhappiness must have recurred forcibly 
and painfully to his mind.— Caby.j 



510 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her home ; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, 

And finds her prior vision but portray'd 

In feeble colors, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
Nods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 

The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, 

Thou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 

The Goth hath been, — the German, Frank, and Hun 
Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new. 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. 

And deepens into red the saffron water 

Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
Ail paths of torture, and insatiate yet. 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nhie moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ;^ 
The chiefless army of the dead, which late 
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met. 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oh ! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 

Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks ! floods whelm them, and for- 
ever ! 

Why sleep the idle avalanches so. 

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed? 
Were not each barbarous horde a nobler prey? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
RoH'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why. 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew 
Those who o'erthrcw proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew. 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylas? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 

Of an nivader? is it they, or ye. 

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free? 

Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 



J See " Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicci- 
ardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte— 
[The oriqiiml MS. of the latter work is preserved in the 
K»yal Library at Paris. It is entitled, " Ragguaglio Storico 
di tutlo l" occorso, giorno per giorno, net Sacco di Roma 



And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so ; but alone she will not war, 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 

In a soil where the mothers bring forth men 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 

For them no fortress can avail, — the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than walls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 

Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts o 

Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil, [bring 
While still Division sows the seeds of wo 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil. 

Oh ! my own beauteous land ! so long laid low, 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes. 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avciiger stops. 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine anc hee. 
And join their strength to that which with thee 

What is there wanting then to set thee free, [copes ; 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



From out the mass of never-dying ill, [Sword, 

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the 
Vials of wrath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 

That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 

Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, 
There where the farthest suns and stars have birth. 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven. 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driren 

Athwart the sound of archangelic songs. 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore; 

Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoi^ 
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough, 

To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high powers allow 

To read the future ; and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes — then expire ; 

Think not thai 1 would look on them and live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 

My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 



dell anno MDXXVII, scritto ds Jacopo Buonap? rte, genti- 
luomo Samminialese, che vi si trovb presente." .\n edition 
of it was printed at Cologne in 1756, to which is prefixed a 
genealogy of the Bonaparte family.] 



Canto hi. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



511 



Yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 

A softer glimpse : some stars shine through thy 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb [night, 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight ; 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give thee honor, and the earth delight ; 

Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise. 

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies. 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,* 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name f 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

Oh ! more than these illustrious far shall be 
The being — and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set them free, 

And see thy diadem, so changed, and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced : 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy mom, 

Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced. 
And noxious vapors from Avernus risen. 
Such as all they must breathe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 

Poets shall follow in the path I show. 

And make it broader ; the same brilliant sky 
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 

And raise their notes as natural and high ; 

Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing 
Many of love, and some of liberty. 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze, 
All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 

But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince 
In all the prodigality of praise ! 

And language, eloquently false, evince 

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's halP 
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty, 

And the firsl day which sees the chain inthral 
A captive, sees his half of manhood gone — * 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 

His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! [bles. 

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's tre- 
He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels, 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles 

lu's mouth, lest truth should stammer thro' his strain. 



1 Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pcscai i, Eugene of Sa- 
"icy, Montecucco. 

' Columbus, Americus Vespasius, Sebastian Cabot. 

« A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pompey 
Jook leave of Cornelia on entcrmg the boat in which he was 
slain 



But out of the long file of sonneteers 

There shall be some who will not sing in vain, 

And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers, 
And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears. 

And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
Of Freedom \vreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a farther age shall rise along 

Tjie banks of Po two greater still than ho ; 

The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong 

Till they are ashes, and repose with me 
The first will make an epoch with his lyre. 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire. 

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire : 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught. 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood. 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 

Shed where Christ bled for man ; and his high harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Of years, of ^avor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a tune, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name. 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame. 

Such shall be his meet guerdon ! who was sent 
To be Christ's Laureate — Ihey reward him well ! 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 

Harder to bear and leos deserved, for I 

Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 

Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
What will he do to merit such a doom? 
Perhaps he'll love, — and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer. 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a year. 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 

With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
And to the country a redoubled wreath 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 

Through her olympiads too such names, though one 
Of hers be mighty ; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ?' 



* The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

5 Petrarch. 

6 [" Why '.s it necessary to adopt the invidious and too 
ctimmon practice of weigliing the traiisccndent talents of 
Ariosto and Tasso m opposue, and as it were conl ending 
scales 1 Reader ! if you have already had the delight of 



512 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilUng sense, 
The electric blood with which their arteries run 

Their body's self-tuned soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scatter'd? Yes, and it must be ; 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff. 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 

Back to their native mansion, soon they find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

And die or are degraded ; for the mind 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair. 
And vulture passions flying close behind. 

Await the moment to assail and tear ; 

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist themselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless ; but some such have been, 
And if my name amongst the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unbless'd ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 

Whose splendor from the black abyss is flung. 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning 
breast 

A temporary torturing flame is wrung. 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, 

'She hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Maiitt are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings ; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more bless'd 

Than those who are degraded by th-j jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link d to fame. 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poels, but without the name. 
For what is poesy but to create 



perusing the last production of Lord Byron's muse, how 
must you have admired those exquisitely beautiful and af- 
fecting portraitures of the two matchless poets which con- 
clude the third canto of the ' Prophecy of Dante 1' We 
there see them contrasted without such invidious compari- 
son, or depreciation of the one to exalt the other ; and char- 
acterized in numbers, style, and sentiment, so wonderfully 
Dantesque, that— mastenng our uncongenial language, and 
habitual modes of thought as well as expression— they seem 
to have been inspired by the very genius of the inarrivabile 
Dante himself "—Glenbervie, Ricciardetto, p. 106.] 

1 The cupola of St. Peter's. 

« [" If," says Sir Joshua Reynolds, " the high admiration 
and esteara in which Michael Angelo has been held by all 
nations, and in all ages, should be put to the account of 
prejudice, it must still be granted that those prejudices 
could not have been entertained without a cause : the 
ground of our prejudice then becomes the source of our 
admiration. But from whatever it proceeds, or whatever 
It is called, it will not, I hope, be thought presumptuous 
in me to appear in the train, I cannot say of his imitators, 
but of his admirers. I have taken another course, one 
more suited to my abilities, and to the taste of the times in 
whicli I live. Yet, however unequal I feel myself to that 



From overfeeling good or ill ; and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 

And be the new Prometheus of new men. 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain, 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who, having lavish'd his high gift in vain, 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power 

Which etill recoils from its encumbering clay 
Or ligh\* -48 it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay, 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow 
Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; 

One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvass till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below, 

That they who kneel tc .'dels so divine 

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy, which peoples but the air 

With thought and beings o' our thought reflected, 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labor uuaj)proved — Alas ! 
Despair and Genius art too oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass 

Art shall resume and equal eveu the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. 
Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands. 
And temples, loftier than the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome,' its image, while the base expands 

Into a fane surpassing all before. 

Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair. 

And lay their sins at this huge gate of hcavea 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given. 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord," 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew,^ at whose word 



attempt, were I now to begin the world again, I would 
tread in the steps of that great master. To kiss the hem of 
his garment, to catch the slightest of his perfections, would 
be glory and distinction enough for an ambitious man."- 
SiB Joshua Reynolds's Discourses, vol. ii. p. 216.] 
3 The statue of Moses on the monument of Julius II. 

SONETTO 
Di Giovanni Batiista Zappi. 

Chi e cestui, die in dura pietra scolto, 
Siede gigante ; e le piu illustri, c conte 
Opre dell' arte avvanza, e ha vive, e pronte 
Le labbra si, che le parole ascolto ? 

Quest' e Mose ; ben me '1 diceva il folto 
Onor del mento, e '1 doppio raggio in fronte, 
Quest' e Mose, quaiido scendea del monte, 
E gran parte del Nume avea nel volto 

Tal era allor, che le sonanti, e vaste 
Acque ei sospese a se d' intorno, e ti.e 
Quando il mar chiuse, e ne fe tomba aitrui 

E vol sue turbe un rio vilello alzasle ? 
Alzata aveste imago a questa eguale ! 
Ch' era men fallo 1' adorar costui. 



Canto iv. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



513 



Israel left 'Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or hues of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne, 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 

The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me,'^ 
The Ghibellme, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress. 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, 
Fragrant as fair, and recognised afar. 
Wafting its native incense through the skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvass or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise. 

Shall feel the power of that which they destroy ; 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her channs to pontiffs proud, ^ who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burden, and to serve a need, 
To sell his labors, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed. 

But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 



t" And who is he that, shaped in sculptured stone, 
Sits giant-like ? stern monument of art 
Unpaiallel'd, while language seems to start 

From his prompt lips, and we his precepts own ? 

— 'Tis Moses ; by his beard's thick honors known, 
And the twin beams that from his temples dart ; 
'Tis Moses ; seated on the mount apart, 

Whilst yet the Godhead o'er his features shone 

Such once he look'd, when ocean's sounding wave 
Suspended hung, and such amidst the storm, 
When o'er his foes the refluent waters roar'd. 

An idol calf his followers did engrave ; 
But had they raised this awe-commanding form, 
Then had they with less guilt their work adored." 

Rogers.] 

1 The Last Judgment, in the Sistine Chapel.— [•' It is ob- 
vious, throughout Michael Angelo's works, that the poetical 
mind of Dante influenced his feelings.. The demons in the 
Last Judgment, with all their mixed and various passions, 
may find a prototype in ' La Divina Commedia.' The figures 
rising from the grave mark his study of ' L' Inferno e il Pur- 
gatorio ;' and the subject of the Brazen Serpei'., in the Sis- 
tine Chapel, must remind every reader of can,.> x.xv. deli' 
Inferno, where the flying serpents, the writliings and con- 
tortions of the human body from envenomed wounds, are 
described with pathos and horror ; and the execution of 
Haman, in the opposite angle of the same ceiling, is doubt- 
less designed from these lines, — 

'Poi piovve dentro all' alta fantasia 
Un crocifisso dispettoso e fiero 
Nella sua vista, e cotal si moria. 
Intorno ed esso era '1 grande Assuero 
Ester sua sposa, e '1 giusto Mardocheo, 
Che fu al dire ed al far cosi 'ntero.' "— Duppa.] 

2 I have lead somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot re- 
collect where) that Dante was so great a favorite of Michael 
Angelo's, that lie had designed the whole of the Divina Com- 
media ; but that the volume containing these studies was 
lost by sea.— [" Michael Angelo's copy of Dante," says Dup- 
pa, " was a large folio, with Landino's commentary ; and 
upon the broad margin of the leaves he designed, with a pen 
and ink, all the interesting subjects. This book was pos- 
sessed by Antonio Montauti, a sculptor and architect of 



65 



Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
Tread on the universal necks that bow. 

And then assure us that their rights are thine 7 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame, 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shiiio 

From high, they whom the nations oftest name. 
Must pass their days in penury or pain. 
Or step to grandeur tlirougli the paths of shanio, 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ^ 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their own souls sustain a harder proof, 
The inner war cf passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when tny harsh sentence razed my rco*, 

I lovec t!\ee ; but the vengeance of my verse. 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse. 

Shall live, outliving all thou boldest dear. 

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that, 
The most infernal of all evils here. 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings. 
And demagogues yield to them but in date, 

As swept off sooner; in all deadly things 

Which make men hate themselves, and one another, 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother. 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape. 
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother. 

And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, 

To fly back to tliee in despite of wrong. 
An exile, saddest of all prisoners,* 



Florence, who, being appointed architect to St. Peter's, re 
moved to Rome, and shipped his effects at Leghorn for 
Civita Vecchia, among which was this edition of Dante : in 
the voyage the vessel foundered at sea, and it was unfortu- 
nately lost in the wreck."] 

3 See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius II., and 
his neglect by Leo X.— [Julius II. was no sooner seated on 
tlie papal throne than he was surrounded by men of genius, 
and Michael Angelo was among the first invited to his court. 
The pope had a personal attachment to him, and conversed 
with him upon every subject, as well as sculpture, with 
familiarity and friendship ; and, that he might visit him fre- 
quently, and with perfect convenience, caused a covered 
bridge to be made from the Vatican palace to his study, to 
enable him to pass at al) limes without being observed. On 
paying his visit one morning, Michael Angelo was rudely 
interrupted by the person in waiting, who said, " I have an 
order not to let you enter." Michael felt with indignation 
this unmerited disgrace, and, in the warmth of resentment, 
desired him to tell the Pope, " from that time forward, if his 
Holiness should want him, he should have to seek him in 
another place." Onhis return home, he ordered his servants 
to sell the furniture in his house to the Jews, and to follow 
him to Florence. Himself, the same evening, took post, 
and arrived at Poggibonzi castle, in Tuscany, before he 
rested. The Pope dispatched five couriers, with orders to 
conduct him back : but he was not overtaken until he was 
in a foreign state. A reconciliation was, however, a few 
months after, eflected at Bologna, through the mediation 
of the gonfaloniere. As Michael Angelo entered the pres- 
ence chamber, the Pope gave him an askance look of dis- 
pleasure, and after a short pause saluted him, " In the stead 
of your coming to us, you seem to have expected that we 
should wait upon you." Michael Angelo replied with sub- 
mission, that his error arose from too hastily feeling a dis- 
grace that he was unconscious of meriting, and hoped his 
Holiness would pardon what was past. The Pope there- 
upon gave him his benediction, and restored him to liis 
friendship. The whole reign of Leo X. was a blank in t.ie 
life of Michael Angelo.— Duppa.] 

4 [In his " Convito," Dante speaks of his banishment, and. 
the poverty and distress which attended it, in very aflectlng; 
terms. " Alas i" said he, " had it pleased the Dispenser of . 



514 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
Seas, mount'iins, and the horizon's verge for bars, 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers, 
His country's, and might die where he had birth — 

Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 

To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth, 
And seek to honor with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain' — Alas! 

" What have I done to thee, my people?'"' Stem 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's" common malice, for 



the Univ3rse, that the occasion of this excuse had never ex- 
isted ; that neither others had committed wrong against me, 
nor r suffered unjustly ; suffered, I say, the punishment of 
exile and of poverty ; since it was the pleasure of the citi- 
zens of that fairest and most renowned daughter of Rome, 
Florence, to cast me forth out of her sweet bosom, in which 
I had my birth and nourishment even to the ripeness of my 
age, and in which, with her good- will, I desire, with all my 
heart, to rest this wearied spirit of mine, and to terminate 
the time allotted to me on earth. Wandering over almost 
every part, to which this our language extends, I have gone 
about like a mendicant, showing against my will the wound 
with wliicii fortune has smitten me, and which is often im- 
puted to his ill-deserving on whom it is inflicted. I have, 
indeed, been a vessel without sail and without steerage, 
carried about to divers ports, and roads, and shores, by the 
dry wind that springs out of sad poverty, and have appeared 
before the eyes of many who, perhaps, from some report 
that had reached them, had imagined me of a different form ; 
in whose sight not only my person was disparaged, but 
every action of mine became of less value, as well already 
performed, as those which yet remained for me to attempt."] 
1 [About the year 1316, the friends of Dante succeeded in 
obtainmg his restoration to his country and his possessions, 
on condition that he should pay a Cb? tain sum of money, 
and, entering a church, there avow hin.self guilty, and asic 
pardon of the republic. The following was his answer, on 
this occasion, to one of his kinsmen : — " From your letter, 
which I received with due respect and affection, I observe 
how much you have at heart my restoration to my country. 
I am bound to you the more gratefully, that an exile rarely 
finds a friend. But, after mature consTTleration, I must, by 
my answer, disappoint the wishes of some little minds ; and 
I confide in the judgment to which your impartiality and 
prudence will lead you. Your nephew and mine has writ- 
ten to me, what indeed had been mentioned by many other 
friends, that by a decree concerning the exiles, I am allowed 
to return to Florence, provided I pay a certain sum of 
money, and submit to the humiliation of asking and receiv- 
ing absolution ; wherein, my Father, I see two propositions 
that are ridiculous and impertinent. 1 speak of the imper- 
tinence of those who mention such conditnii to me : for 
in your letter, dictated by judgment and discretion, there is 
no such thing. Is such an invitation to return to his coun- 
try glorious for Dante, after suffering in exile almost fifteen 
years? Is it thus, then, they would recompense innocence 
which all the world knows, and the labor and fatigue of un- 
remitting study? Far from the man who is familiar with 
philosophy be the senseless baseness of a heart of earth, 
that could do like a little sciolist, and imitate the infamy of 
some otliers, by offering himself up as it were in chains. 
Far from the man who cri aloud for justice this compro- 
mise, by his money, with his persecutors ! No, my Father, 
this is not the way that shall lead me back to my country. 
But f shall return with has'.y steps, if you or any otlier can 
open to me a way that sha._ not derogate from the fame 
and honor of Dante ; but if by no such way Florence can 
be enterL'd, then Florence I shall never enter. What 1 shall 
I not everywhere enjoy the sight of the sun and stars ? and 
may I not seek and contemplate, in every corner of the 
eartii under the canopy of heaven, consoling and delightful 
truth, without first rendering myself inglorious, nay in- 
famous, to the people and republic of Florence? Bread, I 
hope will not fail me." Yet he continued to experience 
" How salt the savor is of others' bread. 

How ha'rd the passage to descend and climb 

By others' stairs '" 



All that a citizen could be I was ; 
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war. 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis done 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
Foretelling them to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come 

When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
a tear. 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.' 



His countrymen persecuted even his memory : he was ex 
communicated after death by the Pope.] 

2 " E scrisse piu volte non solamente a particolari citta- 
dini del reggimento, ma ancora al popolo, e intra 1' altre 
una Epistola assai lunga che commcia. -.—^ Popule mi, quid 
feci tibi V " — Vita di Dante, scritta da Lionardo Arctino. 

s [Dante died at Ravenna in 1321, in tlie palace of his 
patron. Guide Novello da Polenta, who testified his sorrow 
and respect by the surnptuousness of his obsequies, and by 
giving orders to erect a monument, which he did not live to 
complete. His countrymen showed, too late, that they 
knew the value of what they had lost. At the beginning of 
the next century, they entreated that the mortal remains of 
their illustrious citizen might be restored to them, and de- 
posited among the tombs of their fathers. But the people 
of Ravenna were unwilling to part wqth the sad and honor- 
able memorial of their own hospitality. No better success 
attended the subsequent negotiations of the Florenui.cs for 
the same purpose, though renewed under the auspices of 
Leo X., and conducted through the rowerful mediation of 
Michael Angelo. 

Never did any poem rise so suddenly into notice, after 
the death of its author, as the Divina Commedia. About the 
year 1350, Giovanni Visconti, Archbishop of Blilan, selected 
six of the most learned men in Italy, — two divines, two 
philosophers, and two Florentines,— and gave them in 
charge to contribute their joint endeavors towards the com- 
pilation of an ample comment, a copy of which is preserved 
m the Laurentian library. At Florence, a public lecture 
was founded for the purpose of explaining a poem, which 
was at the same time the boast and the disgrace of the city. 
The decree for this institution was passed in 1373 ; and in 
that year Boccaccio was appointed, with a salary of a hun- 
dred florins, to deliver lectures in one of the churches on 
the finst of their poets. The example of Florence was 
speedily followed by Bologna, Pisa, Piacenza, and Venice. 
It is only within a few years that the merits of this great 
and original poet were attended to and made known in this 
country. And this seems to be owing to a translation of the 
very pathetic story of Count Ugolino ; to the judicious and 
spirited summary given of this poem in the 31st section of 
the History of English Poetry ; and to Mr. Hayley's trans- 
lations of the three cantos of the Inferno. "Dante be- 
lieved," says Ugo Foscolo, " that, by Ms sufferings on earth, 
he atoned for the errors of humanity— 

' Ma la bonta divina ha si gran braccia, 

Che prende cib che si rivolge a lei.' 
' So wide arms 

Hath goodness infinite, that it receives 

All who turn to it.' — 
And he seems to address Heaven in the attitude of a wor- 
shipper, rather than a supphant Being convinced ' that 
Man is then truly happy when he freely exercises all his 
energies,' he walked through the world with an assured 
step, -keeping his vigils'— 

' So that nor night nor slumber with close stealth 
Convey'd from him a single step in all 
The goings on of time.' 
He collected the opinions, the follies, the vicissitudes, the 
miseries, and the passions that agitate mankind ; and left 
behind him a monument, which, while it humbles us by the 
representation of our own wretchedness, should make ug 
glory that we partake of the same nature with such b man, 
.and encourage us to make the best use of our fleetiTig ex 
istence "J 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 



515 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI/ 



DANTE, L'INFERNO 



SiEDE la t&rra dove nata fui 

Sii la marina, dove il Po discende, 

Per aver pace coi seguaci sui. 
Amor, che al cor gentil ratto s' apprende, 

Prese cestui della bella persona 

Cho mi fu tolta ; e il modo ancor m' offende. 
Amor, che a nullo amato aniar perdona, 

Mi prese del cestui piacer si forte, 

Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona ; 
Amor condusse noi ad una morte : 

Caini^ atteude chi in vita ci speiise :® 



1 [This translation, of what is generally considered the 
most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina Commedia, 
was executed in March, 1820, at Ravenna, where, just Ave 
centuries before, and in the very house in which the unfor- 
tunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed. 

In mitigation of the crime of Francesca, Boccaccio relates, 
that " Guido engaged to give his daughter in marriage to 
Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy, the master of Rimini. 
Lanciotto, who was hideously deformed in countenance and 
figure, foresaw that, if he presented himself in person, he 
should be rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to 
marry her by proxy, and sent as his representative his 
younger brother, Paolo, the handsomest and most accom- 
plished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo arrive, and 
imagined she beheld her future husband. That mistake was 
the commencement of her passion. The friends of Guido 
addressed him in strong remonstrances, and mournful pre- 
dictions of the dangers to which he exposed a daughter, 
whose high spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with 
impunity But Guido was no longer in a condition to make 
war ; and the necessities of the politician overcame the 
feelings of the father." 

In transmitting his version to Mr. Murray, Lord Byron 
says — " Enclosed you will find, line for line, in third rhyme, 
{terza rima,) of which your British blackguard reader as yet 
understands nothing, Fanny of Rimini. You know that she 
was born here, and married, and slain, from Gary, Boyd, 
and such people. I have done it into cramp English, line 
for line, and rhyme for rhyme, to try the possibility. If it 
is pubhshed, publish it with the original." 

In one of the poet's MS. Diaries we find the following pas- 
sage:— "January 29, 1821. past midnight — one of the clock. 
I have been reading Frederick Schlegel, (' Lectures on the 
History of Literature, Ancient and Modern,') till now, and I 
can make out nothing. He evidently shows a great power of 
words, but there is nothing to be taken hold of. He is like 
Hazlitt in English, who talks pimples ; a red and white corrup- 
tion rising up, (in little imitation of mountains upon maps,) 
but containing nothing, and discharging nothing, except their 
own humors. I like him the worse, (that is, bchlegel,) be- 
cause he always seems upon the verge of meaning ,■ and, lo ! 
he goes down like sunset, or melts like a rainbow, leaving a 
ratiier rich confusion. Of Dante, he says, that 'at no time 
has the greatest and most national of all Italian poets ever 
been much the favorite of his countrymen 1' 'Tis false. 
There have been more eiMl ' 's and commentators (and imita- 
tors ultimately) of Dante tha._ of all their poets put together. 
Nat a favorite ! Why, they talk Dante— write Dante— and 
think and dream Dante, at this moment, (1821,) to an excess 
which would be ridiculous, but that he deserves it. He says 
also that Dante's ' chief defect is a want, in a word, of gentle 
feelings.' Of gentle feelings I — and Francesca of Rimini — 
and the father's feelings in Ugolino — and Beatrice — and 
' La Pia I' Why, there is a gentleness in Dante beyond all 
gentleness, when he is tender. It is true that, treating of the 
Christian Hades, or Hell, there is not much scope or site for 
gentleness : but who but Dante could have introduced any 
gentleness' at all into hell ? Is there any in Milton's ? No 
—and Dante's Heaven is all love, and glory, and majesty." 
This translation was nrsi puDnsned m i830.] 

2 [Francesca, daughter of Guido da Polenta, Lord of Ra- 
venna and of Cervia, was given by her father in marriage to 
Lanciotto, son of Malatesta, Lord'of Rimini, a man of extra- 
ordinary courage, but deformed in his person. His brother, 



FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE. 



" The land virhere I was born' sits by the seas, 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends, 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, 
Seized him for the fair person which v, ls ta'eu* 
From me, and me even yet the mode oiFends. 

Love, who lo none beloved to love again 

Remits, seized mo with wish to please, so strong, 
That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 

But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" 



Paolo, who unhappily possessed those graces which the 
husband of Francesca wanted, engaged her affections ; and 
being taken in adultery, they were both put to death by the 
enraged Lanciotto. The interest of this pathetic narrative 
is much increased, when it is recollected that the father of 
this unfortunate lady was the beloved friend and generous 
protector of Dante during his latter days. See ante, p. 514, 
and also Canto xxvii. of the Inferno, where Dante, speak- 
ing of Ravenna, says — 

L' aquila da Polenta la si cova. 

Si che Cirvia ricopre co' suoi vanni. 
There Polenta's eagle broods. 

And in his broad circumference of plume 

O'ershadows Cervia. Oaky. 

Guido was the son of Ostasio da Polenta, and made himself 

master of Ravenna in 1265. In 1322, he was deprived of his 

sovereignty, and died at Bologna in the year following. He 

is enumerated, by Tiraboschi, among the poets of his time.] 

3 Ravenna. 

•" [Among Lord Byron's unpublished letters we find the 
following : — 
" Varied readings of the translation from Dante. 

Seized him for the fair person, which in its 
Bloom was ta'en from me, yet the mode offends. 

or. 
Seized him for the fair form, of which in its 
Bloom I was reft, and yet the mode offends. 
Love, which to none beloved to love remits, 

c with mutual w^ish to please 1 
Seized me < with wish of pleasing him > so strong, 

( with the desire to please ) 
That, as thou see'st, not yet that passion quits, &c. 

You will find these readings vary from the MS. I sent you 
They are closer, but rougher ; take which is liked best ; or, 
if you like, print them as variations. They are all close to 
the text." — Byron Letter->.\ 

6 [From Cain, the first fratricide. By Caina we are to 
understand that part of the Inferno to which murderers are 
condemned.] 

s [Tlie whole history of woman's love is as highly and 
completely wrought, we think, in these few iines, as that of 
Juliet in the whole tragedy of Shakspeare. Francesca im- 
putes the passion her brother-in-law conceived for her, not 
to depravity, but nobleness of heart in him, and to her own 
loveliness. With a mingled feeling of keen sorrow and 
complacent naiveti:', she says she was fair, and that an igno- 
minious death robbed him of her beauty. She confesses 
that she loved, because she was beloved,— that charm had 
deluded her ; and she declares, with transport, that joy had 
not abandoned her even in hell — 

; " piacer si forte, 

Che, come vedi, ancor non m' abbandona." 
It is thus that Dante unites perspicuity with conciseness, rjid 
the most naked simplicity with the profoundest cbservation 
of the heart. Her guilty passion survives its punishment by 
Heaven — but without a shade of impiety. How striking is 
the contrast of her extreme happiness in the midst of tor- 
ments that can never cease ; when, resuming her narratir^e, 
she looks at her lover, and repeats with enthujiasm— 
" Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso" — 



516 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Qaeste parole da lor ci fur porte. 

Da ch' io intesi quell' auime offonse 
Chiiiai il viso, e tanto il tenui basso 
Fin che il Poeta mi disse : " Che pense ?" 

Quando risposi incomminciai : " Ahi lasso ! 
Quanti dolci pensier, quaiito desio 
Menf) costoro al doloroso passo !" 

Poi mi rivolsi a loro, e parlai io, 

E cominciai : Francesca, i tuoi martiri 
A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio. 

Ma dimmi : al tempo de' dolci sospiri 
A che, e come coucedctte Amore 
Che conosceste i dubbicsi desiri ? 

Ed ella a me : nessuu maggior dolore 
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Nella miseria ;' e cit) sa il tuo dottore. 

Ma se a couoscer la prima radice 

Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto aiFetto 
Faro- come colui che piange e dice. 

Noi leggevamo un giorno per diletto 
Di I.aucillotto,^ come Amor Io strinse : 
Soli eravamo, e senza alcuii sospetto. 

Per pill fiate gli occhi ci sospiuse 
Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso: 
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse. . 

Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 
Esser baciato da cotanto amante, 
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, 

La bocca mi bacif) tutto tremante : 
Galeotto fu il libro, e chi Io scrisse — 
Quel giorno piii non vi leggemmo avante. 

Mentre che 1' uno spirto questo disse, 
L' altro piangeva si che di pietade 
Io venni men cosi com' io morisse, 

E caddi come corpo morto cade. 



She nevertheless goes on to relieve her brother-in-law from 
all imputation of having seduced her. Alone, and uncon- 
scious of their danger, they read a love-story together. They 
gazed upon each other, pale with emotion ; but the secret 
of their mutual passion never escaped their lips : — 
" Per piu fiate gli occhi ci sospinse 
Quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso ; 
Ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse." 
The description of two happy lovers in the story was the 
ruin of Francesca. It was the romance of Lancilot and 
Genevra, wife of Arthur, King of England : — 
" Quando leggemmo il disiato riso 
Esser baciato da cotanto amante, 
Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso, 
La Locca mi bacib tutto tremante." 
After tnis avowal, she hastens to complete the picture witn 
one touch which covers her wth confusion - 

" Quel giorno pit; non v 5ggemmo avante." 
She utters not another word !— and yet we fancy her before 
us, with her downcast and glowing looks ; whilst her lover 
stands by her side, listening in silenca and in tears. Dante, 
too, who had hitherto questioned her, no longer ventures to 
inquire in what planner her husband had put her to death ; 
but is so overawed by pity, that he sinks into a swoon. Nor 
is this to be considered as merely a poetical exaggeration. 
The poet had probably known her when a girl, blooming in 
innocence and beauty under the paternal roof. This, we 
think, is the true account of the overwhelming sympathy 
with which her form overpowers him. The episode, too, 
was written by him in the very house in which she was 
born, and in which he had himself, during the last ten years 
of his exile, found a constant asylum. — Macaulat. 
" I pass eavii day where Dante's bones are laid ; 
A little cupola, more neat than solemn. 
Protects his dust, — but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
The time must come when, both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth. 
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth." 

Don Juan, Canto iii.l 
I [" In omni adversitate fortunae infelicissimum genus in- 
foitunii est fuisse felicein." — Boctius Dante himself tells us, 



These were the accents utter'd by her tonguo.— 
Since I first listen'd to these souls offended, 

I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till — [bended, 

" What think'st thou ?" said the bard ; when I uu- 
And recommenced : " Alas ! unto such ill 

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, 

Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 
And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, 

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies 

Have made me sorrovi^ till the tears arise. 
But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, 

By what and how thy love to passion rose. 

So as his dim desires to recognise ?" 
Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 

Is to remind us of our happy days^ 

In misery, and that thy teacher knows." 
But if to learn our passion's first root preys 

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 

I will do even as he who weeps and says.* — 
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, 

Of Lancilot, how love euchain'd him too. 

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously. 
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 

All o'er discolor'd by that reading were : 

But one point only wholly us o'erthrew f 
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of hor. 

To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover,® 

He who from me can be divided ne'er 
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 

Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! 

That day no further leaf we did uncover." 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot, 

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 

I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote. 
And fell down even as a dead body falls." 



that Boetius and Cicero de Amicitia were the two first 
books that engaged his attention.] 

- [" In some of the editions it is ' dirb,' in others ' faro ;' — 
an essential difference between 'saying' and 'doing,' wliich 
I know not how to decide. Ask Foscolo. The d — — d edi- 
tions drive me mad." — Lord Byron to Mr. M.I 

3 [One of the Knights of Arthur's Round Table, and the 
lover of Genevra, celebrated in romance. See Southey"'! 
"King Arthur," vol. i. p. 52. Whitaker, the historian o. 
Manchester, makes out for the knight both a local habitation 
and a name. " The name of Lancelot, ' he says, " is an ap- 
pellation truly British, and significative of royalty ; Lance 
being a Celtic term for a spear, and Leod, Lod, or Lot, im- 
porting a people. He was therefore (!) a British sovereign ; 
and since he is denominated Lancelot of the Lake, perhaps 
(!) he resided at Coccium, in the region Linnis, and was the 
monarch of Lancashire ; as the kings of Creones, living at 
Selma, on the forest of Morven, are generally denominated 
sovereigns of Morven; or, more properly, was King of 
Cheshire, and resided at Pool-ton Lancelot, in the hundred 
of Wirrall." See also Ellis's Specimens of early Romances, 
vol. i. p. 271.] 

^ t" IS to j 'r^emlLdr^f' i -^^ happy days."-MS.] 

6 [" In misery, and \ J'jJ^^j | thy teacher knows."— MS ] 

6 [" I will I Iq^^H^ I as he weeps and says."— MS.] 

7 [" But one pomt only us \ ^threT | -"-MS.] 

8 [" To be thus kiss'd by such | devoted* ( lover."-MS.] 

[The episode of Francesca of Rimini is thus translated 
by Gary : and it is only justice to Lord Byron to give the 
passage here, in order to show how he succeeded in over- 
coming all the thlEculties of rhyme, with which Mr. Caiy 
does not grapple : — 

" ' The land that gave me birth 
Is situate on the coast, where Po descend? 
To rest in ocean with his sequent streanr.s 

" ' Love, that in gentle heart is quickly jtemt, 
Entangled liim by that fair form, from me 




"Ws read are day foi pastime, seated uigh.- 
Ofla11.c3lcrt.lLaw love eadiamUlim too 



THE BLUES. 



617 



THE BLUESi 



A LITERARY ECLOGUE.' 



" Nimium ne crede colorl" — Virgil. 
O trust not, ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Though your hair were as red as your stockings are blue. 



ECLOGUE FIRST.^ 

London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 

Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 

Ink. You're too late. 
Tra. Is it over? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are erainm'd, like a garden in flower, 
With the pride of our belles, who have made it the 
fashion ; [passion" 

So, instead of " beaux arts," we may say " la belle 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Wordswords 

and Co.' 
With their damnable — 



Ta'en in ?uch cruel sort, as grieves me still : 
Love, tLat denial takes from none beloved, 
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well. 
That, as thou seest, he yet deserts me not. 
Love brought us to one death : Caina waits 
The so\il, who spilt our life.' Such were their words ; 
At hearing which downward I bent my looks, 
And held them there so long, that the Bard cried : 
' What art thou pondering ? I in answer thus : 
' Alas I by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire. 
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach'd !' 
" Then turning, I to them my speech address'd, 
And thus began : ' Francesca 1 your sad fate 
Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
But te.. me ; m the time of your sweet sighs. 
By waat, and how Love granted, that ye knew 
Your yet uncertain wishes ?' She replied : 
' No greater grief than to remember days 
Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens 
Thy learn'd instructor. Yet so eagerly 
If thou art bent to know the primal root 
FrL^m whence our love gat being, I will do 
As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day 
For our delight, we read of Lancelot, 
How him love thrall'd. Alone we were, and no 
Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading 
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue 
Fled from our alter'd cheek. But at one poin 
Alone we fell. When of th it smile we read, 
The wished smile, so rapturously kiss'd 
By one s ) deep in love, then he, who ne'er 
From m ; shall separate, at once my lips 
All trembling kiss'd. The book and writer both 
Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day 
We read no more.' While thus one spirit spake. 
The other wail'd so sorely, that heart-struck, 
I, through compassion fainting, seem'd not far 
From death, and like a corse fell to the ground." 
The story of Francesca and Paolo is a great favorite with 
the Italians. It is noticed by all the historians of Ravenna. 
Petrarch introduces it, in his Trionfi d' Amore, among his 
examples of calamitous passion ; and Tassoni, in his Sec- 
chia Rapita, represents Paolo Malatesta as leading the 
troops of Rimini, and describes him, when mounted on his 
charger, as conterj:plating a golden sword-chain, presented 
to iiim by Francesca : — 

" Rimini vien con I? bandiera sesta, 
Guida miile cavalli, e mille fanti— 



Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to? 

Tra. Right well, boy, and so does " the Row :"* 
You're an author — a poet — 

Ink. And think you that I 

Can stand tamely in silence to hear you decry 
The Muses? 

Tra. Excuse me : I meant no offence 

To the Nine ; though the number who make some 
pretence 

To their favors is such but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot from a pubhsher's shop, 
(Next door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces. 
As one finds every author in one of those places ;) 
Where I just had been skimming a charming critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend — you know who — has just got 
such a threshing, 



Halli donata al dispartir Francesca 
L' aurea catena, a cui la spada appende. 
La vi mirando al misero, e rinfresca 
Quel foco ognor, che 1' anima gli accende, 
Quanto cerca fuggir, tanto s' invesca." 

" To him Francesca gave the golden chain 

At parting-time, from which his sword was hung ; 

The wretched lover gazed at it with pain, 
Adding new pangs to those his heart had wrung ; 

The more he sought to fly the luscious bane, 
The firmer he was bound, the deeper stung."] 

1 [This trifle, which Lord Byron has himself designated 
as a " mere buflbonery, never meant for publication," was 
written in 1820, and first appeared m " The Liberf..." The 
personal allusions in which it abounds are, for the xaa: part, 
sufficiently intelligible ; and, with a few exceptions, so good- 
humored, that the parties concerned may be expected to 
join in the laugh.] 

2 [" About the year 1781, it was much the fashion for 
several ladies to have evening assemblies, where the fair sex 
might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious 
men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were 
denominated Blue-Uocking Clubs ; the origin of which title 
tieing little known, it may be worth while to relate it One 
of the most eminent members of those societies, when they 
first commenced, was Mr. StiUingfleet, whose dress was 
remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that ho 
wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his con- 
versation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that 
it used to be said, ' We can do nothing without the blue 
stockings ;' and thus by degrees the title was established." — 
Boswell, vol. viii. p. 86. Sir WiUiam Forbes, in his Life of 
Dr. Beattie, says, that " a foreigner of distinction hearing 
the expression, translated it literally, ' Bas Bleu,' by which 
these meetings came to be distinguished. Miss Hannah 
More, who was herself a member, has written a poem with 
the title of ' Bas Bleu,' in allusion to this mistake of the 
foreigner, in which she has characterized most of the emi- 
nent personages of which it was composed.''] 

3 [See the stanzas on Messrs. Wordsworth and Southev 
in Don Juan, canto iii.J 

4 [Paternoster-row— long; and still celebrated as a very 
bazaar of booksellers. Sir Walter Scott " hit.^hes iiito 
rhyme" one of the most important firms — that 

" Of Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown 
Our fathers of the Row."] 



518 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely " refreshing."^ 
What a beautiful word I 

Ink Very true ; 'tis so soft 

And so cooling — they use it a little too oft ; 
Aii<? the papers have got it at last — but no matter. 
So they've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. Not left him a tatter — 

Not a rag of his present or past reputation. 
Which they call a disgrace to the age and the nation. 

Ink. I'm sorry to hear this 1 for friendship, you 

know 

Our poor friend! — but I thought it would terminate 

so. 
Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. 
You don't happen to have the Review in your pocket? 

Tra. No ; I left a round dozen of authors and others 
(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
AH scrambling and jostling, like so many imps. 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 

Ink. Let us join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 

Ink. Why, the place is so cramm'd, there's not 
room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 

Tra. How can you know that till you hear him? 

Ink. I heard 

Quite enough ; and, to tell you the truth, my retreat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 

Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 

Ink. Loss ! — such a palaver ! 

I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, 
Fump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such labor, 

That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbor. 

Tra. I make you ! 

Ink. Yes, you ! I said nothing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill 7 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. When speaking of Scamp ill, 

I cex\.a.m\j folloio, not set an example. 
The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tru. And the crowd of to-day shows that one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. ■ Pray, then, lot us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

hik. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jews' harp ": ^ nicknames his lyre. 
To call you to this hotbed. 

Tra. I own .L-^'tis true — 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra. Miss Lilac ! 

Ink. The Blue ! 

The heiress ? 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil ! why, man I 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac ! 'twould be your perdition: 
She's a poet, a chymist, a mathematician. 

Trat I say she's an angel. 



1 [Tills cant phrase was first used in the Edinburgh Re- 
viev — probably by Mr. Jeffrey.] 

s [" Her favorite, science was the mathematical ■ 

In. short she was a walking calculation, 



Ijik. Say rather an atiglc. 

If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle.^ 
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tra. And is that any cause for not coming to- 
gether ? 

Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alliance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 

science. 
She's so learn'd in all things, and fond of concerning 
Herself in all matters connected with learning, 
That 

Tra. What? 

Ink. I perhaps naay as well hold my tongue ; 

But there's five hundred people can tell you you're 
wrong. 

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. 

Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue? 

Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you — something 
of both. 
The girl's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good ,£.dy-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I 

demand [hand. 

Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 

Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand — that hand 
on the pen. 

Tra. A propos — Will you write me a song now 
and then ? 

Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that hi prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
But in rhyme 

Ink. You're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it ; and yet, in these times, there's no 
lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a fes'? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. •■ In my name. I will copy them out, 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? 

Tra. Why, 

Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime? 

Ink. As sublime .' If it be so, no need of my Muse 

Tra. But consider, dear lukel, she's one of the 
" Blues." 

Ink. As sublime I — Mr. Tracy — I've uoth^ug to say. 

Stick to prose — As sublime! ! — but I wish y^j good 

day. [wrong ; 

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I'm 
I own it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 

Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the exjjressiou in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 
bad taste. 

Tra. I own it — I know it — acknowledge it — what 
Can I say to you more? 

Ink. I see what you'd be at: 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, [use. 
Till you think you can turn them best to yuuv own 



Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping froni tneir covers, 

Morality's prim personification 

But — oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen peck'd you al. V 
Don Juan, Canto i.} 



THE BLUES. 



519 



Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 

Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a difference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

And you, who're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet of t' other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and moreover my friend. 

Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know 
what is due 
To a man of but come — let us shake hands. 

Tra. You knew, 

And you know, my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Whatever you publish, am ready to buy. [sale. 

Ink. That "s my bookseller's business ; I care not for 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Renegade's epics, and Botherby's plays,^ 
And my own grand romance 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff 'd in the " Old Girl's Review.'"* 

Ink. What Review ? [Trevoux ;'" 

Tra. 'Tis the English "Journal de 

A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 

Ink. That pleasure 's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 

Ink. Why so? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t' other day. 

Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 

Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout? 

Ink. I've a card, and shall go: but at. present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon, 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits,) 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, , 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation : 
'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and 

praise. 
And I own, for my oivn part, that 'tis not unpleasant. 
Will yon go? There 's Miss Lilac will also be present. 

Tra. That " metal 's attractive." 

Ink. ' No doubt — to the pocket. 

Tra. You should rather encourage my passion than 
shock it. 
But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Very true let us go, then, before they can 
come. 
Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy. 
On the ra k of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark I Zounds, they '11 be on us ; I know by the drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedral tone. 
Ay I there ho is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
Your friends, or he 'II pay you back in your own coin. 

Tra All fair ; 'tis but lecture for lecture. 



1 [Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.] 

2 f" Mv Grandmother's Review, the British." This heavy 
journal has since been gathered to its grandmothers.] 

3 [The " Journal de Trevoux" (in fifty-six volumes) is one 
of tJie most curious collections of literary gossip in the 
world,— and the Poet paid the British Reyiew an extrava- 
gant compUmcn ;, when he made this comparison.] 

[ ' Sotheby is a good man— rhymes well, (if not wisely ;) 
out it. a 00/3 H i seizes you by the button. One night of a 
rout at Mrs Hope's, he had fastened upon me — (something 



Ink. That 's cleax 

But for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore will bo here. 
Come, come : nay, I'm off \Exit Inkel. 

Tra. You are right, and I'll follow ; 

'Tis high time for a " Sic me servavit Apollo."^ 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribssj 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. 

[Exit Tracy 



ECLOGUE SECOND. 



An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle 
— A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle solas. 

Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
The twelve, do I say ? — of the whole twenty-four, 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more? 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining, 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, 

and shining 
In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two. 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall b#done 
In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week, (though they trouble mo 

sore,) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost— 
For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
No pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my pains. 
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains: 
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews. 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of tho.se they call " Blues;" 

A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf ! as I'm not, I'll be dumb. 

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
mount, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss 
Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, 

Lady Blueb. Ah ! Sir Richard, good morning ; I've 

brought you some friends. 
Sir Rich, {bows, and afterwards aside.) If ,'>iends, 

they're the first. 
Lady Blueb. But the luncheon aV.onds. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans ceremonie." 
Mr. Scamp, you're fatigued ; take your chair thbie, 
next me. [They all sit. 



about Agamemnon, or Orestes, or some of his plays) — not- 
withstanding my symptoms of manifest distress — (for I was 
in love, and just nicked a minute when neither mothers, nor 
husbands, nor rivals, nor gossips were near my then idol, 
who was beautiful as the statues of tlie gallery where we 
stood at the time.) Sotheby, 1 say, had seized upon me by 
the button and the heart-strings, and spared neither. Wil- 
liam Spencer, who likes fun, and don't dislike mischief, 
saw my case, and coming up to us both, took me by the 
hand, and pathetically bade me farewell ; ' for,' said he, ' I 
see it is all over with you.' Sotheby then went liis way: 
' sic me servavit Apollo.' " — Bi/ron Diary, 1821.] 



520 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Sir Rich, (aside.) If he does, his fatigue is to come. 

Lady Bleub. Mr Tracy- 

Lady Bkiemount — Miss Lilac — be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr Botherby — 

Both. Oh, my dear lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Bheub. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye: 
You were not at the lecture. 

Ink. Excuse me, I was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part — alas ! 
And when — 

Lady Bleub. To be sure it was broiling: but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that ? there are two more. 

Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Lik. Oh, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp hath this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ; — a wing ? 

Miss Lil. No more, sir, I thank you. Who lectures 
next spring? 

Both. Dick Dander. 

Lik. That is, if he lives. 

Miss Lil. And why not ? 

Ink. No reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount! a glass of Madeira? 

Lady Bluem. With pleasure 

Iiik. How does your friend Wordswords, that Win- 
dermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes, like the leeches he sings. 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
kings ? 

Lady Blueb. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his 
master ; 
For the poet of pedlers 'twere, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the more, as 'tis not [coat. 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and his 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
could but hear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind Jir friend Inkel; we all 
know, my dear, 
'Tis his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Blueb. Excuse me — 'tis one in " the Stamps :" 
He is made a Collector.' 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How? 

Miss Lil. , What? 

Ink. I shall think of him oft when I buy a new hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 

Ink. I sha'n't go so far — I can have them at 
Grange's.'-" 



1 [Mf Wordswortti is collector of stamps for Cumberland 
and Westmoreland.] 

a Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in 
Piccadilly. 

s [" When I belonged to the Drury Lane Committee, the 
nuiiibcr of plays upon the shelves were about five brmdred. 



Lady Blueb. Oh fie ! 

Miss Lil. Aiid for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You're too bad. 

Both. Very good ! 

Lady Bluem. How good? 

Lady Blueb. He means naught — 'tis his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude 

Lady Blueh. He means nothiftg ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Ink. Never mind if he did ; 'twill be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. 

Both. Sir! 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
'Twas in your defence. 

Both. If you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works ; but leave both to a friend. 
A propos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 

Both. A ast? 

Ink. Wh) I thought — that's to say — there had 
pass'd 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted — you know, 
That the taste of the actors at best is so so.^ 

Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's 
the committee. 

Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 

" P'ty 

And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the 

mind," 
I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 

Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to 
have pray'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 

Ink. Well, time enough yet, when the play 's to be, 
play'd. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. The actors are fighting for parts, 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blueb. We 'U all make a party, and go the 

first night. 
Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 
Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double. 
Tra. Why so? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I have no fears on 
that score. 

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind mine ; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
line. 
Lady Bluem. You're a fugitive writer, I think, 

sir, of rhymes? 
Ink. Yes, ma'am ; and a fugitive reader sometimes. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight. 
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common : but 
time and posterity 



Mr. Sotheby obligingly offered us all his tragedies, and I 
pledged myself, and— notwithstanding many squabbles with 
my committee brethren — did get Ivan accepted, read, and 
the parts distributed. But lo ! m the very heart of the mat- 
ter, upon some tepid-ness on the part ot Kean, or warmth 
on that of the author, Sotheby withdrew his play "—Byron 
Diary, 1821.] 



THE BLUES. 



521 



Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

Ink. I've no sort of objection, 

Si» I'm not of the party to take the infection. 

Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they 

ever wilt take ? 
Ink. Not at all ; on the contrary, those of the lake 
Have taken already, and still will continue 
To take — what they can, from a groat to a guinea, 
Of pension or place ; — but the subject 's a bore. 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 

Wliat say you to this? 

Scamp. They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown." 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your 

lectures? 
Scamp. It is only time past which comes under 

my strictiu-es. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a trace with all tartness: — 
the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature I — Grand Shakspeare ! 

Both. And down Aristotle I 

Lady Bluem. Sir George* thinks exactly with Lady 
Bluebottle ; 
And my Lord Seventy-four,'' who protects our dear 

Bard, 
And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard 
For the poet, who, singing of pedlers and asses,^ 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you, Scamp ! — 

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. 

Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who 's already so 
harass'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, 
and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must 
be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be strry 

To know who are not : — it would save us some 
worrj'. 
Lady Blueb. A truce vith remark, and let nothing 
control 
This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soc." 

J ! my dear I\Ir. Botherby ! sympathize !— . 
Now feel such a rapttire, I'm ready to fly, 

1 feel so elastic — " so buoyant — so buoyant .'"■" 

Ink. Trar. ' ! open the window. 

Tra. I wish her much joy on't. 



1 [The late Sir George Beaumont— a constant friend of 
Mr. Wordsworth.] 

[It was not the present Earl of Lonsdale, but James, the 
first earl, who offered to build, and completely furnish and 
man, a ship of seventy-four guns, towards the close of the 
American war, for the service of his country, at his own 
expense ;— hence the soubriquet in the text.] 

* [" We learn from Horace, ' Homer sometimes sleeps ;' 
We feel, without him, Wordsworth sometimes 
wakes, — 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 

With his dear ' wagoners,' around his lakes. 
He wishes for ' a boat' to sail the deeps — 

Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes 
Another outcry for ' a little boat,' 
AdI drivels seas to set it weU afloat. 



Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way ; 'tis an impulse which lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his moun- 
tain ; 
'Tis the source of all sentiment — feeling's true foun- 
tain : 
'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth ; 'tis the gas 
Of the soul : 'tis the seizing of shades as they pass. 
And making them substance : 'lis something divine: — 
Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 

wine ? 
Both. I thank you ; not any more, sir, jll I dine. 
Ink. A propos — Do you dine with Sir Humphry' 

to-day? 
Tra. I should think with Duke Humphry was 

more in your way. 
Ink. It might be of y;re ; but we authors now look 
To the knight, as a lanoicrd, much more than the 

Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is. 
And (except with his publisher) dines where ho 

pleases. 
But 'tis now nearly five, and I must to the Park. 

Tra. And I'll take a turn with you there till 'tis 
And you. Scamp — [dark 

Scamp. , Excuse me ; I must to my notes, 

For my lecture next wtek. 

Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 

Out of " Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueb. Well, nov/ we break up; 

But remember Miss Diddle^ iuvitjs us to sup. 

Ink. Then at two hours past nidnight we all meet 
again. 
For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honor that meal ; 

For 'tis then that our feelings most genuinely — feel. 
Ink. True ; feeling is truest then, far beyond ques- 
tion ; 
I wish to the gods 'twas the same with digestion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw ! — never mind that ; for one 
moment of feeling 
Is worth — God knows what. 

Ink. 'Tis at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows — : — But here comes your 

carriage. 

Sir Rich, {aside.) I wish all these people were 

d d with my marriage ! ' [Exeunt. 



" 'Pedlers,' and ' boats,' and ' wagons !' Oh ! ye shades 
Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this I 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathes' vast abyss 
Floats scumlike uppermost, and fhese Jack Cades 
Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 
The 'little boatman'and his ' Peter Bell' 
Can sneer at him who drew ' Achitophel ' " 

Don Juan, Canto jii.] 
4 Fact from life, with the words. 

6 [The late Sir Humphry Davy, Presideni of the Royal 
Society.] 

6 [The late Miss Lydia White, whose hospitable functions 
have not yet been supplied to the circle of London artists 
and literati — an accomplished, clever, and truly amiable, 
but very eccentric lady. The name in the text cyuld only 
have been suggested by the jingling resemblance it bears to 
Lydia. i 



522 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.' 

BUGOESTED BV THE. COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER." 



" A Daniel come to judgment I yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.** 



PREFACE. 

It hatn oeen wisely said, that " One .ool makes 
many ;" and it hath been poetically obsened, 

** That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had 
no business, and where he never was before, and 
never will be again, the following poem would not 



1 [In 1821, Mr. Southey published a piece, in English 
hexameters, entitled "A Vision of Judgment f and which 
Lord Byron, in criticising it, laughs at as "the Apotheosis 
of George the Third," In the preface to this poem, after 
some observations on the peculiar style of its versiiication, 
Mr. Southey introduced the following remarks:— 

" I am well aware that the public are peculiarly intolerant of such inno- 
vations- not less so than the populace are of any foreig-n fashion, wJiether 
of foppery or convenience. Would that this literary iutolerance were under 
the influence of a eaner judg-ment, and reg-arded the morals more than 
the mannejr of a composition: the spirit rather than the form! Would 
that it were directed against those monstrous combmations of horrors and 
mockery, lewdness and iiripiety, with which English poetry has, in our 
days, first been polluted ! For more than half a century English literature 
hail been distinguished by its moral purity, the effect, and, in its turn, the 
cause, of an improvement in national mann«rs, A father might, without ap- 
prehension of evil, have put into the hands of his children any book wiiich 
issued from the press, if it did not bear, eitlier in its title-page or frontis- 
piece, manifest signs that it was intended as furniture for the brotliel. 
There was no danger in any work which bore the name of a respectable 
publisher, or was to be procured at any respectable bookseller*s. This was 
particularly the case witli regard to our poetry. It is now no longer so: 
and wo to those by whom tlie offence coineth ! The greater the talents 
of the offender, the greater is his guilt, and the more enduring will be his 
shame. Whether it be lliat the laws are in themselves unable to abate an 
evil ot this mug-nitude, or whether it be that they are remissly administered, 
a".d with such injustice that the celebrity of an offender serves as a privilege 
wiiereby he obtains impunity, individuals are bound to consider that such 
pernicious works would neither be published nor written, if they were dfs- 
couraufed as they might, and ouo;ht to be, by public feeling- : every persa-i. 
therelore, who purchases such books, or admits them into his house, promotes 
the mischief, and thereby, as far as iu him lies, becomes an aider and abettor 
of the criir.j. 

"The puj nation of a lascivious book is one of the worst offences which 
can be commuted against the well-bans- sf society. It is a sin, to the con- 
sequences of which no iinLa can be ^^t ood, and those consequences no 
after-repentance in the writer can counteru.ci. Whatever remorse of con- 
science lie may feel when his hour comes, (and come it must!) will be of no 
avad. The poignancy of a death-bed lepentance cannot cancel one copy of 
the thousands wiiich are sent abroad; and as long as it continues to be read, 
BO long is he the pander of posterity, and so long- is he heaping up guilt upon 
bis soul in perpetuai accumulation. 

'* These remarks are not more severe than the offence deserves, even 
when applied to those immoral writers who have not been conscious of any 
evil intention in their writings, who would acknowledge a little levity, a 
little warmth of coloring, and so 'brlh, in that sort of language with 
which men gloss over their favorite r"es, and deceive themselves. What 
then should be said of those for whom tne thoughtlessness and inebriety of 
wanton youth can no longer be pleaded, but who have written in sober 
manhood and with deliberate purpose? — Men Of diseased* hearts and de- 
praved imaginations, who, forming a system of opinions to suit their own 
unhappy course of conduct, have rebelled against the holiest ordinances of 
human society, and hating that revealed religion which, with all their 
efforts and bravadoes, they are unable entirely to disbelieve, labor to make 
others as miserable as themselves, by infecting them with a moral virus 



• [" Summi poets in omni poetarum skcuIo viri fuerunt probi: in nos- 
Iris id vidimus et videmus; neque alius est error a veritate longids quam 
magna ingenia magiiis necessario corrumpi vitiis. Socundo plerique 
posthalieni. primum, hi malignitate, illi ignorantia; et quura ahquem in- 
veniunt styli morumque vitiis notatum, nee inficetum tamen nee in libris 
edendis parcum, eum stipant, pra:dicnnt, occupant, amplectuntur. Si 
mores aliquantulum vellet corrigere, si stylum curare panlulum, si fervido 
ingenib temperare, si morae lantillum inlerponere, turn ingens nescio quid 
et verfe epicum, quadraginta annos natus, procuderat. Ignorant vero febri- 
culis non indicari vires, impatieniiain ab imbecillitate non differre; ignorant 
a levi homine et inconstanie mulia foriasse scribi posse pluequam mediocria, 
ninil compositum, arduum, Eeternum." — Savagius Landor, Ue Cullu atque 
Usu Latmi Sermonis. "This essay, which is full of fine critical remarks 
and Btrikino^ thoughts felicitously expressed, readied me from Pisa, while 
the proof of the present sheet was before me. Of its author (the author of 
Geb:rand Count Julian) 1 will only say in this place, that, to have obtained 
his approbation as a poet, and possessed his Iriendship as a man, will be 
roraerr.osre'' amon^ the honors of my life, when the petty enmities of this 
jrencrauon wi\. be torgotten, and its ephemeral reputatiout shall have passed 
away." — Mr, Southey''s note.] 



have been written. It is not impossible tliat it may 
be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any 
species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. 
The gross . flattery, the dull impudence, the renegade 
intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the 
author of " Wat Tyler," are something sc stupendous 
as to form the sublime of himself — containing the 
quintessence of his own attributes. 



that eats into the so 
called the Satanic e 
Belial in their lasc 

[■es of atrocities and \i> 



10 school which they have set up may properly be 

for O-ough their productions breathe the spirit of 

parts, and the spirit of Moloch in those loathsome 

which Iney delight to represent, they are 



more especially characterized by a Satanic spirit of pride' and and; 
impietv, which still betrays the wretched feeling of hopelessness wherewith 
it is allied. / 

"This evd is political as well as moral, for indeed morai Lnd political 
evils are inseparably connected. Truly has it been atiirined by one of our 
ablest and clearest reasoners, that * the destruction of governments may be 
proved and deduced from the general corruption of the subjects' manners, as 
a direct and natural cause thereof, by a demonstration as certain as any in 
the mathematics.' There is no maxim more frequently enforced by Machi- 
avelli, than that where the manners of a people are generally corrupted, 
there the government cannot long subsist,— a truth which all history ex- 
emplifies: and there is no means whereby that corruption can be so surely 
ami rapidly diffused, as by poisoning tlie waters of literature. 

"Let rulers of the state look to this, in time! But, to use the words of 
Southey, if * our physicians think the best way of curing' a disease is to 
pamper it, — the Lord in mercy prepare the kingdom to suffer, what He by 
miracle only can prevent!' 

" No apology is offered for these remarks. The subject led to them ; pa«l 
the occasion of introducing them was willin^-ly laken, because it is the duty 
of every one, whose opinion may have any influence, to expose the drift and 
aim of those writers who are laboring to subvert the foundations of human 
virtue and of human happiness." 

Lord Byron rejoined as follows : — 

" Mr. Southey, in his pious preface to a poem whose blasphemy is as 
harmless as the' sedition of Wat Tyler, because it is equally absurd with 
that sincere production, calls upon the * legislature to look to it,' as the 
toleration of such writings led to the French Revolution ; 7iot such writing-a 
IS Wat Tyler, but as those of the * Satanic School.' This is not true, 
and Mr. Southey knows it to be*not true. Every French writer of any 
freedom was persecuted; Voltaire and Rousseau were exiles, Marmontel 
and Diderot were sent to the Bastile, and a perpetual war was waged with 
the whole class by the existing despotism. In the next place, the French 
Revolution was not occasioned by any writings whatsoever, but must have 
occurred had no such writers ever existed. It is the fashion to attribute 
every thing to the French Revolution, and the French Revolution to every 
thing but its real cause. That cause is obvious--tlie government exacted 
too much, and the people could neither ^iue nor bear more. Without this, 
the Encyclopedists might have written their fino;ers off without the occur- 
rence of a single alteration. And the English revolution — (the first, I 
mean) — what was it occasioned by? The Puritans were surely as pious and 
moral as Wesley or his biographer ? Acts — acts on the part of government, 
and not writings against them, have caused the past convulsions, and are 
tending to the future. 

"I look upon such as inevitable, though no revolutionist: I wish to see 
the Fnglish constitution restored, and not destroyed. Born a>i aristocrat, 
and naturally one by temper, with the greater part of my present property 
in the funds, what have / to gain by a revolution? Perhaps I have more 
to lose in every way than Mr, Southey, with all his places and presents for 

fanegyrics and abuse into the bargain. But that a revolution is inevitable, 
repeat. The government may exult over the repression of petty tumults; 
these are but the receding waves repulsed and broken for a moment on the 
shore, while the great tide is still rolling on and gaining ground with every 
breaker. Mr. Southey accuses us of attacking the religion of the country; 
and is he abetting it by writing- lives of Wtsley? One mode of worship 
is merely destroyed by another. There never was, nor ever will be, a 
country without a religion. We shall be told of France ngam : but it was 
only Paris and a frantic party, which for a moment upheld their dogmatic 
nonsense of theo-philanthropy. The church of England, if overthrown, 
will be swept away by the sectarians and not by the skeptics. People are 
too wise, loo well informed, too certain of their own immense importance 
ia the realms of space, ever to submit to the impiety of doubt. There may 
hi a few such diffident speculators, like water in the pale sunbeam of human 
reason, but they are very few ; and their opinions, without enthusiasm or ap- 
peal to the passions, can never gain proselytes — unless, indeed, they are 
persecuted — that^ to be sure, will increase any thinj. 

" Mr. Southey, with a cowardly ferocity, 
* death-bed repentance' of tlie objects of his 
in a pleasant 'Vision of Judgment' in prose as well as verse, Tull of im- 
pious impudence. What Mr. Southey's sensati.ns or ours may be in the 
awful moment of leaving this state of existence, neitlier he nor we can pre- 
tend to decide. In common, I presume, with most men of ary reflection, 
/ have not waited for a * death-bed' to repent of many of my actions, not 
withstanding the * diabolical prtde' which this pitiful ren^gado in his ran- 
cor would impute to those who scorn him. Whether upon the whole th€ 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



523 



So much for his poem — a word on his preface 
In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous 
Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed " Satanic 
School," the which he doth recommend to the no- 
tice of the legislature ; thereby adding to his other 
laurels the ambition of those of an informer. If there 



p-ood or evil ot J17 deeds may preponderate is not for me to ascertain ; but 
c? my means and orportunitles have been o:reater, I shall limit my present 
defence to an assertioj, (easily proved, if necessary,) that I, 'in my degree,' 
have done more real good in any one given year, since I was twenty, than 
Mr. Soulhey in the whole course of his shifting- and turncoat existence. 
There are several actions to which I can look back with an honest pride, not 
to be damped by the calumnies of a hireling. There are others to which I 
recur witii sorrow and repentance; but the only act of my life of which Mr. 
Southeycan have any real knowledge, as it was one wnich bro-jght me in 
contact with a near connection of his own, [Mr. Coleridge,] did no dishonor 
to that comiection nor to me. 

*' I am not Ignorant of Mr. Southey's calumnies on a different occasion, 
knowin"- them to be such, which he scattered abroad on his return from 
Switzerland against me and others; they liave done him no good in this 
world; and if his creed be the right one, they will do him less .1 the next. 
What his *death-oed' may be, it is not my province to predicate "et him 
settle it with his Maker, as I must do with^mine. There is somelnnig at 
once ludicrous and blasphemous in this arrogant scribbler of all work sitting 
down to deal damnation and destruction upon his fellow-creatures, with 
Wat Tyler, the Apotheosis of George the Third, and the Elegy on Martin 
the regicide, all shuffled tog8ti:sr in his writing-desk. One ot his consola- 
tions appears to be a Latin note from a work u( a Mr. Laiidor, the author 
of * Gebir,' whose friendship for Robert Southey will, it seems, * be an 
honor to him when the ephemeral disputes and ephemeral reputations of 
the day are forgotten.' I lor one neither envy him * the friendship,' nor the 
glory in reversion which is to accrue from it, like Mr. Thelusson's fortune, in 
the third and fourth generation. This friendship will probably be as me- 
morable as his own epics, which (as I quoted to him ten or twelve vears ago 
in 'English Bards') Porson said 'would he remembered when Homer and 
Virgil are forgotten,— and not till then.' For the present I leave him." 

Mr. Southey was not disposed to let this pass unanswered. 
He, on the 5th of January, 1822, addressed to the Editor of 
the London Courier a letter, of which we shall quote all 
that is of iiaportance : — 

" 1 come at once to his Lordship's charge against me, blowing away the 
abuse with which it is frothed, and evaporating a strong acid in which it is 
euspended. The residuum then appears to be, that 'Mr. Southey, on his 
return from Switzerland, (in I8I7,) scattered abroad calumnies, knowing 
them to be such, against Lord Byron and others.' To this I reply with a 
direct and posilii^e denial, 

"If I hiid been told in that country that Lord Byron had turned Turk, 
or Monk of La Trappe,— that he had furnished a harem, or endowed an 
hospital, I might have thought the account, whichever it had been, pos- 
sible, anti repeated it accordingly; passing it, as it had been taken, in the 
small change of conversation, lor no more than it was worth. In this 
manner I might have spoken of him, as of Baron Geramb,* the Green 
Min,+ the Indian Jugglers, or any other figurante of the time being. 
There was no reason (or any particular delicacy on my part in speaking of 
hii Lordship : and, indeed, I should have thought any thing wiiich might b; 
reported of him, would have injured his character as little as the story whi ;h 
60 greatly annoyed Lord Keeper Guildford, that he had ridden a rhinoceros. 
He may ride a rhinoceros, and though everybody would stare, no one would 
.woiuler. But making no inquiry concerning him when I was abroad, be- 
cause I felt no curiosity,! heard nothing, and liad nothing to repeat. Wlien 
1 spoke of wonders to my friends and acquaintance on my return, it was of 
the flying-tree at Alpnachl, and the eleven tliousand virgins at Cologne — not 
of Lord Byron. 1 sought lor no staler subject than St. TJrsula. 

" Once, and only once, in connection with Switzerland, I have alluded to 
his Lordship; and, as the passage was curtailed in the press, I take this op- 
portunity of restoring it. In the ' Quarterly Review,' speaking incidentally 
of the Jungfrau, 1 said, 'it was the scene wheie Lord Byron's Manfretl met 
the Devil and bullied him— though the Devil must have won his cause 
before any tribunal in this world, or the next, if he had not pleaded more 
feebly for himself than his advocate, in a cause of canonization, ever pleaded 
for him.' 

" With regard to the ' others,' whom his Lordship accuses me of ca- 
lumniating, I suppose he alludes to a party of his friends, whose names I 
found written in the Album at Mont-Anvert, with an avowal of Atheism 
ahnexed, in Greek, and an indignant comment in the same language, un- 
derneath it. I Those names, with that avowal and the comment, 1 tran- 
scribed in my note-book, and spoke of the circumstance on my return. If 
I had published it, the gentleman in question would not have thought him- 
self slandered, by having that recorded of him which he has so often re- 
corded of himself. 

"The many opprobrious appellations which Lord Byron has bestowed 
upon me, I leave, as 1 lind them, with the praises which he has bestowed upon 
himself. 

* How easily is a noble spirit discern'd 
From harbh and sulphurous matter that flies out 
In contumelies, makes a noise, and stinks I'— S. Jonson. 
But I am accustomed to such things; and, so far from irritating me are 
the enemies who use such weapons, that, when I hear of their sTttacks, it 
is some satisfaction to think they have thus employed the malignity which 
must have been employed somewhere, and could not have been directed 
against any person whom it could possibly molest or injure less. The viper, 
however venomous in purpose, is harmless in eflect, while it is biting at 
the file. It is seldom, indeed, that I waste a word, of a thought, u°pon 
those who are perpetually assailing me. But abhorring, as I 'o" the per- 
sonalities whicli disgrace our current literature, and averse .-'jn contro 
versy as I am, both by prijciple and incbnaiion, I make no profession of 



[Baron Geramb, — a German Jew, who, for som^ time excited much 
public attention in London by the extravagance of his dress. Being very 
troublesome and menacing in demanding remuneration from Government, 
'or a proposal he had made of engaging a body of Croat troops in the 
Btrvice of England, he was, in 1812," sent out of the country under the alien 

t [The "Green Man" was a popular afterpic::e, so called from the hero, 
wnowore every ,hinj green, hat, gloves, &c., &:.] , . 

J [rir. r. B. Shelley signed his name, with the at dition of aOeos, in this 
iJLuin.] 



exists anywhere, excepting in his imagination, Buch 
a School, is he not sufficiently armed against it by 
his own intense vanity? The truth is, that there 
are ce.tain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like 
Scrub, to have "talked of him; for they laughed 
consumecSy " 



non-resistance. When the ofTence and the oSenJcr ar^ sjch as to call fci 
the whip and the branding-iron, it has been both seen and felt that I can in. 
flict ihem. 

" Lord Byron's present exacerbtf Jou itvidently produced by an infliction 
of this kind— not by hearsay reports of my conversation, four Tears ago 
transmitted him from England. The cauue may be found in certain remarks 
upon the Satanic school of poetry, contained in my preface to the • Vision of 
Judgment.' Well would it be for Lord Byron if he could look back upon 
any of his writing, with as much satisfaction as I shall always do upon 
what is there said of that flagitious school. Many persons, and parents es- 
pecially, have expressed their gratitude to me for having iippliej tlic brand- 
ing-iron where it was so richly deserved. The Edinburgh Reviewer, indeed, 
with that honorable feeling by which his criticisms are so peculiarly dis- 
tinguished, suppressing the remarks themselves, has ia-.puled them wholly 
to envy on my part. I give him, in this instance, full credit for sincerity : I 
believe he was equally incapable of comprehendtt.g t worthier motive, or of 
inventing a worse; and as I have never condescended to expose, in any in- 
stance, his pitiful malevolence, 1 thank him for having, in this, stripped it 
bare himself, and exhibited it in its bald, naked, and undisguised deformity. 

"Loitl Byron, like his encomiast, has not ventured to bring the matter of 
those animadversions into view. He conceals the fact, that they are di- 
rected against the authors of blaephemous and lascivious books; against 
men who, not content with indulging their own vices, labcr to make others 
the slaves of sensuality, like themselves; against public panders, who, 
mingling impiety with lewdness, seek at once to destroy the cement of social 
order, and to carry profanation and pollution into private families, and into 
the hearts of individuals. 

" His Lordship has thought it not unbecoming in him to call me a scribbler 
of all work. Let the word sc7-ihbler pass; it is an appellation which will 
not stick, like ihat of the Satajiic school. But, if a scribbler, how am I one 
of all work? I will tell Lord Byron what I have not scribbled- what kind of 
work I have not done. I have never published libels upon my fiiends and 
acquaintance, expressed my sorrow lor those libels, and called tiiem in 
durnig a mood of better mind— and then reissued them, when the evil spirit, 
which lor a time had been cast out, had returned and taken possession, witil 
seven others, more wicked than himself. I have never abused the power, of 
which every author is in some degree possessed, to wound the character of a 
man, or the heart of a woman, i have never sent into the world a book to 
which I did not dare to aflix my name ; or which 1 feared to claim in a court 
of justice, if it were pirated by a knavish bookseller. I have never m.anu- 
factured furniture for the brottiel. None of these things have 1 done ; none 
of the foul work by which literature is perverted to the injury of mankind. 
My hands are clean ; there is no 'damned spot' upon them— no taint, which 
* all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten.' 

"Of the work which I have done, it becomes me not here to speak, save 
only as relates to the Satanic School, and its Corvphteus, the author of 
' Dmi Juan.' I have held up that school to public detestation, as enemiee to 
the religion, the institutions, and the domestic morals of the country. I 
nave given them a ilesignatiun to which their/ounder and leader answers. I 
have sent a stone from my sling which has smitten their Goliath in the fore- 
head. I have fastened his name upon the gibbet, for reproach and igno- 
miny, as long as it shall endure.— Take it down who can '. 

"One word of advice to Lord Byron before I conclude.- When he attacks 
me again, let it be in rhyme. For one who has so little command of him- 
self. It will be a great advantage that his temper should be obliged to keep 
lune. And while he may still indulge in the same rankness and virulence of 
insult, the metre will, in some degree, seem to lessen its vulgarity." 

Lord Byron, without waiting for the closing hint of the 
foregoing letter, had already " attacked" Mr. Southey "in 
rhyme." On October 1, 1S21, he says to Mr. Moore,— 

"I have written about sixty stanzaa of a poem, in octave stanzas, (in the 
Pulci style, which the fools in England think was invented by Whisllecraft— 
it is as old as the hills, in Italj',) called 'The Vision of Judgment,' by Quevedo 
Rediviviis. In this it is my intention to put the said George's Apotheosis in 
a Whig point of view, not forgetting the Poet Laureate, for his preface and 
ills other demerits." 

Lord Byron had proceeded some length in the perform- 
ance thus announced, before Mr. Southey's letter to the 
" Courier" fell into his hands. On seeing it, his Lordship's 
feelings were so excited, that he could not wait for revenge 
in ink-shed, but on the instant dispatched a cartel of mortal 
defiance to the Poet Laureate, through the medium of 
Mr. Douglas Kinnaird,— to whom he thus writes, February 
6, 1822:— 

" I have got Southey's pretended reply : what remains to be done is to 
call him out. The question is, would he come ) for, if he would not, the 
whole thing would appear ridiculous, if I were to take a long and expensive 
journey to no purpose. You must be my second, and, as such, I wish to 
consult you. 1 apply to you as one well versed in the uuello, or moncma- 
chie. Of course I shall come to England as privately as possible, and leave 
it (supposing that I was the survivor) in the same manner; having no other 
object which could bring me into that country except to settle quarrels ac- 
cumulated during my absence." 

Mr. Kinnaird, justly appreciating the momentary exacer- 
bation under which Lord Byron had written the challenge 
which this letter enclosed, and fully aware how absurd the 
whole business would seem to his distant friend after the 
lapse of such a period as must intervene before the return 
of post from Keswick to Ravenna, put Lord Byron's war- 
like missive aside ; and it never was heard of by Mr. 
Southey until after the death of its author. Jleantime 
Lord Byron had continued his " attack in rhyme"— and his 
" Vision of Judgment," after ineffectual negotiations with 
various publishers in London, at length saw the ligLt in 
1822, in the pages of the unfortunate " Liberai.'-J 



524 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I think I know enough of most of the writer's to 
whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, 
in their individual capacities, have done more good, 
iu th) charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in 
any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to 
himself by his absurdities in his whole life ; and this is 
saying a great deal. But I have a few questions to ask. 

Istly, Is Mr Southey the author of "Wat Tyler?" 

2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the 
highest judge of his beloved England, because it was 
Q blasphemous and seditious publication?' 

3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, " a rancorous renegade ?"^ 

4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines 
on Martin the regicide staring him in the face?' 

And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items to- 
gether, with what conscience dare he call the atten- 
tion of the laws to the publications of others, be they 
what they may? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceed- 
ing; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to touch 
upon the motive, which is neither more nor less than 
that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent 
publications, as he was of yore in the " Anti-jacobin" 
by his present patrons.' Hence all this " skimble-scam- 
ble stutF" abput " Satanic," and so forth. However, 
it is worthy of him — " quails ab incejHo." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the political opin- 
ions of a portion of the public in the following poem, 
they may thank Mr. Southey. He might have writ- 
ten hexameters, as he has written every thing else, 
for aught that the writer cared — had they been upon 
another subject. But to attempt to canonize a mon- 
arcti, who, whatever were his household virtues, was 
neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch 
as several years of his reign passed in war with Ameri- 
ca and Ireland, to say nothing of the aggression upon 
France, — like all other exaggeration, necessarily be- 



1 [In 1821, when Mr. Southey applied to the Court of 
Chancery for an injunction to restrain the publication of 
" Wat Tyler," Lord Chancellor Eldon pronounced the fol- 
lowing judgment : — "I have looked into all the affidavits, 
and have read the book itself. The bill goes the length of 
stating, that the work v/as composed by Mr. Southey in the 
year 1794 ; that it is his own production, and that it has 
been published by the defendants without his sanction or 
authority ; and therefore seeking an account of the profits 
which hav3 arisen from, and an injunction to restrain, the 
publicatioi. I have examined the cases that I have been 
able to meet with containing precedents for injunctions of 
this nature, and I find that they all proceed upon the ground 
of a title to the property in the plaintiff. On this head a 
distinction has been taken, to which a considerable weight 
of authority attaches, supported, as it is, by the opinion of 
Lord Chief Justice Eyre , who has expressly laid it down, 
that a person ca^ Jiot recover in damages for a work which 
is, in its nature, calculated to do injury to the public. Upon 
the same principle this court refused' an injunction in the 
case of Walcot" (Peter Pindar) "v. Walker, inasmuch as 
he could not hi.ve recovered damages in an action. After 
the fullest consideration, I remain of the same opinion as 
that which I entertained in deciding the case referred to. 
Taking all the circumstances into my consideration, it ap- 
pears to me, that I cannot grant this mjunction, until after 
Mr. Southey shall have established his right to the property 
ty action."— Injunction refused.] 

2 [Mr. William Smith, M. P. for Norwich, made a virulent 
attack on Mr. Southey in the House of Commons on the 
14!h of March, 1817, and the Laureate repUed by a letter in 
the Courier.} 

s [Among the effusions of Mr. Southey's juvenile muse, 
we find this 

" Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where 
Henry JNIartin, the Regicide, was imprisoned thirty 
years. 
" For thirty years secluded from mankind 
Here Martin linger'd. Often have these walls 



gets opposition. In whatever manner he may be 
spoken of in this new " Vision," his public career will 
not be more favorably transmitted by history. Of his 
private virtues (although a httle expensive to the na- 
tion) tiiere can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated 
of, I can only say that I know as much about them, 
and (as an honest man) have a better right to talk of 
them, than Robert Southey. I have also treated them 
more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane 
creature, the Laureate, deals about his judgments in 
the next world, is like his own judgment in this. If 
it was not comnletely ludicrous, it would be something 
worse. I don't think that there is much more to say 
at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may ©"bjeot, 
in these objectionable times, to the freedom with 
which saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse 
.'u this " Vision." But, for precedents upon such 
points, I must refer him to Fielding's " Journey from 
this World to the next," and to the Visions of myself, 
the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. The 
reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal 
tenets are insisted upon or discussed ; that the person 
of the Deity is carefully withheld from sight, which 
is more than can be said for the Laureate, who hath 
thought proper to make him talk, not " like a school 
divine," but like the unscholarliko Mr. Southey. The 
whole action passes on the outside of heaven ; and 
Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, 
Swift's Tale of a Tub, and the other works above re- 
ferred to, are cases in point of the freedoni with which 
saints, &c., may be permitted to converse in works 
not intended to be serious. Q. R 

*^* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Chris- 
tian and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to 



Echo'd his footsteps, as with even tread 

He paced around his prison. Not to him 

Did Nature's fair varieties exist ; 

He never saw the sun's delightful beams ; 

Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sad 

And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crune ? 

He had rebcU'd against the King, and sat 

in judgment on him ; for his ardent mind 

Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth. 

And peace and li jerty. Wild dreams 1 but such 

As Plato loved ; such as, with holy zeal, 

Our Milton worshipp'd. Blessed hopes ! awhile 

From man withheld, even to the latter days, 

When Christ shall come, and all thuigs be fulfiU'd.* '] 

•• [The following imitation of the Inscription on the Ite- 
gicide's Apartment, written by Mr. Canning, appeared in 
the "Anti-jacobin :" — 

" Inscription for the Door of the Cell in Newgate, where 
Mrs. Brownrigg, the 'Prentice-cide was confined, 
previous to her execution. 

" For one long term, or ere her trial came, 
Here Brownrigg linger'd. Often have these cells 
Echo'd her blasphemies, as with shrill voice 
She scream'd for fresh geneva. Not to her 
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street, 
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand ; 
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went 
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime ? 
She whipped two female ^prentices to death. 
And hid them in 'the coal-hole. For her mind 
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage scheiEes • 
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine 
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog 
The little Spartans ; such as erst chastised 
Our Milton, when at college. For this act 
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws ! But time skill 

come, 
When France shall reign, and laws be all leperJ'd.") 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



525 



tliis our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary 
fucnlties will in the mean time have acquired a little 
more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will 
got himself into new dilemmas. These apostate jaco- 
bins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him take a speci- 
men Mr. Southey laudeth grievously "one Mr. 
Landor," who cultivates much private renown in the 
shape of Latin verses ; and not long ago, the poet 
laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his 
fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem called 
Gebir. Who could suppose, that in this same Gebir 
the aforesaid Savage Landor' (for such is his grim 
cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a 
person than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's 
heaven, — yea, even George the Third ! See also 
how personal Savagfe becometh, when he hath a mind. 
Tlio following is his portrait of our late gracious 
sovereign : — 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, 
the shades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called 
up to his view ; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide) — 
" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrows white and slanjing brow ? 
Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung 
He too amongst my ancestors ! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman?" 

" Alas, O king ! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accursed 
Inclement winds blew blighting from northeast." 
" He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods V 
" Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh madness of mankind ! address'd, adored I" — 

Gebirg p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Sa- 
vagius, wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if 
his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suf- 
fer it ; but certainly these teachers of " great moral 
lessons" are apt to be found iu strange company. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate: 

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 

So little trouj.o had been given of late ; 
Not that the place by any means was full; 

But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight" 
The devils had ta'eu a longe ' stronger pull, 

And " a pull all together," as thoy say 

At sea — which drew most souls another way. 

IL 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And lioarse with having little else to do. 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 



' [Walter Savage Landor, Esq., author of " Count Julian, 
a tragedy"— "Imaginary Conversations," in three seiies— 
and various other works, was an early friend of Mr. Southey, 
and difference of politics has never disturbed their personal 
feelings towards each other. Mr. Landor has long resided 
in Italy.] 

2 [George III died the 29th of January, 1820,— a year in 



Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue. 
Splitting some planet with its playful tail. 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

in. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 
Finding their charges past all care below ; 

Terrestrial business fiU'd naught in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
With such rapidity of vice and wo. 

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills. 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years, 

That he was forced, against his will no doubt, 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers 
For some resource to turn himself about. 

And claim the help of his celestial peers, 
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out, 

By the increased demand for his remarks ; 

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks 



This was a handsome board — at least for heaven ; 

And yet they had even then enough to do. 
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven. 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven. 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust 

VI. 

This by the way ; 'tis not mine to record 

What angels shrink from : even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel : 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword. 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

CHere Satan's sole good work deseiwes insertion — 

Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

VII. 

Let 's skip a I'ew short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease. 
With nothing but new names subscribed upon 't : 

'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase, 
" With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are boru 

Less formidable iu the head than horn. 

VIIL 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn- 
Died George the Third ;' although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun: 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and t' other no less blind. 



which the revolutionary spirit broke out all over the south 
of Europe.] 

3 [Here, perhaps, the reader will thank us for transcribing 
a few of Mr. Southey's hexameters : — 

"Pensive, though not in thought, I stood at the window, bcholc'ing 
Mountain, ana lake, and Tale ; the vallej disrcbed of iU verdue : 



523 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. 

He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their true worth , 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 

The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 

Made the attraction, and the black the wo. [pall ; 

There throbb'd not there a thought wiiich pierced the 
And when the gorgeous coffiu was laid low. 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold.' 

XI. 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead — and upper earth with him has done ; 

He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will ; 
But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still. 
Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII 

" God save the king !" It is a large economy 
In God to save the like ; but if he will 

Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
Of those who think damnation better still : 

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small hope of bettering future ill 

By circumscribing, with s:me slight restriction, 

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIV 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 



Thus as 1 stood, the bell, which awhile from its warning- had rested, 
Sent forch iis note s.g-j.m, loll ! lolll through tlie silence of evening. 
'Tis a deep dull sound, that is heavy and mournful at all times. 
For it tells of mortality always. But heavier this day 
Fell on the conscious ear its deeper and mournftdler import, 
Yea, in the heart it sunk; for this was the day when the herald. 
Breaking his wand, should proclaim, tliat George our King was de- 
parted. 
Thou art released! I cried: thvsoul is deliver'd from bondage. 
Thou, who hast lain so lonj in mental and visual darkness, 
Thou art in yonder heaven ! thy place is in light and in glorv. 

Come and behold!— methought a startling voice from the'lwilight 
Answer'd; and therewithal I felt a stroke as of lightning. 
With a sound like the rushing of winds, or the roaring of waters. 
If from without it came, 1 know not, so sudden the seizure ; 
Or if the tiain itself in that strong flash had expended 
All its eleciric stores. Of strength and of thought it bereft me; 
Hearing, ard sight, and sense were gone." 

Southey^s Vision of Judgment. '\ 
; ["So by the unseen comforted, raised I my head in obedience, 
And in a vault I found myself placed, arcb'd over on all sides, 
I^orrow cjid low was that house of the dead. Around it were coffins, 



With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that all save England's church have sharam'd, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchafla 

XV. 

God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to damn.. 
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish. 

Or to the butcher io purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish 

As one day will be that immortal fry, 

Of almost everybody born to die. 

XVI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 

Which would have Tnade aught save a saint exclaim; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink. 
Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think !" 

XVII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose. 
" Saint porter," said the angel, " prithee rise I" 

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes ; 

To which the saint replied, " Well, what's the matter? 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?"" 

XVIII. 

" No," quoth the cherub ; " George the Third ia 
dead.'"* [apostio : 

" And who ?s George the Third ?" replied tho 
" What George 7 loliat Third ?" " The king of 
England," said 

The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
Him on his way ; but does he wear his head? 

Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX, 

" He was, if I remember, king of France f 

That head of his, which could not keep a crown 

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 

If I had had my sword, as I had once 
When I cut ears off", I had cut him down ; 

But having but my keys, and not my brand, 

I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 



Each in its niche, and pal!s and urns, and funeral hatchments. 
Velvets of Tvrian dye, retaining their hues unladed: 
Blazonry vivid still, as if fresh from the touch of the limner; 
Nor was the golden fringe, nor the golden broidery, lamishM. 
Whence came the light whereby that place of death was Qiscovereil J 
For there was no lamp," (tc— SoutAcy.] 
8 ["O'er the adamantine gates an angel stood on the summit. 

Ho! he exclaim'd, King George of England come.h to judgment. 
Hear heaven! Ye Angels hear ! Souls of the Good and the Wiclraii 
Whom it concerns, attend! Thou Hell, bring forth his accusers! 
As tile sonorous summons was utler'd, the Winds, who wtrc waitil-^, 
Bore it abroad thro' Heaven ; and Hell, in her nethermot.t ccri.cis. 
Heard and obey'd in dismay. 

A multitudinous army 

Came at the awful call. In semicircle inclining, 
Tier over tier they took their place : aloft, in the distance. 
Far as the sight could pierce, that glorious company glistfo'tl. 
From the skirts of tlie shining assembly, a slippery vapor 
Rose in the blue serene, and moving onward it deepen'J, 
Taking a denser form." — Ibid,} 

3 [Louis XVI., guillotined in January, 1793.] 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



527 



XX. 

" Aud then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in ; 

And there ho sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the parvenu! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell: 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

Aud seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet — by its wire, 

And will bo judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such rnatters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIII. 

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan. 

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 

Some silver stream, (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed,) and 'midst them an old man 

With an old soul, and both extremely blind. 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.' 

XXIV. 

But briugmg up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved ; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Etainal wrath on his immortal face, 
Aud where he gazed a gloom pervaded fipace. 

XXV. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 



1 ["Then I btheld the King-. From a cloud whicli coverM the pavement 
His reverend form uprose: heavenward his face was directed, [tended. 
Heavenward his eyes were raised, and heavenward his arms were ex- 
Presently one approachM to ^reet him with joyl'td obeisance ; 
He of whom, in an hour of wo, the assassiti bereaved us 
Wlien hi.'' counsels most, and his resolute virtue, were needed, [me? — 
Tliou ! suid the Monarch, here 1 Thou, PerccvaU summon*d before 
Then, as liis waken'i] mind to the weal of the country reverted, 
WhatofliisSon, he asjt'd, what course by the Prince had been follow'dt 
Rifrhl in his Father's steps hath tiie Reg"ent trod, was the answer: 
Firm hath he proved and wise, at a time when weajfness or error 
Would have sunk us in shame, and to ruin have hurl'd us headlong-.— 
Peace is nbtaiji'd then at last, with safety and honor! the Monarch 
Cried, and he clasp'd his hands,— 1 thank thee, O merciful Father! 
Peace hath been won by the sword, the faithful minister answer'd. 
Pans hath," &.C.— SouiAey.] 

5 [See Captain Sir Edward Parry's Voyage, in 1819-20, for 
the Discovery of a Northwest passage. — "I believe it is 
almost impossible for words to give an idea of the beauty and 
variety which this magnificent phenomenon displayed. The 
luminous arch had broken into irregular masses, streaming 
with much rapidity in different directions, varying continually 
in snape and interest, and extending themselves from north, 
by the east, to north. At one time a part of the arch near the 
zenith was bent into convolutions resembling those of a anake 



With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate. 
And sweated through his apostolic skin : 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXVI. 

The very cherubs huddicd all together, 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every feather. 

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt [whither 

Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew 
His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 

With royal manes, (for by many stories. 

And true, we learn the angels are all Tories.) 

XXVII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 

Flung over space a universal hue 

Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges 

Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 

O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-bound 

By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's Sound."* 

XXVIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,^ 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcoto,^ or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'Twas the archangel Michael: all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prmee 

Tlrere also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal pass'd — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 



m motion, and undulating rapidly, an appearance which we 
had not before observed. The end towards the north was 
also bent like a shepherd's crook. The usual pale light of 
the aurora strongly resembled that produced by the com- 
bustion of phosphorus ; a very slight tinge of red was 
noticed on this occasion, when the aurora was most vivid, 
but no other colors were visible." P. 135.] 

3 ["Thus as he spake, methought the surrounding- space dilated; 
Over head I beheld the infinite ether; beiienlh us 
Lay the solid expanse of the firmament spread like a pavemet. 
Wheresoever I look'd, there was lig'ht and irlory around me ; 
Brig-litest it seem'd in the East, wfiere the New Jerusalem glittarM. 
Eminent on a hdl, there stood the Celestial City ; 
Beaming afar it shone; its towers and cupolas rising 
Hi^h in the air serene, with the brightness of gold in the (umace, 
Where on their breadth the splendor lay intense and quiescent: 
Part with a fierier glow, and a short quick tremulous motion, 
Like the burning pyropus; and turrets and pitniacles sparkled, 
Playing in jets of tight, with a diamond-like glory coruscant. 
Drawing near, I beheld what over the portal was written : 
This is the Gate," il.z.—Southey.'i 

* [Johanna Southcote, the aged lunatic, who fancied her- 
self, and was believed by many thousand lollowers, to be 
with child of a new Messiah, died in 1815. There is a full 
account of her in the Quarterly Review, vol xxiv. p. 430.] 



528 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.) 

XXXI. 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursea 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII. 

He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such was their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In cither's eye, as if 'twere less their will 

Thau destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their " champ clos" the spheres 

XXXIII 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
Fivm Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 

And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract. 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 

If Job be allegory or a fact. 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act, 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. " 

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision 

XXXV. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 

The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er, 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect : though they did not kiss. 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau 

But with a graceful oriental bend. 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend 
He tuni'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII. 

He merely bent his diabolic brow 

Au instant ; and then raising it, he stood 



[' No saint in the course of his religious warfare was 
more sensibx of the unhappy failure of pious resolves than 
Dr. Johnson : he said one clay, talking to an acquaintance 



In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
Cause why King George by no means could or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from wo 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 

With better sense and hearts, whom history ment ans, 

Who long have " paved hell with their good inten- 
tions."' 

XXXVIII. 

Michael began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 
Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill 

Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 

That thou canst claim him? Speak ! and do thy will, 

If it be just : if in his earthly span 
He hath beo greatly failing to fulfil 

His duties as a king and mortal, say. 

And he is thine ; if not, let him have way " 

XXXIX. 

" Michael !" replied the Prince of Air, " 6". n here, 
Before the Gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject : and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust, 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine noi 'est 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. ' 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was. 
Once, more thy master's : but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship roiuid him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 

XLI. 

" And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord ; and even had 

I such an iiifclination, 'twere (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad. 

That hell has oothing better left to do 

Than leave them to themselves : so much more mad 

And evil by their own internal curse. 

Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLIL 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form. 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 

Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

"He came to his sceptre young; he leaves it old. 

Look to the state in which ho found his realm, 
And left it ; and his annals too behold, 

How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 

The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
Thine eye along America and France. 

on this subject, ' Sir, hell is paved with good intentions.'" — 
Boswell, vol. V. p. 305, ed. 1835.] 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



529 



XLIV. 

" 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last, 
(I haveithe workmen safe ;) but as a tool 

So let him be consumed. From out the past 
Of atres, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs— from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter— from the Caesars' school, 

Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain. 

XLV. 

" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 

So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty !' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 

History was ever stain'd as !iis will be 
With national and individual woes? 

I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 

His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 

XLVI. 

" I know ho was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

xLvn. 

" The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans 
Beneath wliat he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : ho leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLvin. 

" Five millions of the primitive, who hold 

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, bu*. you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

" True ! he allow'd them to pray God : but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Whicii would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 

But here Saint Peter started from his place. 
And cried, " You inay the prisoner withdraw : 

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself ! 

L. 

' Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
My office (and his is no sinecure) 



> [George III.'s determination against the Catholic claims. J 

2 [ " From the opposite reo^ion, 

Heavy and sulphurous clouds roll'd on, a'rid completed the circle. 
There with the Spirits accursed, in congenial darkness enveloped, 
Were the Souls ol" the Wicked, who, wdful in guilt and error. 
Chose the service ol' sin, and now were abiding its wages. 
Chauf^e of place to tliem brouo-ht no reprieval from anguish ; 
They m their evil thoujhls and desires of impotent malice. 
Envy, and hate, and blasphemous rage, and remorse unavailing, 
Carried a hell within, to which all outer affliction. 
So it abstracted 'iie sense, might be deem'd a rcmissioa of torment 



67 



Than see this royal bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure !" 

" Saint !" replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 
The wrongs he made your satellites endure , 

And if to this exchange you should be given, 

I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Hero Michael interposed : "Good saint! and devil. 

Pray, not so fast ; you both rutrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say ?" — " No."' — " If you please, 
I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LIL 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds arther off than we can understand. 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions.* 

Lin. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd ; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game. 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 

LIV. 

They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins f or like to an " entre" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay. 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell- 
About ten million times the distance reckon'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 

How much time it takes up, even to a second. 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd. 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 

If that the suvimer is not too severe :* — 

LVI. 

I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more time 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime, 



At the edge of the cloud, the Princes of Darkness were marahfillM, 
Dimly descried within were wings and truculent taces ; 
And in the thick obscure mere struggled a mutinous uproar. 
Railing, and fury, and strife, that the whole deep body of darfrnese 



Roird like a troubled sea, with a wide aud i 



manifold motion.' 

Southoy.^ 



3 [A gold or gilt key, peeping from below ho ckirtsof the 
coat, marks a lord chamberlain.] 

4 [An allusion to Horace VValpole's expression m a leller 
— " The summer has set in with its usual severity."'^ 



530 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



And if they ran a race, they would not win it 

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 
Of luilf-a-crown, a little speck appear'd, 

(I've seen a something like it in the skies 
In the ^^^igean, ere a squall ;) it near'd, 

And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
liike an aerial ship it tack'd, and steer'd, 

Or was steer'd, (I am doubtful of the grammar 

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; — 

LVIII. 

But take your choice ;) and then t grew a cloud ; 

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses.' 
But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild geese, 
(If nations may bo liken'd to a goose,) 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 

LIX. 
Here crasli'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 

Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 
There Paddy brogued " By Jasus !" — " What 's your 
wull?" 
The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French ghost 
swore 
In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, 

As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the war, 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
" Our president is going to war, I guess." 

LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane ; 

In short, a universal shoal of shades. 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trades. 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign. 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades: 
All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't bo damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

1 [" Oil ihe cerulean floor by that dread circle surrounded, 
Siooil the soul ol'thj King alone. In Iront was the Presence 
Veil'd with excess ofliofht ; and behind was the blackness of darkness; 
When the trumpet was blown, atid the An^el made proclamation — 
Lo, where ine Kuig- appears ! Come forward, ye who arraign liim ! 
Forth from the lurid cloud a Demon came at the summons. 
It was (he Spirit by whom his righteous reign had been troubled; 
Likesi in lonn uncouth to the hideous Idols whom India 
(Lonjj by guilty neglect to hellish delusions abandon'd,) 
Worships with horrible rites of self-destruction and torture. 
Many-headed and monstrous the Fiend; with numberless faces, 
Numberless bestial ears erect to all rumors, and restless, 
And with numberless mouths which were fili'd with lie^ as with arrows. 
Clamors arose as he came, a confusion of turbulent voices, 
Maledictions, and blatant tongues, and viperous hisses; 
And in the hubbub of senseless sounds the watchwords of faction,— 
Freedom, Invaded Rights, Corruption, and War, and Oppression— 
Loudly enounced were heard." — Southey.} 

• [In reference lo this part of Mr. Sonthey's poem, the Eclectic Reviewer, 
■we believe the late Rev. Robert Hall, said— "Mr. Southey's 'Vision of 
Judgment' is unquestionably a profane poem. The assertion will stago-er 
those only who do not consider what is the import of the word. Prolane- 
ness IS the irreverent use of sacred names and things. A burlesque of things 
sacred, whetherinlentional or not, is profaiieness. To appiv the language 
o! Scripture in a ludicrous connection is to profane it. The mummery 
0' urayer on the stage, though in a serious play, is a gross profanation of 
sacred things. And all acts which co.tie under the taking of God's name 
in vain are rets of profaneness. According to this definition of the word, 
tbo Laureate's ' Vision of Judgment' is a poem grossly and unpardonably 
pio:ar>.'. Mr. Southey's intention was, we are weli persuaded, ve.-y far 



He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail, 

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night. 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue 

LXII 

Then he address'd himself to Satan: " Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 

Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you : and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do aniiss — 

LXIII. 

" Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 

That you should half of eeath and hell produce ; 
'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 

True testimonies are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter Is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him ; I've kings enough below, God knows !" 

LXV. 

Thus spoke the Demon," (late call'd " miiltifaced" 
By multoiscribbling Southey.) " Then we'll call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may bo so graced 
As to speak first? there 's choice enough — who shall 

It be 1" Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

s[ 



' But when he stood in the Vr^ 



Then was the Fiend disraay'd, though with impudt jce clothed as a gar- 

And the lying tongues were mule, and the lips, whi. ' had scatter'd 

Accusation and slander, were still. No time for eVii.)ion 

This, in the Presence he stood: no place for flight; for dissembling 

No possibility there. From the souls on the edge of the darkness. 

Two he produced, prime movers and agents of mischief, and batle them 

Show themselves faithful now to the cause for which they had labor'd. 

Wretched and guilty souls, wiiere now their audacity 1 Where now 

Are the insolent tongues so ready of old al rejoinder ? 

Where the lofty pretences of public virtue and lieedom ? 

Where the gibe, and the jeer, and the threat, the envenom'd invective, 

Calumny, falsehood, fraud, and the whole ammunition of malice! 

Wretched and guilty souls, they stood in the face of their Sovereign, 

Conscious and self-condemn'd ; confronted with him they had injured, 

At the Judgment-seat* they stood."— SoujAej/.' 



from being irreligious ; and, indeed, the profaneness of the poem partly 
arises from Ihe ludicrous etlect produced by the bad taste and imbecility cf 
the performance, for which his intentions are clearly not answerablo. 
Whatever liberties a poet may claim to take, in represeniatioiis partly 
allegorical, with the invisible realities of the world lo come, the ignio 
falu°is of political zeal has, in this instance, earned Mr. Southey far oc- 
yond any assignable bouiuis of poetical license. It would have been enoiigli 
to celebrate ine apoiheosis of the monarch; but, when he proceeds to 
uavestie the flnal judgment, and to convert the awful tribunal of Heayen 
into a drawing-room levte. where he, the Poet Laureate, lakes upon him- 
self to play the part of a lord in waiting, presenting one Georgian vorlhy 
after another to kiss hands on prcniotion, — what should be grave is, indeed, 
tunied to farce."] 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



531 



Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite ;' 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 

All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong, 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII. 

Tlie spirit look'd around upon the crowds 

Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds; 
So let 's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl. 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ?" 

LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; these things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august ; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met: so now you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with ^ings," 

Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind?" 

LXIX. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 

Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid iu lead. 

For such a liberty — and I, for one. 

Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 

LXX. 

" Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 

To urge against him," said the Archangel. " Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores %re past, 
Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 

With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXL 

" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 



't^i 



" Beholding (he foremost, 

by the cast of his eye oblique, [ knew as the firebrand 
wnom (he uiithdikin^ populace hehl for their itlol and hero, 
Loril of Misrule in his ilay. But how was (hat countenance alter'd 
Where emotion of fear or of shame had never been witness'd ; 
That invincible forehead abash'd ; and those eyes wherein malice 
Once had been wont to shine with wit and hilarity lemper'd. 
Into how deep a D;loom tlieir mournful expression had settled! 
Litde availed it now that not from a purpose mali;jfuant, 
Not wuh evil intent, he had chosen the service of evil. 
But of his own desires the slave, with protii^ate impulse, 
Solely by selfishness moved, and reckless of aujht that might follow 
Could he pleatl in only excuse a confession of baseness? 
Coulil he hide the extent of his ^uilt ; or hope to atone for 
Faction excited at home, when all old feuds were abated. 
Insurrection abroad, and the train of woes that had foUow'd! 
Discontent and disloyalty, like the teeih of (he drag-on, 
He had sown on (he winds; they had ripen'd beyond the Atlantic ;* 
Thence in natural birth, sedition, revolt, revolution, 
France had received the seeds, and reap'd the harvest of horrors; 
Where— where should the plague he stav'd ' Oh, most to be pitied 
They of all souls m bale, who see no (eriii to the evil 
They by their g-uill have raised, no end to their inner upbraidings! 
Hinv 1 could not choose but know,'' &-C,— Soul/ity.] 



•Ou 



i"uur r-^w world has generally the credit of having first lighted the 
torch wnich was to illumina(e, and soon set in a b aze, the finest part of 
Europe, yet 1 think the first fiint was struck, and the first spark elicited, 
by tho ptttriot John Wilkes, a few years before. Iu a time of profound 



To see him punish'd here for their excess. 

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 
Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 

LXXIL 

" Wilkes," said the Devil, " I miderstand all this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,* 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more : you've lost your LiboFi 
For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 

LXXIII. 

" However, I knew what to think of it, ■ 
When I beheld you iu your jesting way. 

Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day. 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 

I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bills. 

LXXIV. 

" Call Junius !"' From the crowd a shadow stalk'd, 

And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
But were ajl ramm'd, and jamm'd, (but to be balk'd, 

As we shall see,) and jostled hands and knees. 
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 
The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 

That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 

But naught to mark its breeding or its birth : 
Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 

LXXVI. 
The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 

Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 

They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 
And several people swore from out the press, 

They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
He was his father : upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 



2 [Fertile political liistoryof John Wilkes, who died cham- 
berlain of the city of London, we must refer to any history 
of the reign of George IXI. His profligate personal charac- 
ter is abundantly displayed in the collection of his letters, 
published by his daughter! since his death.] 

S p* Who iright the other be, his comrade in guilt and in suffering. 
Brought to (he proof like him, and shrinking like him from die uiil 
Nameless (he Libeller lived, and sho( his arrows in darkness; 
Unde(ec(ed he pass'd to the grave, and, leaving behind him 
Noxious works on earth, and the pest of an evil example, 
Wen I to the world beyond, where no offences are hidden. 
Mask'd had he been in his life, and now a visor of iron. 
Riveted round his head, had abolish'd his features forever. 
Speechless the slanderer stood, and turn'd his face from the Monarch, 
Iron-bound as it was, ... so insupportably dreadful 
Soon or late to conscious guilt is the eye of the injured." — Southey.'i 



peace, the restless spirit of men, deprived of other objects of publfc curi- 
osity, seized with avidity on those qnesiions which were then agitate; -yith 
so much violence in England, touching the rights of the people and c the 
government, and ihe nature of power. The end of the political drama wag 
in favor of what was called, and in some respects was, the liberty of the peo- 
ple. Encouraged by the succes." of this great comedian, the curtain was no 
sooner dropped on the scene of Europe, than new actors hastened to raiec it 
again in America, and to give the world a new play, infiiiiloJy iroro latcr- 
esting and more brilliant than the first."— iW. Simond.} 



632 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife :' but the wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight ' 

He stood, the puzzle only was increeised ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin.^ 

LXXVIII. 

Tlie moment that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto I his face changed, and he was another; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mother 

(If that he had a aiother) would her son 

Have known, he shifted so from one to t' other ; 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task. 

At this epistolary " Iron mask."' 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once," (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop ;) then you might deem 
That he was not even one ; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies. 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.* 

LXXX. 

I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne. 

And injuring some minister or peer. 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown : 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine earl 
'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 



1 [Among the various persons to whom the Letters of 
Junius have been attributed we find the Duke of Portland, 
Lord George Sackville, Sir Phihp Francis, Mr. Burke, Mr. 
Dunning, the Rev. John Home Tooke, Mr. Hugh Bovd, Dr. 
Wilmot, &c.] 

5 [" I don't know what to think. Why should Junius be 
dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest in his grave 
without sending his ci&u]\ov to shout in the ears of posterity 
' Junius was X. Y. Z., Esq., buried in the parish of * * * * *.' 
Repair his monument, ye churchwardens ! Print a new 
edition of his Letters, ye booksellers ! Impossible,— the 
man must he alive, and will never die without the disclosure. 
I like him ;— he was a good hater."— J?yron Diary, Nov. 23, 
1813. Sir Philip Francis died in Dec. 1818.] 

3 [The mystery of " I'homme an masque de fer," the ever- 
lasting puzzle of the last century, has at length, in general 
opinion, been cleared up, by a French work published in 1825, 
and which formed the basis of an entertaining one in English 
by Lord Dover. See Quarterly Review, vol. xxxiv. p. 19.] 

4 rThat the work entitled " The Identity of Junius with a 
Distinguished Living Character established," proves Sir 
Philip Francis to be Junius, we v/ill not affirm ; but this we 
can safely assert ; that it accumulates such a mass of cir- 
cumstantial evidence as renders it extremely difficult to be- 
lieve he is not, and that, if so many coincidences shall be 
found to have misled us in this case, our faith in all con- 
clusions drawn from proofs of a similar kind may hence- 
forth be shaken. — Mackintosh.] 

6 T'xe well-known motto of Junius is, " Stat nominis 
umbra "i 

C ["Caitiffs, are ye dumb? cried the mtiUifaceJ Demon in ano-er* 
Think ye then by shame to shorten the term ol' your penance? 
Back to your peuai dens I — And with horriole grasp gigantii 



Them written without heads ; and books, we see. 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too: 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou ?" the Archangel said. 

" For that you may consult my title-page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now." — " Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer'd, " You had Letter 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXIII. 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

" Kepent'st thou not," said jNiichaoI, " of some paet 
Exaggeration 1 Eomething which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou WE.=t 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 

Of passion ?" — " Passion !" cried the phantom dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him." 

LXXXIV. 

" What I have written, I have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 

Old " Nominis Umbra ;"^ and while speaking yet, 
Away he melted in celestial smoke." 

Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget [Tooke, 
To call George Washington,' and John Home 

And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 

Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 



Seizing the guilty pair, he awun^ them aloft, and m vengeance 
Hurl'd them all abroad, fir into the sulphurous dar'tncss. 
Sons of Faction, be warr.'d! And ye, ye SlaiideieisI lean ye 
Justice, and bear in mind that after death there ■£ judgment. 
Whirling, away they flew! Nor lonj himself did he tarry, [vrind. 

Ere from the ground where he stood, eau^ot up by s vehement vbirl- 
He too was liurried away; and the blast with ligrtninor and thunder 
Volleying aright and aleft amid the accumulate blackness. 
Scattered its nimatefi accursed, and beyond the limits cf ether 
Drove the hircine host obscene, they howling and groaning 
Fell precipitate down to tJieir dolorous place of endurance." — 5o«fAry.] 

7[ "The roll of the thunder 

Ceased, and all sounds were hush 'd, till a^ain from the gate adamaotim 
Was the voice of the An2;ei heard tlirous^h the silence of Heaven. 
Ho : he exclaim'd King"George of Engiand standeth in judgment! 
Hell hath been dumb in his presence. Ye who on earth arraiga'd him. 
Come ye before him now, and here accuse or absolve him ! 

.... From the Souls of the Blessed, 

Some were there then who advanced ; and more from the skirts of the 

meeting. 
Spirits who had not yet accomplishM their purification. 
Vet being cleansed from pride, from faction and error delivcrM, 
Purged of the film wherewith the eye of the mind is clouded, 
They, in their better state, saw all things clear. . . . . . 

One alone remainM, when the rest had retired to their station. 

Silently he had stood, and still unmoved and in silence, 

With a steady mien, regarded the face of the Monarch. 

Thoughtful awhile he gazed : — 

» Here then at the Gate of Heaven we are met !' said the Spirit ; 

' King of England ! albeit in hie opposec to each other, 

Here we meet at last. Not unprepared for the meeting 

Ween I; for we had both outlived all enmity, rendering 

Each to each that justice which each from e^ch had withholdcu. 

In the course of events, to thee I seem'd as a Rebel, 

Thou a Tyrant to me ;— so strongly doth circumstance rule men 

During evil days, when ri^ht and wroncr are confounded !* 

* Wasiiington !' said the Monarch, * well hast thou spoken, and tl'uly. 

Just to thyself and to me. On them is the guilt of the contest 

Who, for wicked ends, with foul aits of faction and falsehood. 

Kindled and fed the flame : but verily they have their guerdou, 

Tliou and I are free from oSence.' — 

When that Spirit withdrew, the Monarch around the Ds^imbly 

Looic'd, but none else caine forth," io. — Itid.\ 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



533 



Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a 
ghost ?" 
" I Know it" quoth the incubus ; " but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he 's so heavy ; one would think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
But to the point ; while hovering o'er the brink 

Of Skiddaw,' (where as usual it still rain'd,) 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII. 

" The former is the devil's scripture, and 

The ."atter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At least a qiprter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXVIII. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here ; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 

Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 
" Done !" cried Asmodeus, " he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon, 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 

When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?" 

" Let 's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say ; 

You know we're bound to that in every way." 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
By no means often was his case below, 

Bogan to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
His voice into that awful note of wo 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter. 

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay. 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 



1 [Mr. Southey's residence is on the shore of Derwent- 
watcr, near the mountain Skiddaw.] 

2 [ " Mediocribus esse poetis 

Non Di, non homines, non concessere columnse." — Horace.l 

s [The king's trick of repeating his words in this way was 
a fertile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar, (Dr. Wolcot ;) 
fjC-r example — 

**The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath 
Amidst the regiments of death, 

Now turn d to Whitbread with complacence round; 
And, merry, thus address'd the man of beer; — 
• Whitbread, is H true i I heFT, I hear, 

You're of an ancient family— renown M— 



And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, ["best — 

And cried, " For God's sake, stop, my friend . 'twere 
Non Di, non Jiomines — you know the rest."'^ 

XCII. 

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 

The angels had of course enough of sono- 
When upon seiTice ; and the generation 

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a ne-^' occasion ; [what !* 

The monarch, mute till tiien. exclaim'd "What! 

Pye^ come again ? No more — uc more of that !" 

XCIII. 

The tumult grew ; a universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 

When Castlereagh has been up long enough, 
(Before he was first minister of state, 

I mean — the slaves hear rww ;) some cried " Off, off!" 
As at a farce C\\, grown quite desperate, 

The ba d Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 

(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIV. 

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

XCV. 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
With one still greater, as is yet the mode 

On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
Which now and then will make a slight inroad 

Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 

With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCVI. 

He said — (I only give the heads) — he said. 

He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his way 

Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 'twould delay 

Too long the assembly, (he was pleased to dread,) 
And take up rather more time than a day. 

To name his works — he would but cite a few — 

" Wat Tyler" — " Rhymes on Blenheim" — " Water- 
loo." 

XCVII. 

He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever ; 



What 1 What ? I'm told that you're a limb 

or Pym, the famous fellow Pym : 

What, Whitbread, is it true what people say ! 

Son of a roundhead are you ] hBe ? ha; ? hmt 

Thirtieth of January don't you feed ? 

Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calPs head .' "J 

i [Henry James Pye, the predecessor of Mr. Southey in 
the poet-laureateship, died m 1813. He was the author of 
many works, besides his official Odes, among others, 
"Alfred," an epic poem— all of which have been long since 
defunct. Pye was a man of good family in Berkshire, sat 
some time in parliament, and was emmently respectable in 
every thing but his poetry.] 



534 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever ; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turu'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin 

XCVIII. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Ri;viewing' " the ungentle craft," and then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 

By whom liis muse and morals had been maul'd : 

He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, 

And more of both than anybody knows. 

XCIX. 

He had written Wesley's life : — here turning round 
To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound. 

With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents 

That I may add you to my other saints." 

C. 

Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CI. 

" But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall." 
I settle all these things by intuition. 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 



1 See " Life of Henry Kirks White." 

2 ["Lift up your heaJs, yc Gates; and ye everlasfinir Portals, 
Be ye lilt up ! For lo ! a g-lorified Monarch npproacheth. 
One wlio in righteousness reignM, and religiously ofovernM his people. 
Who are these that await him withni ? — Nassau, the Deliverer, 
Himlknev . . . Thou, too, O matchless Eliza, 
Excelleni s^'l^^l, wert there I atid thy brother's beautiful spirit. 
There too was .13 of the sable mail, the hero of Cressy, 
Lion-hearted Richard was there, redoubtable warrior. 
1 saw the spirit of Alfred- 
Alfred, than whom no prince with loftier intellect gifted. 

. Bede 1 beheld, who, humble and holy, 
Shone like a sinofle ttar, serene in a nig-ht of darkness. 
B.icoLi also was there, the marvellous Friar; 
Thee, too. Father Chaucer ! I saw, and delijhied to see thee— 
And Shakspeare, who in our hearts for himself hath erected an empire. 

. A train whom nearer duty attracted, 
Throun-h the Gale of Bliss came forth to welcome tlleir Sovereign. 
Many were they, and glorious all. Conspicuous among them 
Wolfe was seen ; and the Seaman who fell on the shores of Owhyhee.* 
And the mighty Musician of Germany,t ours by adoption, 
Who beheld in the king his munificent pupil and patron — 
There, too, Wesley, I saw and knew — And Burke I beheld there. 
Here, where wrongs are forgiven, was the injured Hastings beside him ; 
There was our late lost Q.ueen, the nation's example of virtue," &.c. &.c. 

Southey.i 

3 Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, that 
" had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he 
would have spared tlie Maker some absurdities." 

■• SeeAubrey's accountofthe apparition which disappeared 
" with a curious perfume and a viost melodious twang ;" or 
see the '■^ Antiauary," \-o\. i. p. 225. — ["As the vision shut 
his volume, a strain of delightful music seemed to fill the 
apartment." — " The usual time," says Grose, " at which 
ghosts make tlieir appearance is midnight, and seldom before 
it is dark ; though some audacious spirits have been said to 
appear even by daylight ; but of this there are few instances, 
and those mostly ghosts who had been laid, and whose terms 
of confinement were expired. I cannot learn that ghosts 



Like king Alfonso.' When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble " 

CIL 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 

Like lightning, oft' from his " melodious twang."* 

CIIL 

Those grand heiCHs acted as a spell ; 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions ; 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions — • 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions ;) 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 

CIV. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down f 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, . 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

CV. 

He first sank to the bottom — like his works. 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,* 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 

Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 

In his own den, to scrawl some " Life" or " Vision,"^ 

As Welboru says — " the devil turn'd precisian." 



carry tapers in their hands, as they are sometimes depicted. 
Dragging chains is not the fashion of English ghosts ; chains 
and black vestments being chiefly the accoutrements of 
foreign spectres seen in arbitrary governments ; dead or 
alive, English spirits are free. During the narration of its 
business, a ghost must by no means be interrupted by ques- 
tions of any kind : its narration being completed, it 
vanishes away, frequently in a flash of light; in which case, 
some ghosts have been so considerate as to desire the party 
to whom they appeared to shut their eyes :— sometimes its 
departure is attended with most delightful music "j 

5 ['* Wiien I beheld them meet, the desire of my soul o'erca.r.jme 
And when with harp and voice the loud hosannahs of welcome 
Fill'd the rejoicing skv, as the happy company eiiter'd 
Through the Everlasting Gates, I, too, press'd forward to enter- 
But the weight of the bodv withheld me.— I sloop'd 10 the fountain, 
Eager to drink thereof, and to put away all that wa» earthly. 
Darkness came over me then at the ciiilling touch of the water, 
And my feet methoiight sunk, and I fell precipitate. Starling, 
Then 1 awoke, and beheld the mountains in twilight before me. 
Dark and distinct ; and, instead of the rapturous sound of hosannahs. 
Heard the bell from the tower, toUl tolil through tne silence of 
evening." — Southey.'l 

6 A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten ; it then 
floats, as most people know. 

1 [Southey's Vision of Judgment appears to us to be an ill- 
judged, and not a well-executed work. It certainly has added 
nothing to the reputation of its author in any respect. The 
nobleness of his motive does not atone for the indiscretion of 
putting it into so reprehensible a form. Hilton's example 
will, perhaps, be pleaded in his vindicaticn ; but Milton alone 
has ever founded a fiction on the basis of revelation, witho'Jt 
degrading his subject. He alone has succeeded in carrying- 
his readers into the spiritual world. No othe; attempt of the 
kind has ever appeared that can be read without a constant 
feeling of something like burlesque, and a wish that the Tar- 
tarus and Elysium of the idolatrous Greeks should still be the 
heU and the heaven of poetry. A smile at the puerilities and 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



535 



CVI. 

As for the rest, to come to tlie conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And show'd me what I hi my turn have shown ; 



a la igh at the absurdity of the poet, might then be enjoyed by 
the reader, without an apprehension that he was guilty of 
profanity in giving it. Milton has been blamed by the most 
judicious critics, and his warmest admirers, for expressing 
the counsels of Eternal Wisdom, and the decrees of Almighty 
Power, by words assigned to the Deity. It offends against 
poetical propriety and poetical probability. It is impossible 
to deceive ourselves into a momentary and poetical belief 
that words proceeded from the Holy Spirit, except on the 
warrant of inspiration itself It is here only that ftlilton fails, 
and here Milton sometimes shociis. The language and con- 
duct ascribed by Milton to his inferior spirits, accord so well 
with our conceptions and belief respecting their nature and 
existence, that in many places we forget that they are, in 
any respect, the creatures of imagination. The blasphemies 
of 'Milton's devils offend not a pious ear, because they are 
devils who utter them. Nor are we displeased with the poet's 
presumption in feigning language for heavenly spirits, be- 
cause it is a language that lifts the soul to Heaven ; and we 
more than believe, we know and feel, that, whatever may 
be the nature of the language of angels, the language of the 
poet truly interprets their sentiments. The words are hu- 
man : but the truths they express, and the doctrines they 
teach, are divine. Nothing of the same kind can be said of 
anij other fable, serious or ludicrous, pious or profane, that 
has yet been written in any age or language. — Blackwood, 
1822.] 

1 [The "Vision of Judgment" appeared, as has been al- 
ready said, in " The Liberal" — a Journal which, consisting 
chiefly of pieces by the late Mr. Hazlitt and Mr. Leigh 
Hunt, was not saved from ruin by a few contributions, some 
of the highest merit, by Lord Byron. In his work, entitled 
" Lord Byron and his Contemporaries," Mr. Hunt assaulted 
the dead poet, with reference to this unhappy Journal ; and 
his charges were thus taken to pieces at tlie time in the 
Quarterly Review :^ 

" Mr. Hunt describes himself as pressed by Lord Byron 
into the undertaking of that hapless magazine : Lord Byron 
on the contrary, represents himself as urged to the service 
by the IMessrs. Hunt themselves." e. g. 

'"'Genoa, Oct. 9th, 1822. — I am afraid the Journal w a bad 
business, and won't do, but in it I am sacrificing myself for 
others. I can have no advantage in it. I believe the brothers 
Hunts to be honest men ; I am sure that they are poor ones ; 
they have not a Nap. They pressed me to engage in this work, 
and in an evil hour I consented ; still I shall not repent if I can 
do them the least service. I have done all I can for Leigh 
Hunt since he came here, but it is almost useless : his wife 
is ill ; his six children not very tractable ; and in affairs of 
this world he himself is a perfect child. The death of Shel- 
ley left them totally aground ; and I could not see them in 
such a state without using the common feehngs of humanity, 
and what means were in iny power to set them afloat again.' 

" Again — Mr. Hunt represents Lord Byron as dropping his 
connection with ' The Liberal,' partly because his friends 
at home (Messrs. Moore, Hobhouse, Murray, &c.) told him 
it was a discreditable one, and partly because the business , 
did not turn out lucrative. 

" ' It is a mistake to suppose, that he was not mainly in- 
fluenced by the expectation of profit. He expected very 
large returns from ' The Liberal.' Readers in these days 
need not be told, that periodical works which have a large 
sale are a mine of wealth : Lord Byron had calculated that 
matter well.'— Lord Byron and his Contemporaries, p. 50. 

"'The failure of the large profits — the non-appearance 
of the golden visions he had looked for of the Edinburgh or 
Quarterly returns — of the solid and splendid proofs of this 
new country, which he should conquer in the regions of 
notoriety, to the dazzling of all men's eyes and his own— 
this it was —this was the bitter disappointment which made 
hnn determine to give way.'— /Airf. p. 51. 

" Now let us hear Lord Byron himself: — 

" ' Genoa, QH" 18th, 1822.— They will, of course, attribute 
inolives of all kinds ; but I shall not abandon a man like 
Hunt because he is unfortunate. Why, I could have no pe- 
cuniary motives, and, least of all, in connection with Hunt.' 

" ' Genoa, lO'"'' 25th, 1822.— Now do you see what you and 
your friends do by your injudicious rudeness? actually ce- 
ment a sort of connection which you strove to prevent, and 
which, had the Hunts prospered, would not, in all probabili- 
ty, have continued. As it is, I will not quit them in their 
adversity, though it should cost me character, fame, money, 



All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for 
one ; 
And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
I left him practising the hundredth psalm.' 



and the usual et cetera. My original motives I already ex- 
plained ; (in the letter which you thought proper to show ;) 
they are the true ones, and I abide by them, as I tell you, 
and I told Lf'rh Hunt, when he questioned me on the sub- 
ject of that letter. He was violently hurt, and never will 
forgive me at the bottom ; but I cannot help that. I never 
meant to make a parade of it ; but if he chose to question 
me, I could only answer the plain truth ; and I confess, I did 
not see any thing in the letter to hurt him, unless I said he 
was " a iore," which I don't remember. Had this Journal 
gone on well, and I could have aided to make it better for 
them, I should then have left them after a safe pilotage oft' a 
Ice shore to make a prosperous voyage by themselves. As it 
is, I can't, and wo\ M not if I could, leave them among the 
breakers. As to any community of feeling, thought, •'r opin- 
ion, between Leigh Hunt and me, there is little oi i ^ ne. 
We meet rarely, hard.ly ever; but I think him a good-prin- 
cipled and able man, and must >' o as I would be done by.' " 

The Reviewer proceeds to comment on Mr. Hunt's general 
abuse of Lord Byron's manners, habits, and conversation : 

" The witness is, in our opinion, disqualified to give evi- 
dence upon any such subjects : his book proves him to be 
• equally ignorant of what manners are, and incompetent to 
judge what manners ought to be : his elaborate portraiture 
of his own habits is from beginning to end a very caricature 
of absurdity ; and the man who wrote this book, studiously 
cast, as the whole language of it is, in a free-and-easy, con- 
versational tone, has no more right to decide about the con- 
versation of such a man as Lord Byron, than has a pert ap- 
prentice to pronounce ex cathedrd — from his one-shilling gal- 
lery, to wit— on the dialogue of a polite comedy. We can 
easily believe, that Lord Byron never talked his best when 
this was his Companion. "We can also believe, that Lord 
Byron's serious conversation, even in its lowest tone, was 
often unintelligible to Mr. Leigh Hunt. We are morally cer- 
tain, that in such company Lord Byron talked, very often in- 
deed, for the mere purpose of amusing himself at the expense 
of his ignorant, fantastic, lack-a-daisical guest ; that he con- 
sidered the Magnus Apollo of Paradise Row as a precious 
butt, and acted accordingly. We therefore consider Mr. 
Hunt's evidence as absolutely inadmissible, on strong pre- 
liminary grounds. But what are we to say to it, when we find 
it, as we do, totally and diametrically at variance both with 
the substance and complexion of Lord Byron's epistolary 
correspondence ; and with the oral testimonies of men whose 
talents, originally superior beyond all possibility of measure- 
ment to Mr. Hunt's, have been matured and perfected by 
study, both of books and men, such as Mr. Hunt never even 
dreamed of; who had the advantage of meeting Lord Byron 
on terms of perfect equality to all intents and purposes ; and 
who, qualified, as they probably were, above any of their 
contemporaries, to appreciate Lord Byron, whether as a 
poet, or as a man of high rank and pre-eminent fame, ming- 
hng in the world in society such as he ought never to have 
sunk below, all with one voice pronounce an opinion exactly 
and in every particular, as well as looking to things broadly 
and to the general effect, the reverse of that which this un- 
worthy and ungrateful dependant has thought himself justi- 
fied in promulgating, on the plea of a penury which no Lord 
Byron survives to relieve ? It is too bad, that he who has, 
in his own personal conduct, as well as in his writings, so 
much to answer for — who abused great opportunities and 
great talents so lamentably — who sinned so deeply, both 
against the society to which he belonged and the literature 
in which his name will ever hold a splendid place — it is really 
too bad, that Lord Byron, in addition to the grave condem- 
nation of men able to appreciate both his merits and his de- 
merits, and well disposed to think more in sorrow than in 
anger of the worst errors that existed along with so much 
that was excellent and noble — it is by much too bad, that 
this great man's glorious though melancholy memory 

' Alust also bear the vile attacks 
Of ragged curs ind vulgar hacks' 

whom he fed ; — that his bones must be scrapea up from 
tneir bed of repose to be at once grinned and howled over 
by creatures who, even in the least hyena-like of their 
moods, can touch nothing that mankind would wish to re- 
spect without polluting it." 

Mr. Moore's Verses on Mr. Hunt's worn must not 'SQ 
omitted here :— 



536 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE: 

OR, CARMEN SECULARS ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS » 



' Impar Con^ressus Acliilli." 



old times'' — all times when old are 



The « 



Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 

Great things have been, and are, and greater still 

Want little of mere mortals but tlieir will: 

A wider space, a greener field, is given 

To those who play their " tricks before high heaven.'' 

I know not if the augels weep, but men 

Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again I 

II. 

All is exploded — bo it good or bad. 
Reader I — remember when thou wert a lad, 
Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
His very rival almost deem'd him such.^ 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free. 
As the deep billows of the jEgean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore 
But wliere are they — the rivals ! a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet ' 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave, 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave. 
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of " dust to dust ;" but half its tale untold : 
Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form, 
Varied above, but still alike below ; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
O'er which from empire she lured Antony ; 



" Next week will be published (as ' Lives' are the rage) 
The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange. 
Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in tlie cage 
Of the late noble lion at Exeter 'Change. 

" Thougli the dog is a dog of the kind they call ' sad,' 
'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends : 
And few dogs have such opportunities had 
Of knowing how lions behave— among friends. 
■' How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks, 
Is all noted down by this Boswell so small ; 
And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks 
That the lion was no such great t rjngs after all. 
•' Though he roar'd pretty well— this the puppy allows— 
It was all, he says, borrow'd— all second-hand roar ; 
And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows 
To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour. 
" 'Tis. indeed, as good fun as a Cynic could ask, 
To see how this cockney-bred setter of rabbits 
Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task, 
And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits. 

" Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) 

With sops every day from the lion's own pan, 
• He lifts up his leg at the noble beast's carcass. 

And— does all a dog, so dhninutive, can. 
" However, the book 's a good book, being rich in 

Examples anu warnings to lions high-bred, 
How they sufTer small rnongrelly curs in their kitchen, 

Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead."] 

' [This poem was written by Lord Byron at Genoa, in the 

oarlvoartcf the year 1823; and published iu London, by 



Though Alexander's urn a show be grown, 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth. 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to conquer !" he who neV 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown. 
Which holds his uru, and never knew his throne. 

III. 
But where is he, the modern, mightier far. 
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car ; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings,^ 
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings. 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of late, 
Chaiu'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that 's great or little, wise or wild? [thrones? 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 
Whose table earth — whose dice were human bones? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,*^ 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey tiie queller of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
O'er cnrtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 



Mr. John Hunt. Its authenticity was much disputed al tue 
time.] 

3 [Mr. Fox used to say—" I never want a word, but Pitt 
never wants i/te word."] 

3 [The grave of Mr. Fox, in Westminster Abbey, is within 
eighteen inches of that of Mr. Pitt,— 

" Where— taming thought to human pride !— 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier: 
O'er Pitt s the mournful requiem sound, 
And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry— 
' Here let tlieir discord with tliem die ; 
Speak not for those a separate doom, 
Whom fate made brothers in the tomb , 
But search the land of living men. 
Where wiit thou find their like again V " 

Sir Walter Scot*.] 
* [A sarcophagus, of Breccia, supposed to have contained 
the dust of Alexander, which came into the possosoion of 
the English army, in consequence of the capitulatirp of 
Alexandria, in February, 1802, was presented by Ctoree 
III. to the British Museum.] ^ ^ 

6 [Sesostris is said, by Diodorus, to have hsxi his chariot 
drawn by eight vanquished sovereigns:— 

" High on his car Sesostris struck my view, 
Whom sceptred slaves in golden harness drew ; 
His hands a bow and pointed jav'lm hold, 
His giant limbs are arm'd in scales of gold."— Popb ] 
6 [St. Helena.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



607 



Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 

A surgeon's' statement, and an earl's^ harangues ! 

A bust delay'd,^ a book refused, can shake 

The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 

Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 

Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 

The paltry jailer^ and the prying spy. 

The staring stranger with his note-book nigh?' 

Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 

How low, how little was this middle state. 

Between a prison and a palace, where 

How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 

Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 

His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 

Vain was his sickness, never was a clime 

So free from homicide — to doubt 's a crime ; 

And the stiff surgeon, who maintain'd his cause, 

Hath lost his place, and gain'd the world's applause.' 

But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 

Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 

Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face 

Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace. 

None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 

Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 

Smile — for the fettcr'd eagle breaks his chain, 

And higher worlds tbjn this are his again.' 

IV. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retam 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to bo ! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
Though first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape ; 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 
What though his jailer, duteous to the last. 
Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
Refusing one poor line along the lid, 
To date the birth and death of all it hid : 



1 [Mr. Barry O'Meara.] 2 [Earl Bathurst.] 

3 [The bust of his son.] 4 [Sir Hudson Lowe.] 

5 [Captain Basil Hall's interesting account of his interview 
with the ex-emperor occurs in his " Voyage to Loo-choo."] 

" [The circumstances under which Mr. O'Meara's dis- 
missal from his Majesty's service took place will suffice to 
show how little " tlie stiff surgeon" merited "^he applause of 
Lord Byron. In a letter to the Admiralty Board by Mr. 
O'M., dated Oct. 28, 1818, there occurred the following 
paragraph : — " In the third interview which Sir Hudson 
Lowe had with Napoleon Bonaparte, in May, 1816, he pro- 
posed to the latter to send me away, and to replace me by 
Mr. Baxter, who had been several years surgeon in the 
Corsican Rangers. Failing in this attempt, he adopted the 
resolution of manifesting great confidence in me, by load- 
ing me with civilities, inviting me constantly to dine with 
hhn, conversing for hours together with me alone, both in 
his own house and grounds, and at Longwood, either in my 
own room, or under the trees and elsewhere. On some of 
these occasions he made to me observations upon the 
benefit which would result to Europe from the death of 
Napoleon Bonaparte ; of which event he spoke in a man- 
ner which, considering his situation and mine, was pe- 
culiarly distressing to me."— The Secretary to the Ad- 
miralty was instructed to answer in these terms :— " It is 
impossible to doubt the meaning which this passage was in- 
tended to convey ; and my Lords can as little doubt that 
the insinuation is a calumnious falsehood : but if it were 
true, and if so horrible a suggestion were made to you, di- 
rectly or indirectly, it was your bounden duty not to have 
lost a momeftl in communicating it to the Admiral on the 



68 



That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 

A talisman to all save him who bore : 

The fleets that sweep before the eastern biast 

Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 

When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 

Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies, 

The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 

Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 

And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 

Do more than niggard envj' still denies. 

But what are these to him ? Can Glory's lust 

Touch the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust? 

Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 

Naught if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 

Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 

On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, 

As if his ashes found their latest home 

In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic domo. 

He wants not this ; but France shall feel the -^ant 

Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 

Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones 

To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 

Or carried onward in the battle's van. 

To form, like Guesclin's' dust, her talisman. 

But be it as it is — the time may come 

His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum 

V. 

Oh heaven ! of which ho was in power a feature ; 

Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 

Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 

That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 

Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 

Hover, the victor of a hundred fights ! 

Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 

Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon — 

The Rubicon of man's awaken'd rights, 

To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 

Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 

Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 

And shook within their pyramids to hear 

A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 

While the dark shades of forty ages stood 

Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ;" 



spot, or to the Secretary of State, or to their Lordsliips. 
An overture so monstrous' in itself, and so deeply involving, 
not merely the personal character of the governor, but the 
honor of the nation, and the important interest committed 
to his charge, should not have been reserved in your own 
breast for two years, to be produced at last, not (as it 
would appear) from a sense of public duty, but in further- 
ance of your own personal hostiUty against the governor. 
Either the charge is in the last degree false and calumni- 
ous, or you can have no possible excuse for having hitherto 
suppressed it. In either case, and without adverting to 
the general tenor of your conduct, as stated in your letter, 
my Lords consider you to be an improper person to con- 
tinue in his Blajesty's service ; and they have directed your 
name to be erased from the list of naval surgeons ac- 
cordingly." O'Meara died in 1836.] 
' [Bonaparte died the 5th of May, 1821.] 

8 [Guesclin, constable of France, died in the midst of his 
triumphs, before Chateauneuf de Randon, in 1380. The 
English garrison, which had conditioned to surrender at a 
certain time, marched out the day after his death ; and the 
commander respectfully laid the keys of the fortress on the 
bier, so that it might appear to have surrendered to his 
ashes.] 

9 [John Ziska— a distinguished leader of the Hussites. 
It is recorded of him, that, in dying, he ordered his skin to 
be made the covering of a drum. The Bohemians hold his 
memory in superstitious veneration.] 

10 [At the battle of the pyramids, in July, 1798, Bonaparte 
said, — " Soldiers ! from the summit of yonder pyramids 
forty ages behold you."] 



538 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To re-maniire the uncultivated land ! 

Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 

Austria ; which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 

And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dwell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

Tlie unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste. 

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name. 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long flowing tear, 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — • 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — he saw thee — how? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store. 

The prince his hall — and Moscow was no more ! 

Sublimest of volcanoes I Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla 's tame ; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, a usual sight 

I'or gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height • 

1 hou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire 

To come, iu which all empires shall expire . 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern, 
Ta teach a lesson conquerors will not learn I-^- 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe. 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang ■, 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
Her youth — their blood flows faster than her wmes ; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chill'd ; its beams are now forsaken. 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war, 
What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car ! 



1 [Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great battle of Lutzen, 
in November, 1632.] 

2 [The Isle of Elba.] 

s I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in 
.^schylus, when he is left alone by his attendants, and be- 
fore the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs. [Thus 
translated by Potter : — 

" Ethereal air, and ye swift-winged winds. 
Ye rivers springing from fresh founts, ye waves, 
That o'er th' interminable ocean wreatn 
Your crisped smiles, thou all-producing earth, 
And thee, bright sun, I call, whose flaming orb 
Views the wide world beneath, see what, a god, 
I suffer from the gods ; with what fierce pains, 
Benold, what tortures for revolving ages 



The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,' 
Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
Before their sovereign — sovereign as before ; 
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide ; 
And backward to the den of his despair 
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh France ! who found 
Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground, 
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle.' 
Which see'st Etruria Jiom thy ramparts smile, 
Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 
Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping t'lde! 
Oh, France ! retaken by a single marcli, 
Whose path was through one long triumphal arch . 
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 
Which proves how fools may have tiieir fortune too, 
Won half by blunder, half by treachery: 
Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailer nigh — 
Hear ! hear Prometheus^ from his rock appeal 
To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
A name eternal as the rolling year ; 
He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong! 
A single step into the right had made 
This man the Washington of worlds betray'd: 
A single step into the wrong has given 
His name a doubt to all the v/inds of heaven ; 
The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod, 
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
His country's Csesar, Europe's Hannibal, 
Without their decent dignity of fall. 
Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
A surer path even to the fame he sought, 
By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 
Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ;■* 
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er 
Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air •? 
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar !" 
Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 



I here must struggle ; such unseemly chains 
This new-raised ruler of the gods devised. 
Ah me ! That groan bursts from my anguish'd heart. 
My present woes and future to bemoan. — 

For favors shown 
To mortal man I bear this weight of wo I"! 
4 [The well-known motto on a French medal of Franlilin 
was— 

" Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis."j 
6 [" To be the first man, (not the Dictator,) not the Sylla, 
but the Washington, or AristiJes, the leader in talent and 
truth, is to be next to the Divinity." — Byron Diary.] 

6 [Simon Bolivar, the liberator of Columbia and Peru, 
died at San Pedro, December, 1830, of an iUness brought 
on by excessive fatigue and exertion.] 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



539 



The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
And crush'd the rights of^urope and his own, 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

VI. 

But 'twill not be— the spark 's awaken' d—lo ! 

The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 

The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 

Through eight long ages of alternate gore 

Revive!— and where? in that avenging clime 

Where Spain was once synonymous with crime. 

Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew, 

The infant world redeems her name of " New." 

'Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 

To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 

Such as repulsed the Persian from the shoio 

Where Greece was— No ! she still is Greece onco 

more. 
One common cause makes myriads of one breast. 
Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks nnfurl'd, 
The self-same standard streams o'er either world : 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ;* 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord ; 
The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique ; 
Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore. 
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main: 
But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
Break o'er th' JEgean, mindful of the day 
Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise. 
Not to be luU'd by tyrant victories. 
Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need 
By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed. 
The desolated lands, the ravaged isle. 
The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 
The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ;' — 
These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is we.: Greeks only should free Greece. 
Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
Tlie king of serfs, and set the nations free? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
Better still toil for masters, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
Number'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall. 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the lirst courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
His sleep, savs dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
Better succumb even to their own despair. 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 



[The famous hymn, ascribed to Callistratus:— 

' Cover'd with myrtle-wreaths, I'll wear my sword 
LUe brave Harmodius, and his patriot friend 
Aristogeiton, wlio the laws restored, 

The tyrant slew, and bade oppression end," &c. &c., 

= [For the first authentic accouii.'; of the Russian intrigues 



vn. 

But not alone within the hoariest clime 

Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time, 

And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 

The dawn revives : renown'd, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 

Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 

But these are gone— their faith, their swords, their 

sway. 
Yet left mcie anti-christian foes than they : 
The bigot moniu-ch and the butcher priest, 
The Inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
Enjoying, with ine.xorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was Bloth : 
The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced, 
But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd ; 
The idle forge that Ibrm'd Toledo's blade ; 
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore. 
Save hers who oarn'd it with the natives' gore; 
The very language which might vie with Rome's, 
And once was known to nations like their homes, 
Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
These worst, these horne invaders, felt and feel 
The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar; 
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain !'" 
Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 
And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
The exterminating war, the desert plain, 
The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 
Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 
For their incessant prey ; the desperate wall 
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
Waving her more than Amazonian blade ;* 
The knife of- Aragon,^ Toledo's steel ; 
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile ; 
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 
The Andalusian courser in the van ; 



in Greece, in the years alluded to, see " Gordon's History 
of the Greek Revolution," (1832,) vol. i.] 

3 [" Santiago y serra Espana !" the old Spanish war-cry.] 

4 [See ante, p. 20.] 

' The Aragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of 
this weaoon, and displayed it particularly in former F:cnch 
wars. 



540 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

A-ud in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win — not Spain but thine own freedom, France ! 

VIII 

But lo ! a Congress !' What ! that hallow'd name 

Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same 

For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise. 

Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 

The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far 

From climes of Washington and Bolivar; 

Henry, tne lorest-born Demosthenes, 

Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ;" 

And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 

Robed in the lightnings v/hich his hand allay'd ; 

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 

To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 

But who compose this senate of the few 

That should redeem the many? Who renew 

'It. ij consecrated name, till now assign'd 

To councils held to benefit mankind? 

Who now assemble at the holy call ? 

The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 

Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 

A pious unity ! in purpose one — 

To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 

Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 

But these, more hungry, must have something more, 

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 

Ah ! how much happier were good jEsop's frogs 

Than we ! for ours are animated logs. 

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro. 

And crushing nations with a stupid blow ; 

All duly anxious to leave little work 

Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
Honor'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets ;'" 
Thy Scaligers — for v/hat was " Dog the Great," 
' Can Grande,"* (whic i I venture to translate,) 



1 [The Congress of the Sovereigns of Russia, Austria, 
Piussia, &c., &c., &c., which assembled at Verona, in the 
autumn of 1822.] 

2 [Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading memb?r of the 
American Congress, died in June, 1797. Lord B/ron -i.- 
ludes to his famous speech in 1765, in which, on saying, 
" Caesar liad his Brutus— Charles the First had his Crom- 
well—and George the Third " Henry was interrupted 

with a shout of " Treason', treason 1 1" — but coolly finished 
the sentence with— ' Georgo the Third viay profit by their 
example."] 

3 ["I have been orsr Verona. The amphitheatre is 
wonderful— beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juhet's 
story, they seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the 
fact— giving a date, (1303,) and showing a tomb. It is a 
plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered 
leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once 
a cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation 
struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted 
as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of the 
g-anite, lo give to my daughter and my nieces. The Gothic 
nnnuineiits of the Scaliger princes pleased me, but ' a poor 
Ti-tuoco am I.' " — Byron Letters, Nov., 1816.] 

♦ [CaoD I. Delia Scala, surnamed the Great, died in 1329 : 
ce was t'.ie protector of Dante, who celebrated him sis " il 
Oran Ljmbardo."] 



To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ;* 
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate j 
And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate ; 
Thy good old man, whose world was all within 
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him ui :* 
Would that the royal guests it girds about 
Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear fnonuments of shamo, 
To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 
The ccaiedy is not upon the stage ; 
The show is rich in ribandry and stars, 
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 

X. 

Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb Czar,' 

The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 

As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 

And just as fit for flirting as the nelm ; 

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit. 

And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit ; 

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 

But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw j 

With no objection to true liberty, 

E.xcept that it would make the nations free. 

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! 

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece ' 

How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 

With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! 

How royally show off in proud Madrid 

His goodly person, from the South long hid ; 

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 

By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's sou ! 

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 

And that which Scythia was to him of yore 

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 

Thy predecessor on the banks of Prcih ; 

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 

Many an old woman, but no Catherine.* 

Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 

The bear nmy rush into the lion's toils. 



s [Verona has been distinguished as the cradle cf many 
illustrious men. There is one still living : 

Per cui la fama in te chiara risuona 
Egregia, eccelsa, alma Verona, — 
I mean Ippolito Pindemonte, a poet who has caught a portion 
of that sun whose setting beams yet gild the horizon of Italy. 
His rural pieces, for their chaste style of coloring, their re- 
pose, and their keeping, may be said to be in poetry, what 
the landscapes of Claude Lorraine are in picture.— Hose.] 

6 [Claudian's famous old man of Verona, "qui suburbiura 
nunquam egressus est."— The Latin verses are beautifully 
imitated by Cowley : — 

"Happy the man who his whole life doth bound 
Within th' enclosure of his little ground : 
Happy the man whom the same humble place 
(Th' hereditary cottage of his race^ 
From his first rising infancy has known. 
And, by degrees, sees gently bending down, 
With natural propension, to that earth 
Which both preserved his life and gave hira birth. 
Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set. 
Could ever into foo' ish wanderings get ; 
No cliange of Consuls marks to him the yeai : 
The change of seasons is his calendar," &c. fcc] 
T [The Emperor Alexander ; who died in 1625.] 
B The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the 



THE AGE OF BRONZE 



541 



Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ;* 

Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route. 

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 

Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 

But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 

Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 

Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 

His tub hath tougher walls than Sinop^ : 

Still will he hold his lantern up to scan 

The face of monarchs for an " honest man." 



XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific laud 
Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
Hears " the lie" echo for his answer round? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to " hear !" 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a shot. 
To listening long, and interrupting not? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
When Tully fuhnined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 



xn. 

But where 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
Have revolutionary pates risen. 
And turu'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 
Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops? 
Or have 7W movements follow'd traitorous soups? 
Have Carbonaro^ cooks not carbonadoed 
Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 
I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 



Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans 
on the banks of the river Pruth. 

1 [" Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd 
Beneath Count Julian's banner ; the remains 
Of that brave army which in Africa 
So well against the Blussulman made head, 
Till sense of injuries insupportable, 
And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew 
Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge 
His quarrel, twice that number left their bones, 
Slain iu unnatural batile on the field 
Of Xeres, where the sceptre from the Goths 
By righteous Heaven was reft." — Southei/^s Roderick.'] 

s [According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, 
during the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the 
Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the 
iirst that assumed the designation, since famihar all over 
Italy, of" Carbonari," (colhers.)] 



Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say, 

Desirable to bo the Desire? 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's greou 

abode,' 
Apician table, and Horatiau ode, 
To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
And love much rather to be scourged than school i ? 
Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed ; 
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, 
To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
To .^Ik of letters, and to know by heart 
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art ; 
A scholar always, now and then a wit. 
And gentle when digestion may permit ; — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

xin. 

Shall noble Albion pas,9 without a phrase 
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
"Arts — arms— and George — and gloiy — and the 

isles — 
And happy Britain — wedth — and Freedom's smiles — 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world !* 

And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castleroagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t' other day — 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm'^ — 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform."^ 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near, 
There 's no occasion you should find them hero 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
With reason, and, what 's stranger still, with rhymo. 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit. 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit. 
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame ; 
Our last, our best, our only orator,' 
Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more : 
Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, 
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow ; 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not a eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 



3 [Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire— the residence of Louis 
XVIII., during the latter years of the Emigration.] 

4 . " Naso suspendit adunco."— iibrace. 

The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to 
his acquaintance. 

5 t" The Pilot that weather'd the storm" is the burden of 
a song, in honor of Pitt, by Mr. Canning.] 

6 [" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of 
an orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his 
harle<iuin delivery. Pitt I never heard — Fox but once : and 
then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as differ- 
ent from an orator as an improvisatore or a versifier frem a 
poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. Canning is some- 
times very hke one. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of 
bad taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. 
Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Burdett is 
sweet and silvery as Belial himself, and, I think, the great- 
est favorite in Pandemonium." — Byron Diary, 1821.] 



542 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
K(.r royal stallion's feet extremely sure ;' 
Thj unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To ntumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
Witi his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But afhat of that? the animal shows blood. 

XIV. 

Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 

Be77.'al her now wncountry gentlemen? 

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 

The f /st to make a malady of peace. 

For what were ail these country patriots bom? 

To hun', and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 

But cor 1, like every mortal thing, must fall, 

Kings, cmquerors, and markets most of all. 

And'must ye fall with every ear of grain? 

Why wjultJ you trouble Buonaparte's reign? 

He w.10 year great Triptolemus ; his vices 

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintaiu'd your 

pvices ; 
He n.mplifif d to every lord's content 
Tbo grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent. 
Why did tha tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters? 
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt. 
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way. 
And acres told upon the appointed day. 
But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail ? 
The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
The marsh reclaim'd to most improving laud? 
The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill. 
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
The landed interest — (you may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes, 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
And patriotism, so delicately nice. 
Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high. 
Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 
And naught remains of all the millions spent. 
Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 
About still flows froiTi Fortune's equal urn ; 
Now let their virtue be its own reward, 
And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands. 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle — why ? for rent ! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 
Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for rent ! 



1 [On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in August, 1822, 
Ml. Canuing, who had prepared to sail for India as Gover- 
noi General, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Af- 
fairs, —not much. It was alleged, to tlie personal satisfaction 
of George the Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet 
He lived tc verify some of the piedictions of the poet— to 



Thoy roar'd, they dined, they drank, they sworo they 

meant 
To die for England — why then live ? — for rent ! 
This peace has made one general malecontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent i 
Their love of country, millions all misspent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent? 
No : down with every thing, and up with rent! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion — rent, rent, rent I 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
What I would thoy spread their ep.rthq.iake even c'ei 

cash? 
And when land crumbles, bid ftrip paper crash ? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall. 
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital? 
Lo ! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars — but Britain ends 
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;" 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice. 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations : — pray who made it high { 



XV. 

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 

The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More v.'ealth than Britain ever had to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore. 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the etatf , 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines. 

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 

No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse. 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control. 

And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron^ — brethren, speed 

To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 



abandon t\\e foreign policy of his predecessor— to break up 
the Tory party by a coalition with the Whigs— and to pre- 
pare the way for Reform, in Parliament.] 

2 [The head of the illustrious house of Mon'morenci has 
usually been designated " le premier baron C hretien ;" his 
ancestor having, it is supposed, been the first noble convert 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



543 



Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
Fresh speculations follow each success ; 
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain. 
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march ; 
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 
What is the happiness of earth to them? 
A congress forms their " New Jerusalem," 
Where baronies and orders both invite — 
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight? 
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
But honor them as portion of the show — 
(Where now, oh pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks? 
Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks?") 
On Shy lock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike : 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 

While Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 

Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight ; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;' 

And subtle Greeks^ intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 

There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,' 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 

To furnish articles for the " Debats ;" 

Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 

As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 

Alas ! how : uld his cabinet thus err? 

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister? 

He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 

" Almost as quickly as le conquer'd Spain."* 

XVII. 

Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 



to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to 
the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke 
of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon 
after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, 
is said to have begged leave to present i)/. Ze premier iaro« 
Juif to 31. le premier baron Chretien.] 

1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the au- 
thor in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Ve- 
rona from a literary sovereign : " Ah ! Monsieur C, are you 
related to that Chateaubriand who— who — who has written 
something?" (ecrit quelque chose I) It is said that the author 
of Atala repented hmi for a moment of his legitimacy. 

2 [Coiint Capo d'Istrias— afterwards President of Greece. 
Tne count was mnrdered in September, 1831, by the brother 
and son of a Jlainote chief whom he had imprisoned.] 

s [The Duk3 de Mon'.morenci-Laval.] 

3 [From Pope's ver;°s on Lord Peterborough : — 



The mother of the hero's hope, tne ooy, 

The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;* 

The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 

That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 

She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. 

The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 

Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 

A daughter? What did France's widow there? 

Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave. 

Here only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 

But, no, — she still must hold a petty reign, 

Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 

The martial Argus, whose not hiuidred eyes 

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries ;* 

What though she share no more, and shared in vaia 

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 

Wliich swept from Moscow to the southern seas ; 

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese. 

Where Parma views the traveller resort, 

To note the trappings of her mimic court. 

But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 

Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 

To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 

But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 

She comes ! — the Andromache, (but not Racine's, 

Nor Homer's,) — Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 

Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 

Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through. 

Is ofFer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 

Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 

Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife. 

And the cx-empress grows as ex a wife ! 

So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 

Why spare men's feelings, v/hen their own are jesla i 

XVIII. 

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 

And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to come 

My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt. 

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 

While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 

To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 

Guildhall grov.'s Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, 

While all tho Common Council cry " Claymore !" 

To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 

Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,' 

She b\irst into a laughter so extreme. 

That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 

Here, reader, will we pause : — if there 's no harm in 
This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen." 



" And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines. 
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines. 
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain. 
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."] 

6 [Napoleon Francois Charles Joseph, Dukeof Reichstadt, 
died at the palace of Schiinbrunn, July 2i!, 1832, having just 
attained his twenty-first year.] 

6 [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to 
Maria-Louisa, had but, one eye. The cobt.tdied in 1831. 
See ante, p. 471.] 

' [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat an- 
noyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1622; 
in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired 
(and of similar bulk)— that of S'ir William Curtis. The city 
knight had eveiy thing complete — even the knife stuck in 
the garter. He asked the King, if hi; did not think him weL 
dressed. "Yesl" replied his Majesty, "only you have no 
spoon in your hose." The devourer of turtle had a fine en- 
graving executed of himself in his Celtic attiie.J 



544 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807-1824. 



THE ADIEU. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR 
WOULD SOON DIE. 

Adieu, thou Hill !* where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 
Partners of former bliss or woes ; 

No more through Ida's paths we stray ; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell, 
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell 

Unconscious of the day. 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye spires of Granta's vale, 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 
Ye comrades of the jovial hour, 
Ye tenants of the classic bower. 

On Cama's verdant margin placed, 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine, 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine. 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath; and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Sother^Ji home ? 

Hall of my ^ires ! a long farewell — 

Yet why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Thy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which si ng thy fall. 
And former glories of thy Hall^ 

Forgets its wonted simple note — 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
And sometimes, on ^olian wings, 

In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here. 
Adieu ! you are not now forgot, 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet 1^ along whose rippling surge. 
My 5'outhful limbs were wont to urge 

At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from tlie shore. 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more. 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I here forget the scene, 
Still nearest to my breast ? 



1 [HatTow.] P See ante, pp. 388, 412,] 

8 [Tie river Grete, at Southwell.] 



Rocks rise, and rivers roll between 
The spot which passion bless'd ; 

Yet, Mary,* all thy beauties seem 

Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 
To mo in smiles display'd ; 

Till slow disease resigns his prey 

To Death, the parent of decay. 
Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou, my Friend !^ whose rfeiiil? love, 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords. 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let Pride alone condemn ! 

All, all is dark and cheerless now ! 

No smile of Love's deceit 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow, 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en the hope of future fame. 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short inglorious race, — 
To humble in the dust my face. 

And mingle with the dead. 

Oh Fame I thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains thy praise, 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart. 

Consumed in Glorj^'s blaze ; 
But me she beckons from the earth. 
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth. 

My life a short and vulgar dream ; 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud. 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod. 

Unheeded in the clay. 
Where once my playful footsteps trod, 

Where now my head must lay ; 
The meed of Pity will be shed 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed. 

By nightly skies, and stonns alone ; 
No mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless spritoj 
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven • 

There must thou soon direct thy flight. 
If errors are forgiven. 

To bigots and to sects unknown, 

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; 



4 [Mary Duflf. See ante, p. 426, note.] 

E [Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister See ante, p, 409 



1807. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



545 



To Him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just, 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to Thee I call, 

My sQiil is dark within : 
Thou, \vno canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, 
Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky. 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live, 

Instruct me how to die. 

1807. [First published, 1832.] 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

Ah, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears : 

Why thus destroy thine own repose. 
And dig the source of future tears? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Vain girl ! thy ling'ring woe6 are nigh. 
If thou believ'st what striplings say : 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, 
The words man utters to deceive? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost. 
If thou canst venture to believe. 

While now amongst thy female peers ' 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale. 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
DupUcity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush. 
Nor make thyself the public gaze : 

What modest maid without a blush 

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 

Her who relates each fond conceit— 

Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit? 

For she who takes a soft delight 

These amorous nothings in revealing, 

Must credit all we say or write. 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids me reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.] 



> TO ANNE. 



Oh, Anne ! your.oflences to me have been grievous ; 

I thought from my wrath no atonement could save 
you; 
But woman is made to command and deceive us — 

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 



69 



I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, 
Yet thought tliat a day's separation was long: 

When we met, I dotemiined again to suspect you— 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you 

I saw you — my anger became admiration ; ' 

And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain yon. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention ! 

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ; — 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension. 

Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you ! 
January 16, 1807. [First published^ 1832.1 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh, say net, sweet Anne, that the fates have decreed 
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever ; 

Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed ; — 
To bear me from love and from beauty forever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain ; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown, 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined. 
The rage of the tempest united must weather, 

My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed. 
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 

Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed. 
His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

1807. [First published, 1832.] 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, 

" ' BAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, ' AND YET NO TEAR.' " 

Thy verse is " sad" enough, no doubt : 
A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 

Why we should weep I can't find out. 
Unless for thee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas ! I think he needs it : 
For he, I'm sure, will sufler sore. 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read — but never after : 

Yet their effect 's by no means tragic, 
AJthough by far too dull for laughter. 

But would you make our bosoms bleed. 
And of no common pang complain — 

If you would make us wee^ uideed, 
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. 

March 8, 1807. [First published, 1632.] 



ON FINDING A FA% 

In one who felt as once he felt. 

This might, perhaps, have faun'd the flame ; 
But now his heart no more will melt. 

Because that heart is not the same. 



546 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1807. 



As when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light, 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
Now quenches all their blaze in night, 

Thus has it been with passion's fires — 
As many a boy and pirl remembers — 

While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 

The first, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again, 

Not always doom'd its heat to smother, 

It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 
Its former warmth around another 

1807. [First published, 1832.] 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
days. 

Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part ; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, 

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; 

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, 
Yet oven these themes are departed forever ; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire. 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas, never ! 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl. 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul. 
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. 

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
Ah, no ! for thosT hours can no longer be mine. 

Can they speak of tiie friends that I live but ta love? 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move. 

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, 
And raise my lovid harp to the fame of my Sires? 

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires I 

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast — 
'Tis hush'd ; and my feeble endeavors are o'er ; 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past. 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no 
more 



1 [Lord Byron, on liis first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, 
planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that 
as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, 
during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found 
the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;— hence 
these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildraan, the present 
proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said 
to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young 



And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love are o'ercast : 

Oh ! bless'd had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last ! 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can iie'ci" 
meet; 
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet — 
The present — which seals our eternal Adieu. 

1807. [First published, 1832.] 



TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD 

Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the groimd, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; 

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years. 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride : 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 

Oh ! hardy thou wert — even now little care 

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds 
gently heal : 

But thou wert not fated affection to share — 

For who coidd suppose that a Stranger would feel ? 

All, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while ; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile. 

When Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, 
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, 

For still in thy bosom are life's early sends, 

And still may thy branches their beauty display. 

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine. 

Though / shall lie low in the cavern of death, 

On thy leaves yet the day -beam of ages may shine, 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. 
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, 
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, 

And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

1807. [First published, 1832.] 



oak ; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper 
place."—" I hope not, sir," replied the man ; " for it's the 
one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." 
The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of 
it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as " the 
Byron oak," and promises to share, in after times, the 
celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.] 



1807. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



547 



ON REVISITING HARROW.' 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 

Few were her words, — but yet, though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut — but not erased, 

Tlie characters were still so plain. 
That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, — 

Till Memory hail'd the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seeni'd once more 
. That Friendship thought it still the same. 

Thus might the Record now have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor. 
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line forever ! 

September, 1807, 



EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTH- 
WELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 

John Adams lies here of the parish of Soulhwell, 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast. 
He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, 
He could not carry off, — so he 's now carri-on. 

September, 1807. 



TO MY SON.^ 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy. 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy ! 

And thou canst lisp a father's name — 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
No self-reproach — but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy ! 

Her lowly grave the turf has press'd, 
And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 
Derision sneers upon thy birth. 
And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 
Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
I hail thee, dearest child of love. 
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 



1 Some ye'ars ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author 
engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few 
additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving 
some real, or imagined injury, tlie author destroyed the frail 
rt-crrd before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 
1807, he VI rote under it these stanzas. 

2 [" Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on 
fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as 
Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, 



Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy I 

Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, wert thou still less dear to me. 
While Heii^n's form revives in thee. 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 

1807. [First published, 1830.1 



FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayei 

For other's weal avail'd on high. 
Mine will not all be lost in air. 

But waft thy name beyond the sky 
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eyo, 

Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry : 

But in my breast and in my brain. 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
I only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 

1808. 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUI* 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine. 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For why should we mourn for the bless'd? 

1808. 



such an event, or rather era, a& is here commemorated, 
would have been, of all others, the least likely io pass un- 
mentioned by him ; and yet neither in conversation nor in 
any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. 
On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote, — 
making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,— the 
transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it Js not easy to 
suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been 
indebted for its origin to imagination alone." — Moose. But 
see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.] 



548 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1808. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

« 

When wo two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-hearted 

To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame ; 
I hear thy name spoken. 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine -ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee. 

Who knew thee too well : — ■ 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve. 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



1808. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.^ 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name. 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have loved the most 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays. 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee fickle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide. 
So human feelings ebb and flow ; 

And who would in a breast confide, 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 



1 [This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally 
appeared in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now the 
ItiglL'. lion. Sir John) Hobhouse, imder the title of " Imita- 



It boots not that, together bred, 

Our childish days were days of joy 

My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a bov. 

And when we bid adieu to youth. 

Slaves to the specious world's control. 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years. 
When Man hinuclf is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears. 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
We learn at length our faults to blend ; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No ; for myself, so dark my fate a 

Through everj' turn of life hath been; 

Man and the world so much I hate, ' 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night. 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 

(For cherish'd first in royal halls. 
The welcome vices kindly greet,) 

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 
Still simpering on with eager haste. 

As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 

But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapors move, 

To flit along from dame to dame. 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



1808. 



tions and Translations, together with original poems," ani 
bearing the modest epigraph — " JVos hac novimus esse ni- 
hil."] 



1808. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



549 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED 
FIDM A SKULL.i 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled : 

In me behold the only skull, 
F/om which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quafF'd, like thee : 

I dibd : let earth my bones resign : 
Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape. 

Than nurse the eartli-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shonoj 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone 

What nobler substitute than wine ? 

Quaff" while thou canst : another race, 
When thou and thine, like me, are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why no — since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce? 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay. 
This chance is tlieirs, to be of use. 

Newstead Abbey, 1808. 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPY." 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel ^_ 

That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's oless'd — and 'twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot : 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When late I saw thy favorite child, 

I thought my jealous heart would break ; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs, 
Its father in its face to see ; 

' [Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup : — 
" The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had pro- 
bably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, 
about the ;ime it was demonasteried. Obser/ing it to be of 
giant size, ;i'.id in a perfect state of preservf.tion, a strange 
fancy seized :ne of having it set and mounted as a drinking 
cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a 
very high polish, and of a mottled color like tortoise-shell." 
It is now in the possession of Colonel Wildman, the pro- 
prietor of Newstead Abbey. In several of our elder drama- 
tists, mention is made of the custom of quaffing wine out of 
similar cups. For example, in Dekker's " Wonder of a 
Kingdom," Torrenti says, — 

" Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads, 
Their skulls set all in silver ; to drink healths 
To his confusion who first invented war."] 

^ [These lines were printed originally in Mr. Hobhouse's 
Misuellany. A few days before they were written, the Poet 
had been mvited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daugh- 
ter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started 
involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his 
emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are in- 
debted for these beautiful stanzas.] 



But then it had its mother's eyes, 
And they were all to love and me. 

Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art bless'd I'll not repine ; 
But near thee I can never stay ; 

My heart would soon again bo thine. 

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame ; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side. 

My heart in all, — save hope, — th^ same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look ; 

Eut now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon m^face, 
Yet meet with no ecniusion there : 

One only feeling couldst thou trace ; 
^he sullen calmness of despair. 

Away ! away ! my early dream 
Remembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 

November 2, 



1808 



INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A 
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.= 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo. 
And storied urns record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen. 
Not what he was, but what he should bave been : 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend. 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labors, fights,*lives, breathes for him alone, 
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power. 
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
Degraded mass of animated dust ! 



3 [This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the 
garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by 
which the verses are preceded : — 

" Near this spot 

Are deposited the Remains of one 

Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 

Strength without Insolence, 

Courage without Ferocity, 

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. 

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 

If inscribed over human ashes, 

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 

BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 

And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 

Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favorite to his 

friend Hodgson : — "Boatswain is dead !— he expired in a 

state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet le 

taining all the gentleness of his nature to the last ; never at 

tempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have 

now lost every thing, except old Murray." By the will 

executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be 

buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.] 



550 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1808. 



Thy ]ove is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn. 

Pass on — it honors none you wisli to mourn : 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 

I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808. 



TO A LADY,' 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND 
IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate. 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 

Just gave a sigh to other times. 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady [^ will it be with me. 

And I must view thy charms no more ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely wise. 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there.^ 

December 2, 1808. 



REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. 

Remind mo not, remind me not. 

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours. 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be forgot. 
Till time unnerves our vital powers. 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget. 

When playing with tliy golden hair. 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet. 
With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast. 

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
And still we near and nearer press'd. 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 



1 [In the original MS. " To Mrs. Musters," &c. The 
reader -will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustra- 
tions of Byron, No. III.] 

2 [In the first copy, " Thus, Mary !"] 

s [In Mr. Ilobhouse's volume, the line stood,—" Withcnt 
a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from 
an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only 
three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece : — " Miss 
Chaworth was tv o years older than myself. She married 
a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her mar- 



And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each othcripeek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow 

I dreamt last night our love retum'd. 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its fantasy. 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not. 

Of hours which, though forever gone. 
Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
Till thou and I shall be forgot, . 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. 

There was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine. 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
To think how all that love hath flovra; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew. 
When late I heard thy lips declare. 

In accents once imagined true. 

Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ; my adored, yet most unkind I 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me. 

Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be, 

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? 

And wilt thou weep when I. am low? 

Sweet lady! speak those words again: 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



riage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, 
however, was irreproachable ; but there was not sympathy 
between their characters. 1 had not seen her for many- 
years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, 
with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, 
who has always had more influence over me than any (mo 
else, persuaded me not to do it Tor,' said she, 'if jou 
go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a 
scene ; one step will lead to another, et cela (era un eclat.' 
I was guided by those reasons, and shortly atter married, 
— with what success it is useless to say."j 



1809. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



551 



My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methiuks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine ; 

And for awhile my sorrows cease. 

To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh lady ! blessed bo that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! onco my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady I speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain.' 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 



Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; 

Let us drink I — who would not? — since, through life's 

varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye ; 

I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 

declare. 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 



1 [The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the 
young poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his 
friends. It was at this period, that the following pleasant 
verses w-ere addressed to him by Mr. Hobhouse: — 

EPISTLE 

TO A YOUNQ NOBLEMAN IN LOVE. 

Hail ! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame 
Inspires and animates to deeds of fame ; 
"VVlio feel the noble wish before you die 
To raise the finger of each passer-by: 
Hail ! may a future age admiring view 
A. Falkland or a Clarendon in you. 

But as your blood with dangerous passion boils, 
Beware ! and fly from Venus' silken toils : 
Ah 1 let the head protect the weaker heart, 
And Wisdom's Mgis turn on Beauty's dart. 
***** 

But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair, 
And you and Newstead must not want an heir, 
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round, 
To find a treasure that can ne'er be found ! 
No ! take the first the town or court aff'ords, 
Trick'd out to slock a market for the lords ; 
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall 
Oflb.one, though wicked, not the worst of all : 
***** 

One though perhaps as any Maxwell free, 
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee : 
Not very ugly, and not very old, 
A little pert mdeed, but not a scold ; 
One that, in short, may help to lead a life 
Not farther much from comfort than from strife ; 
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears, 
Shall leave some joys for your declining years. 

But, as your early youth some time allows, 
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse. 



In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its 

spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I had friends I — who has not ? — ^but what tongue will 

avow. 
That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst 

change : 
Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth what 

appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? 

Yet if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow. 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 

We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou hast no such 

alloy ; 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 

Then the season of youth and its vanities pass'd, 

For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 

There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the 

.soul. 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora 'was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we 

kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. 

The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 

We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be 

forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 

Some hours of freedom may remain as yet 

For one who laughs alike at love and debt ; 

Then, why in haste 7 put off' the evil day, 

And snatch at youthful comforts whilst you may ! 

Pause ! nor so soon the various bliss forego 

That single souls, and such alone, can know: 

Ah ! why too early careless life resign. 

Your morning slumber, and your evening wine ; 

Your loved companion, and his easy talk ; 

Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk. 

What ! can no more your scenes paternal please. 

Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease ? 

The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down, 

Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own ? 

What 1 shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers. 

The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers ! 

Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife, 

And ever fond, or ever angry wife ! 

Shall these no more confess a manly sway, 

But changeful woman's changing whims obey? 

Who may, perhaps, as varying humor calls, 

Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls ; 

Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground, 

Change round to square, and square convert to round; 

Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom, 

And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room ; 

Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre. 

Where gravell'd walks and flowers a.ternate glare ; 

And quite transform, in ev'ry point complete. 

Your gothic abbey to a country seat. 

Forget the fair one, and your fate delay ; 
If not avert, at least defer the day, 
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend, 
And lose your wit, your temper, and your friend. 

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1808. 

In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now be- 
fore us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil, — " / 
have lost them all,and shall wed accordingly. 1811. B."] 



552 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1809. 



STANZAS TO A LADY,' ON LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

'Tis i?one — and shivering in the gale 
Thti bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
Anf? whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been. 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes bless'd — 
I should not •eek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain. 
Never to think of it again : 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face. 
And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foam. 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth. 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in wo ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
There 's not an eye will weep for me ; 
There 's not a kind congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone. 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with wo — 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see. 
And why that early love was cross'd. 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I've tried another's fetters too. 

With charms perchance as fair to view ; 



> [In the original, " To Mrs. Musters."] 
2 [Thus crrrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr 
Hothouse's Miscellany ; the two last lines being originally — 



And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last aaieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.^ 



1S09 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 

Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going. 

Our embargo 's off at last ; 
Favorable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvass o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal 's streaming, 
Hark ! the farewell gun is fired 
Women screeching, tars blaspheming, 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all, 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking 
Cases cracking. 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scapes uiisearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, 

And all hands must ply the oar; 
Baggage from the quay is lowering. 

We're impatient, — push from shore. 
" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 

Stop the boat — I'm sick — oh Lord !" 
" Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker. 
Ere you've been an hour on board." 
Thus are screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmcn, ladies, servants. Jacks ; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling, 
Stuck together close as wax. — 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew ; 
Passengers their berths are clapp'd in. 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Hey day ! call you that a cabin ? 
Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in — 
Who the deuce can harbor there?" 
" Who, sir ? plenty — 
Nobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill." — 
" Did they ? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us ! 
Would to God they did so still : 
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 



' Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, 
I love but thee, I love but one."l 



1809. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



553 



Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob !* where are you? 

Stretch'd along the deck like loga — 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Hero 's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 
As the hatchway down ho rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses. 
Vomits forth — and damns our souls. 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza — 
Help!" — " A couplet?" — " No, a cup 
Of warm water — " 
"What's the matter?" 
' Zounds I my liver 's coming up ; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

Now at length we're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when wo shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is. 

As philosophers allow. 
Still to laugh by far the best is, 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all things. 
Great and small things. 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we're quaffing. 
Let 's have laughing — 
Who the devil cares for more ? — 
Some good wine ! and who would lack it, 
Ev'n on board the Lisbou'Packet?^ 

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809. 
[First published, 1830.] 



UNES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT 
MALTA. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
May mine attract thy pensive eye I 

And when by thee that name is read. 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead, 

And think my heart is buried here. 

September 14, 1809. 



TO FLORENCE.' 

Oh Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

I nardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot on earth : 



1 [Lord Byron's three servants.] 

2 [In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed. 
Lord Byron says: — "I leave England without regret — I 
shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the 
first convict sentenced to transportation ; but I have no 
Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab ; 
and thus ends my first chapter."] 

3 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom 
they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostro- 
phizes in the stanzas on the thunder-storm of Zitza and in 
Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother : 
— " This letter is committed to the charge of a very extra- 
ordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. 
Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo pub- 
lished a narrative a fcA' years ago. She has since been 
shipwrecked ; and her life has been from its commence- 
ment so fertile in remarliable incidents, that in a romance 



70 



Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er. 

Perchance I view her cliffs again: 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 
.Through scorching clime, and varied sea 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

Arid since thy heart I cannot share. 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee. 
Thou lovely wand'rer, and bo less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

Ah ! who would think that fo}-m had pass'd 
Through Danger's most destructive path. 

Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose, 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame. 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim. 

As spot of thy nativity : 

And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wondrous scene. 

Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been. 

September, 1809. 



STANZAS 

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.* 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 
Where Pindus' mountains rise. 

And angry clouds are pouring fast 
The vengeance of the skies. 



they would appear improbable. She was born at Constan- 
tinople, where her father. Baron Herbert, was Austrian am- 
bassador ; married unhappily, yet has never been im- 
peached in point of character ; excited the vengeance of 
Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy ; several 
times risked her life ; and is not yet five-and-twenty. She 
is here on her way to England to join her husband, being 
obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to 
her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks 
soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had 
scarcely any other companion. I have found her very 
pretty, very accomplished, and e.xtremely eccentric. Bona- 
parte is even now so mcensed against her, that her life 
would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second 
time."] 

* [This thunder-storm occurred during the night of the 
11th October, 1809, when Lord Byrcn's guides had lost the 



554 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1809. 



Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have cross'd^ 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome wore its shade ! — ah, no I 

'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain-peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderne^ss? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear - 

Our signal of distress? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws v,-ere abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour. 

More fiercely pours the storm I 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wand'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath. 

Sweet Florence, where art thou? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea. 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ?ro now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd tny gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread. 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

Do thou, amid the fair ^HJite walls, 

If Cadiz yet be free. 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, * 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 



road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called 
Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on be- 
fore the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the 
evening set m, describes the thunder as " roaring without 
intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in 
the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over 
cur heads : whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared 
it< a per etual blaze." " The tempest," he says, " was al- 
together terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My 
Pricad, with Iho priest and the servants, did not enter our 



To others give a thousand sinjles. 
To me a single sigh.' 

An.l when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shuu 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 

And mourns in search of thine. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look. 

The azure grave of many a ."loman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes. 
Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee. 

But would not lose thee for a world. 

November 14, 1809. 



THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS 
FLOWN ! 

WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever: 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 

And he that acts as wise men ought. 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



hut till three in the morning. I now learned from Mm that 
they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up and 
down in total ignorance of their position, they had stopped 
at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which 
they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus 
exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to 
talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of Zitza."] 

1 [" These stanzas," says Mr. Moore, " have a music in 
them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchant- 
ing."] 



1810. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



555 



WRITTEN AFTER "SWIMMING FROM SESTOS 
TO ABYDOS.' 

If, ill the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

For vie, degenerate modern wretch. 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
And think I've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide. 

According to the doubtful story, 
To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

'Twere hard to say who fared the best : 

Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 

He lost his labor, I my jest ; 

For he was drowu'd, and I've the ague.'^ 

May 9, 1810. 



1 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Eken- 
head of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam 
from the European shore to the Asiatic— by the by, from 
Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole 
distance from the place whence we started to our landing on 
the other side, including the length we were carried by the 
current, was comp\ited by those on board the frigate at up- 
wards of four English miles ; though the actual breadth is 
barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat 
can row directly across, and it may, in some measure, be 
estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being 
accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and 
by the other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was 
extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. 
About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt ; 
but, having ridden all the way from the Troad the same 
morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found 
it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate an- 
caored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just 
stated ; entering a considerable way above the European, 
and landing below the Asiatic, fort. • Chevalier says that a 
young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and 
Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan ; but 
our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these cir- 
cumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A 
number of the Salsette's crew were known to have ac- 
complished a greater distance ; and the only thing that sur- 
prised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the 
truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavored 
to ascertain its practicability. 

2 [" My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, " had before 
made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage; fori 
recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from 
Old Lisbon to Bc'em Castle, and having to contend with a 
tide and counter ojrrent, the wind blowing freshly, was but 
little less than two hours in crossing."] 

3 [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, 
I was tempted to exclaim, " Whither have the Graces fled 1" 
Little did I expect to find them here ; yet here comes one 
of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a 
book. The book is a register of names, some of which are 
far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord 
Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send 
vou.— H. W. Williams.] 

4 [We copy the following interesting account of the Maid 
of Athens and her family from the late eminent artist, Mr. 
H igh Williams of Edinburgh's " Travels in Italy, Greece," 
6cc.— " Our servant, who had gone before to procure accom- 
modation, met us at the gate, and conducted us to Theodore 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK 
AT ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : 

" Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart ' 
To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD 1 ?RON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING :— 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, a 

Rhy;nes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
His name would bring more credit than his verse.' 

1810. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 

Zdi jiQVy tra's ayaTTui. 
Maid of Athens,* ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zi5»7 //oD, era's ayanZJ' 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Ziiri iiov, ads ayanS), 



Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. This lady 
is the widow of the consul, and has three lovely daughters ; 
the eldest celebrated for her beauty, and said to be the 
' Maid of Athens' of Lord Byron. Their apartment is im- 
mediately opposite to ours, and, if you could see them, as we 
do now, through the gently waving aromatic plants before 
our window, you would leave your heart in Athens. The- 
resa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle 
stature. On the crown of the head of each is a red Albanian 
skull-cap, with a blue tassel spread out and fastened down 
like a star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap is a 
handkerchief of various colors bound round their temples. 
The youngest wears her hair loose, falling on her shoulders, 
— the hair behind descending down the back nearly to the 
waist, and, as usual, mixed with silk. The two eldest 
generally have their hair bound, and fastened under the 
handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged with fur, 
hanging loose down to the ankles ; below is a handkerchief 
of muslin covering the bosom, and terminating at the waist, 
which is short ; under that, a gov\'n if striped silk or muslin, 
with a gore round the swell of the loins, falling in front in 
graceful negligence ; — white stockings and yellow slippers 
complete their attire. The two eldest have black, or dark, 
hair and eyes ; their visage oval, and complexion somewhat 
pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are 
rounded, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. 
The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so finely 
rounded, but has a gayer expression than her sisters', whose 
countenances, except when the conversation has something 
of mirth in it, may be said to be rather pensive. Their per- 
sons are elegant, and their manners pleasing and ladylike, 
such as would be fascinating in any country. They possess 
very considcable powers of conversation, and their minds 
seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek women 
in general. With such attractions, it would, indeed, be re- 
markable, if they did not meet with great attentions from 
the travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. They 
sit in the eastern style, a little reclined, with their limbs 
gathered under them on the divan, and without shoes. 
Their employments are the needle, tambouring, and read- 
ing." There is a beautiful engraving of the Maid of Athens 
in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, IMo. I.] 

5 Romaic expression of tenderness : if I trans.ale it, I 
shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that 1 supposed 
they could not ; and if 1 do not, I may affront the ladies. For 
fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall 
do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, " My hlo 
I love you 1" which sounds very prettily in all languages, 
and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal 
tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, 
whose erotic expressions were all HeUeniscd 



556 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1810. 



By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers' that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and wo, 
Zdr; /xuV, (raj ayairCi. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,^ 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No I 
Z'jiri uov, <rds ayoTTu. 

Athens, 1810. 



TRANSLATION. 

OF THE NURSE S DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. 

Oh how I wish that an embargo 
Had kept in port the good ship Argo! 
Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 
But now I fear her trip will be a 
Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c.' 

June, 1810. 



MY EPITAPH. 

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ; 
But Romanelli was so stout. 
He beat all three — and blew it out* 

Oct. 1810. 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 

Kind Reader ! take your choice to cry or laugh ; 
Here Harold lies — but where 's his Epitaph? 
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 

Athens. 



1 In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest 
they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, 
&c. convey the sentuji3nts of the parties by that universal 
deputy of Mercury— an old woman. A cinder says, " I burn 
for thee ;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, " Take me 
and fly ;" but a pebble declares — what nothing else can. 

2 Constantinople. 

3 [" I am just come from an expedition through the Bos- 
phorus to the Black Sra and the Cyanean Symplegades, up 
whicii last I scrambled with as great risk as ever the Argo- 
nauts escaped in their hoy. You remember the beginning 
of the nurse's dole in the Medea, of which I beg you to take 
the following translation, done on the summit." — Lord B. to 
Mr. Henry Drury, June 17, 1810.] 

* [" I have just escaped from a physician and a fever. In 
spite of my teeth and tongue, the English consul, my Tartar, 
Albanian, dragoman, forced a piysician upon me, and in 
three days brought me to the last ga^p. In this state I made 
my epitaph."— Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, Oct. 3, 181i] 

6 [These lines are copied from a leaf of the original MS. 
of the second canto of " Cliilde Harold."] 

6 [On the departure, in July, 1810, of his friend and fellow- 
traveller, Mr. Hobhouse, for England, Lord Byron fixed his 
head-quarters at Athens, where he had taken lodgings in a 
Franciscan convent ; making occasional excursions through 
Attica and the Morea, and employing himself, in the interval 
of his tours, in collecting materials for those notices on the 
state of modern Greece which are appended to the second 
canto of " Childe Harold." In this retreat also he wrote 
•' Hints from Horace," " The Curse of Minerva," and " Re- 
marks on the Romaic, or Modern Greek Language." He 
ihus writes to his mother :— " At present, I do not care to 
""enture a^Ainter's voyage, even if I were otherwise tired of 
travelling : but I am so convinced of the advantages of look- 
ing at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.* 

Dear object of defeated care ! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true . 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 

Athens, Januarj', 1811.« 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK 
WAR SONG, 

" Ae^TC vaiiti rZv 'KW/jvuiv."^ 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour 's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

CHORUS. , 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe. 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
lu a river past our feet 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke. 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the soven-hill'd^ city seeking. 

Fight, conquer, till we're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c. 



efl^ects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of 
an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us 
to send our young men abroad, for a term, among the few 
allies our wars have left us. Here I see, and have conversed 
with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, 
Americans, &c. &c. &c. ; and, without losmg sight of my 
own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. 
When I see the superiority of England, (which, by the by, we 
are a good deal mistaken about in many things, ) I am pleased ; 
and where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. 
Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged 
in your country, a century, without being sure of this, and 
without acquirmg any thing more useful or amusing at 
home. I keep no journal ; nor have I any intention of 
scribbling my travels. I have done with authorship ; and 
if, in my last production, I have convinced the critics or the 
world I was something more than they took me for, I am 
satisfied ; nor will I hazard that reputation by a future 
efl^brt. It is true I have some others in manusci ipt, but I 
leave them for those who come after me ; and, if deemed 
worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory, 
when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a famous 
Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, &c. &c. for 
me. Tiiis will be better than scribbling— a disease I hope 
myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet, 
recluse Ufe ; but God knows, and does best for us all."] 

' The song, AEiire Ttatia, &c., was written by Riga, who 
perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This 
translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse. 
It is of the same measure as that of the original. [While at 
the Capuchin convent, Lord Byron devoted some houra 
daily to the study of the Romaic ; and various proofs of his 
diligence will be found in the Appendix. See Remarks ou 
the Romaic or Jlodern Greek Language, with Specimens 
and Translations.] 

8 Constantinople. " Ewra'Ao^oj." 



1811. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



557 



» Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou He? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling. 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong I 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
Witli his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood. 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sous of Greelts, &c.' 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, 

" Mttbvu) lies Vff' irepiSAXt. 
^UpatdTarri Xdrji/j," &c.* 

I ENTER thy garden of roses,* 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee. 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree. 
Through her eyes, through her every feature 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But v/hen drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The iraught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel ! in vain I implore tliee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will naught to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before. 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish. 

For torture repay me too well ? 



1 [Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his 
youth among his native mountains, in teaching ancient 
Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the French 
revolution, he joined himself to some other enthusiasts, 
and with them perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and 
encouraging the timid, by his minstrelsy. He afterwards 
went to Vienna to solicit aid for a rising, which he and his 
comrades had for years been endeavoring to accomplish ; 
but he was given up by the Austrian government to the 
Turks, who vainly endeavored by torture to force from 
liiin the names of the other conspirators.] 

s The song from which this is taken is a great favorite 
with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their man- 



Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes. 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PARTING. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine. 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the talo 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ! what can idle words avail, * 

Unless the heart could speak? 

By day or night, in weal or wo. 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show. 

And silent, ache for thee. 



March, 1811. 



EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, 

LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.'' 

Stranger ! behold, interr'd together. 

The souls of learning and of leather. 

Poor Joe is gone, but left his all : 

You'll find his relics in a stall. 

His works were neat, and often found 

Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound 

Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 

He cannot mend the shoe he made ; 

Yet is he happy in his hole, 

With verse immortal as his sole. 

But still to business he held fast, 

And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 

Then who shall say so good a fellow 

Was only " leather and prunella?" 

For character — he did not lack it ; 

And if he did, 'twere shame to " Black-it." 

Malta, May 16, 1811. 



ner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole numbei 
present joining in the chorus. I have heard it frequently 
at our "xi5po{," in the winter ofl810-ll. The air is plaintive 
and pretty. 

3 [National songs and popuiar works of amusement 
throw no small light on the manners of a people : they arc 
materiaJs which most travellers have within their reach, 
but which they almost always disdain to collect. Lora 
Byron has shown a better taste ; and it is to be hoped that 
his example wiU, in future, be generally followed. — George 
Ellis.] 

* [Some notice of this poetaster has ocen given, ante, p. 
442. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.] 



558 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1811. 



FAREWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette ! 

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat ! 

Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 

Adieu, ye mausious where — I've ventured ! 

A'iieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 

(How surely he who mounts you swears !) 

Adieu, ye merchants often failing I 

Adieu, thou mob forever railing ! 

Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 

Adieu, ye fools — who ape your betters ! 

Adieu, thou damned'et quarantine, 

That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, 

Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 

Adieu to Peter — whom no fault 's in. 

But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; 

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! 

Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 

Adieu the supercilious air 

Of all that strut " en militaire !" 

I go — but God knows when, or why, 

To smoky towns and cloudy sky, 

To things (the honest truth to say) 

As bad— t)ut in a different way. 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 
Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 
While either Adriatic shore. 
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, 
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 
And take my rhyme — because 'tis " gratis." 

And now I've got to Mrs. Eraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line — or two — were no hard matter, 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter: 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine. 
With lively air, and open heart. 
And fashion's ease, without its art ; 
Her hours can gayly glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now, O Malta ! since thou 'st got us. 
Thou little military hothouse ! 
I'll not offend with words uncivil, 
And wish thee rudely at the Devil, 
But only stare from out my casement. 
And ask, for what is such a place meant? 
Then, in my solitary nook. 
Return to scribbling, or a hook. 
Or take my physic while I'm able, 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label,) 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
And bless the gods — I've got a fever ! 

May 26, 1811. [First published, 1832. 



1 [" On a leaf of one of Lord Byron's paper-books I find 
an Epigram, which, though not perhaps particularly good, 
1 consider myself bound to insert." — Moore. The farce in 
question was called " M. V. ; or, the Blue Stocking," and 



TO DIVES. • 

X FRAGMENT. 

Unhappy Dives ! in an evil hour 
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accuised ! 
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power ; 
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 
In Wit, m Genius, as in Wealth the first. 
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose ! 
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst 
Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 
18)1. [First published, 1832.] 



ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. OR 
FARCICAL OPERA. 

Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
The poet's fame grows brittle — 

We knew before 

That Little 's Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that 's little. 

Sept. 14, 1611. [First pubUshed, 1830.1' 



EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,' 

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE ArXHOg 
TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO " BANISH CARE." 

" Oh ! banish care" — such ever be 
The motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 
Renew those riotous delights. 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." , 
But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
When present, past, and future lower, 
When all I loved is changed or gone, 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one. 
Whose every thought — but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, 
By all the powers that men reveis- 
By all unto thy bosom dear. 
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, 
Speak — speak of any thing but love. 

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear. 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail 
But mine has suffer'd more than well 
'Twould suit philosophy to tell. 
I've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore. 
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore; 
Wlien she and I in youth have smiled. 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain. 
Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 



came out at the Lyceum Theatie, on the 9th of Septem- 
ber.] 

3 [Mr. Francis Hodgson, (not then the Reverend.) See 
ante, p. 552.3 



1811. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



559 



And / have acted well my part, 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return'd the freezing glance she gave, 
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
The babe which ought to have been mine 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made nie love the less.* 

But let this pass — I'll whine no more, 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain, — 
I'll hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
Suit witli the sablest of the times ; 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ; 
One, who in stern ambition's pride, 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside ; 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age ; — 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause.* 

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811; 
[First published, 1830.] 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what Truth might well have said. 

By all, save one, perchance forgot. 
Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, the future fled to thee, 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 

Could this have been — a word, a look, 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook. 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepaied a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see. 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 



1 [Tiiese lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even 
while under the pressure of recent sorrow, Lord Byron re- 
verted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the 
chief source of all his sufl'erings and errors, present and to 
come. — M'jORE.] 

2 [The anticipation of his own future career m these cor- 
cluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken 
more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so 
many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be 
startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling 
would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of paint- 
ing fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition 
to be, himself, the dark " sublime he drew," and that, in his 
fondness for the dehneation of heroic crime, he endeavored 
to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit 
subjects for his pencil.— Mooke.J 

3 [Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, Lord 
BjTon says, — " I am growing nervous, (how you will laugh I) 
— but it is true, — really, wretchedly, ridicuously, fine-ladi- 
cally nervous. Your climate kills me ; I can neither read, 
\yrite, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are 
listless, and my nights restless : I have seldom any society, 
and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I 
sha'n't end with insanity , for I find a want of method In 
arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely."] 

■• I Mr. Moore corsiders " Thyrza" as if she were a mere 



Oh ! who like him had watch'd thee here ? 

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
In that dread hour ere death appear, 

When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 

Till all was past ! But whe*. no more 
'Twas thine to reck of human wo, 

Aff'ection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, when many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers. 
Ere call'd but for a time away. 

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else r.iight understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of .' earts allied, 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined, 

That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught mo to rejoice, 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; 

The song, celestial from thy voice. 
But sweet to me from none but thine ; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 

But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou I 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of wo for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 
Impart some portion of thy bliss. 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 

Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 

October 11, 1811.4 

creature of the poet's brain. " It was," he says, " about the 
time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the 
blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affec- 
tion, tliat his poems on the death of an imaginary one were 
written ;^nor is it any wonder, when we consider the pecu- 
liar circumstances under which these beautiful efl'usions 
flowed from his fancy, that, of all his strains of pathos, they 
should be the most touching and most pure. They were, in- 
deed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many 
griefs ; — a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of 
sorrow, refined and wanned in their passage through his 
fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feel- 
ing." It is a pity to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully ex- 
pressed ; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing 
the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th, 1811, writes as 
follows : — "I have been again shocked with a death, and have 
lost one very dear to me in happier times but ' I have almost 
forgot the taste of grief,' and ' supped iull of horrors,' till 
I have become callous ; nor have I a tear left for an event 
which, five yeiirs ago, woidd have bowed my head to the 
earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas says — " I 
thank you for your confidential communication. How truly 
do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours I What 
your obligations to her would have been in that case is incon- 
ceivable." Several years after the series of poems oii Thyrza 
were written. Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they re- 
ferred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to 



5G0 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1811. 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WO 

Away, away, ye notes of wo ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain; 
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas! 
I must not think, I may not gaze. 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is husli'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'fer the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 

The well-remember'd echoes thrill ; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still: 
Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone. 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then tum'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 

December 6, ISll.i 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below. 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Then hring me wine, the banquet bring ; 
f Man was not form'd to live alone : 

I'll be that light, unmeaning thing. 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear. 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here ; 

Thou 'rt nothing, — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the wo that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 



Cf nfide, refused to answer, with marks of painful agitation, 
such as rendered any farther recurrence to the subject im- 
possible. The reader must be left to form his ow4- conclu- 
sion. The five follo^-ing pieces are all devoted toThyrza.] 



Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul. 

The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon. 

When sailing o'er the ^gean wave, 
" Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — " 

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave ! 

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed. 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
" 'Tis comfort still,' -^aintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days. 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Ts silent — ah, were mine as still I 
"f hough cold as e'en the dead can be, 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken. 

Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd ! 
Time tempers love, but not removes. 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 

No band of friends or heirs be there. 
To weep or wish the coming blow : 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair. 
To feel, or feign, decorous wo. 

But silent let me sink to earth. 
With no officious mourners near : 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a tear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs. 

Might then exert its latest power 
Li her wiio lives and him who dies. 

'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past. 

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 



1 [" I wrote this a day or tv.o ago, on hearing a song of 
former days." — Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, December 8, 
1811.] 



1812. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



561 



But vain tho wish — for Beauty still 

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbinjEr breath ; 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan ; 

For thousands Deatli hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

" Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go 1 
To be the nothing that I \<ra.s 

Ero born to life and living wo ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'Tis somethins better not to be. 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR. 

" lieu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 
meminisse !" 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth. 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask wliere thou liest low. 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or v/eeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love. 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavov/ : 
And, what were worse, tnou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I miglit have watch'd through long decay 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 



71 



Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd. 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed. 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace. 

Uphold thy drocjing head ; 
And show that love, however vain. 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free. 
The loveliest things that still remain. 

Than thus remember tliee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years. 

February, 1812. 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade: 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee. 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
Nor deem that memory le^s dear, 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquafF'd, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must iiold a deadlier draught, 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 

Tliat drown'd a single thought of thee 

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 
* Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honor thine abandon'd Urn ? 
No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 



5G3 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1812. 



For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmouni'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou :. 
And, oh ! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 

March 14, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS 
BROKEN.' 

Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be, 

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employ'd in vain? 

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown. 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 

March 16, 1812. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

.^GLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ; 
She makes her own face, and does not make her 
rhymes. 

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 

Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles; 

And be each drop in future years 
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !' 

March, 1812. 

THE CHAIN I GAVE 

From the Turkish. 
The chain I gave was fair to view. 

The lute I added sweet in sound; 
The heart that offer'd both was true. 

And ill deserved the fate it found. 



1 [We know not whether the reader should understand 
the cornelian heart of these hnes to be the same with that 
of which some notices are given at p. 408.] 

2 [This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the 
late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing 
that the Whigs had found n ir.;?-ssible to put together a 
cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were 
appended to the first edition of " The Corsair," and excited 
A sensation, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to 
their length,— or, we mav add, their merit. The ministerial 
prints raved for two months on end, in the most foul- 
mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to 
him— the Morning Post even announced a motion in the 
House of Lords—" and all this," Lord Bvrnn writes to 
Mr. Moore, " as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, 
for making a cream tart with pepper : how odd, that eight 
lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thou- 
sand !"] 

[" The ' Lines to a Lady weeping' must go with ' The 
:!c: sair ' I c i.-e nothing for consequences on this point. 
My [jolitics ar J to me like a voung mistress to an old man ; 
the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them."— Lor^i 
Bi/ron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1814. " On my return, I find 
all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on 
the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess 
Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 



These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
Thy truth in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their duty well, — 
Alas ! they could not teach thee thiue 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou couldst think 
In other hands its notes were sucn. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp. 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the classp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF 
THE " PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee. 

My friend, what magic spells belong! 

As all can tell, who share, like me, 
In turn thy converse,^ and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come 
By Friendship ever deera'd too nigh, 

And " Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb' 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine^ 

And blend, while ages roll away. 
Her name immortally with thine ! 

April 19, 1812 



ADDRESS, 



SrOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, 
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.° 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 



1812. , They are daily at it still :— some of the .abuse good, 
— all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon 
it— be it so." — Byron Diary, 1814.] 

4 ["When Rogers does talk, he talks well; and, on a.i 
subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his 
poetry. If you enter his house— his drawing-room— his 
library — you of yourself, say, this is not the dwelling of a 
common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown 
aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not 
bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor." — 
Byron Diary, 1813.] 

6 [The reader will recall Collins's exquisite lines on the 
tomb of Thomson : " In yonder grave a Druid lies,'' &c.] 

6 [The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, 
with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,— 

" When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes 
First rear'd the'Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose," 
and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen into 
decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The jew building nerishcd by 
fire in 1811 ; and the Managers, in their anxiety that the 
opening of the present edifice should be distinguished by 
some composition of at least equal merit, advertised in the 
newspapers for a general competition. Scores ot addresses, 
not one tolerable, showered on their desk, and they were in 
sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and/'^'fc't without 



1812. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



5G3 



Ye who beheld, (oh I sight admired and mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) 
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,^ 
While thoHsands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
Shrank back appall'd and trembled for their home. 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own. 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Saj' — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in onr isle. 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and ijou 7 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
And bids the Drama he where she hath heen : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge lur honest pride, and say, How well! 

As soare this fane to emulate the last. 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past. 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley^ ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass. 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line. 



difficulty, prevailed on Lord Byron to write these verses — 
" at the risk," as he said, " of otfending a huiiJred scribblers 
and a discerning public." The admirable jeu d'esprit of the 
Jlessrs. Smith will long preserve the memory of the "Re- 
jected Addresses."] 

1 t" By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I my- 
self saw from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at West- 
minster Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames." — Lord 
Byron-to Lord Holland.] 

2 [Originally, " Ere Garrick died," &c. — "By the by, one 
of my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into 
the bathos some sixty fathom — 

' When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' 
Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought 
not tn be first. Seconil thoughts in everv thing are best ; hut, 
in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I alwavs 
scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never 
sufficiently ; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza 
faster than a couplet, for which measure 1 have not the 
cunning. When I began ' Childe Harold,' 1 had never 
tried Spenser's nieusur". and now I cannot scribble in any 
other."— Lorci Byron to j^n; i Holland.] 
" [The following lines were omitted by the Committ33 : — 
" ^iay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores 
That late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours. 
When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse, 
It -"u command, the steed must come in course. 



Pause — ere their feebler offspring yoti condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute I' 
Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
So prido shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd. 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win ycur cwn. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Dniry's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide. 
Still may we please — long, long may you preside !* 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS" 

BY DR. PLAGIARY. 

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an in- 
articulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next 
new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted 
commas of quotation — thus " " 

" When energizing objects men pursue," 

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 

" A modest monologue you here survey," 

Hiss'd from the theatre the " other day," 

As if Sir Fretful wrote " the slumberous" verse, 

And gave his son " the rubbish" to rehearse. 

" Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 

Knew you the rumpus which the author raised ; 

"Nor even hero your smiles would be repress'd," 

Knew you these lines' — the badness of .the best. 

" Flame I fire ! and flame ! 1" (words borrow'd from 

Lucretius,) 
•" Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues ! 



If you decree, the stage must conde.scend 
To soothe the sickly ta.ste we dare not mend. 
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, 
And gratify you more by showing less. 
The past reproach let present scenes refute, 
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." 
"Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, "determined to cas- 
trate all my cavalry lines ? I do implore, for my own grati- 
fication, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds— ' a long 
shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.'"] 

i [" Soon after the 'Rejected Addresses' sccTie in 1821, I 
met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, ' Lord By- 
ron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was 
Whitbread himself?' I answered by an inquiry of what 
sort of an address he had made. ' Of that,' replied Sheri- 
dan, • 1 rememoer little, except that [Here was a phicmx 
in It.' — ' A phuenix I ! Well, how did he describe it '.'' — 
'Like a poulterer,^ answered Sheridan: 'it was green, and 
yellow, and red, and blue ; he did not let us off for a single 
feather.'"— i?yron Letters, 1821.] 

6 [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of 
which the above is a parody. It began as follows : — 
" When energizing objects men pursue. 
What are the prodigies they cannot do ? 
A magic edifice you here survey, 
Shot from the ruins of the other day," &c. 1 



564 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1812. 



" And sleeping pangs awake — and — but away," 

(Confound me if I know what next to say.) 

" Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 

And Master G — recites what Doctor Busby sings I — 

" If mighty things with small we may compare," 

(Translated from the grammar for the air !) 

Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," 

And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 

" This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 

To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 

" Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," 

And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 

" In arts and sciences our isle hath shone," 

(This deep discovery is mine alone.) 

" Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" 

My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame's a liar, 

" Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" 

With " smiles," and " lyres," and " pencils," and much 

more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Disgraces, too ! " inseparable train !" [Cupid," 

"Three who have stolen their witching airs from 
(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid :) 
" Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, 
Now to produce in a " divine sesletto" .' ! 
" While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
" Sustains her part" in all the " upper" boxes ! 
" Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
" Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play," 
(For this last lino George had a holiday.) 
" Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so say I. 
" But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;" 
Is this the poem which the public lost ? [pride ;" 

"True — true — that lowers at once our mounting 
But lo ! — the papers print what you deride. 
" 'Tis ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 
" A double blessing your rewards impart" — 
I wish I had them, then, with ail my heart. 
'^ lur twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," 
why sou and I both beg, for your applause. 
" When in your fostering beams you bid us live," 
My next subscription list shall say how much you give ! 

October, 1812. 



VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE 
AT HALES-OWEN.' 

When Dryden's fool, " miknowing what he sought," 

His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought,"" 

This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 

Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; 

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers. 

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 

Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see 

These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 

Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! 

When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 

Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, 

The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 



1 rin Warwickshire.] i [See Cymon and Iphigenia.] 

s [" The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord 

Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned 

the comfxisition of this Impromptu. On tlie cessation of the 

conucction, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one 



REMEMBER THEE ! REMEMBER THEE ! 

Remember thee ! remember thee ! 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 
Remorse and shame shall cling to thee. 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 

Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee: 
By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

Thou/aZse to him, ihon fiend to me !* 



TO TIME. 



Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 

The varying hours must flag or fly, 

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known ; 

Yet better I sustain thy load. 

For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain : 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 

In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
But could not add a night to wo ; 

For then, however drear and dark. 
My soul was suited to thy sky ; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse, 

Through each dull tedious trifling part. 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too soimd to heed ; 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall bo shown. 

When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



morning at her quondam lover's apartments. Hia Lordship 
was from home ; but finding ' Vatkek' on the table, the lady 
wrote in the first page of the volume the words ' Ilemembct 
me !' Byron immediately wrote under the omiiioui! warn- 
ing these two stanzas."— Medwin.] 



1812. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



565 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the douht, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my wo, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless winsr 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

'Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain. 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter wo ? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain. 
In client anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is breaking. 

Pour me tb. > poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now : 
I've lived to curse my natal day, 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast. 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas ! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of wo. 



THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART 
FICKLE. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle. 

To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 

Are djubly bitter from that thought : 
'Tis this which breajcs the heart thou grievest. 
Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises. 

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
Wiien she can change who loved so truly. 
It feels what mme has felt oo newly. 



To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is dooin'd to all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow. 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely, 

What must they feel whom no false vision. 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 

Ah I sure such grief is fancy's schemino', * 

And all thy change can be but dreaming! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
GIN OF LOVE." 

The " Origin of Love !" — Ah, why 
That cruel question ask of me, 

When thou mayst read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
My heart forbodes, my fears foresee, 

He'll linger long in silent wo ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



GRI. 



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S 
POWER. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved: 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye, 

Too much invited to be bless'd : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vam rernorse of years. 

■i Yet think of this when many a tongue. 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 

Even now, in midnight solitude. ' 

Oh, God ! that wp had met in time. 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore. 

From this our gaudy world be pass'd ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er. 
Oh ! may such trial" be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng. 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 



566 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1813. 



Then to the things whose bHss or wo, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Tliy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath pass'd, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My phrensy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be. 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree. 

And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 

It felt not half so much to part. 
As if its guilt had made thee mine. 



1813 



ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.' 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, 

(I hope I am not violent^) 

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 

To common sense his thoughts could raise^ 

Why would they let him print his lays ? 



To me, divine Apollo, grant — O ! 
Hcrmilda's first and second canto, 
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

My own and others' bays I'm twining — 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LORD THURLOW. 

" I lay my branch of laurel do\\Ti, 
Then thus to form Apollo's crown 
Let every other bring his own." 

Lord Th'jrlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. 

" I lay my branch of laurel down." 
Thou " lay thy branch of laurel down !" 
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow ; 



1 [" Among the many gay hours we passed together in the 
spring of 1813, I remember particularly the wild flow of his 
spirits one evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers 
home from some early assembly. It happened that our host 
had just received a presentation copy ot a volume of poems, 
written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, 
and containing, like many of these models, a good deal that 
was striking and beautiful, m:xed up with much that was 
trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers, in 
justice to the author, endeavor to direct our attention to 
some of the beauties of the work. In this sort of hunt 
/ through the volume, we at length lighted on the discovery 
that our host, in addition to his sincere approbation of some 
of its contents, had also the motive of gratitude for standing 
by its author, as one of the poems was a warm and, I need 
not add, well-deserved panegyric on himself. The opening 
)iue of the poem was, as well as I can recollect, ' When 
Rogers o'e>- this labor bent :' and Lord Byron undertook to 
read it aloud ;— but he found it impossible to get beyond the 



And, were it lawfully thine own. 
Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 

Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough. 
Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 

Were justice done to both, I trow, 
He'd have but little, and thou — none. 

" Then thus to form Apollo's crown." 
A crown ! why, twist it how you will. 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town. 

Inquire amongst j ^ur fellow-lodgers, 
They'll tell you P.baebus gave his crown. 

Some years before ;> our birth, to Rogers. 

" Let every other bring his own." 
When coals to Newcastle are carried, 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
PVom his spouse when the Regent 's unmarred, 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel. 

And thou shalt have plenty to spare 



TO THOMAS MOORE 

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH 
HUNT IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813. 

Oh you, who in all narnes can tickle the town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 



But now to my letter, — to yours 'tis an .answer — 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir. 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some 

codgers, 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death 

got, 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, 
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.'' 

•^First published, 1830.] 



first two words. Our laughtei had now increased to such 
a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times 
he began ; but no sooner had the words ' When Rogers' 
passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh,— till even Mr. 
Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found 
it impossible not to join us. A day or two after. Lord By- 
ron sent me the following : — ' My dear Moore, " When 
Rogers" must not see the enclosed, v/hich I send for your 
perusal.' " — Moore.] 

2 [The reader who wishes to understand the full force of 
this scandalous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on 
a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Casarem ; but 
consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favonto 
ilamurra : — 

" Quis hoc potest videre ? quis potest pati, 
JSfisi impudicus et vorax et helluo ? 
Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia 
Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia '* &cj 



1813. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



567 



IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits. 

Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
And o'er the changing aspect flits, 

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
Hoed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 

My thoughts theur dungeon know too well ; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 

And droop within their silent cell.' 

September, 1813. 



SONNET TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. 
And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air. 
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colors blent, 

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, 

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 
December 17, 1813.2 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo. 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 
Its 'i'ose of whiteness with the brightest blush. 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow: 

And dazzle net thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush. 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 

December 17, 1813. 



1 [These verses are said to have dropped from the Poet's 
pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which 
overclouded the general gayety. It was impossible to ob- 
serve his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection 
belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, with- 
out feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it 
had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional tempera- 
ment. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more se- 
rious than that, alluded to by Prince Arthur — 

" I remember when I was in France 

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 
Only for wantoimess." 

But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of 
mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned 
them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous 
crowd which surrounded liim, gave a strong effect of color- 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

" TU MI CHAMAS." 

In moments to delight devoted, 

" My life !" with tenderest tone, you cry ; 

Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 
If youth could neither fade nor die. 

To death even hours like these must roll. 
Ah ! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change " my life !" into " my soul !" 
Which, like my love, exists forever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life. — Oh ! change the word — 
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh : 

Say rather I'm your soul ; more just that name, 
For, like the soul, my love can never die 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE ; 

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.' 

The Devil return'd to hell by two. 

And he stay'd at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragoiit, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew. 
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew — 
And bethought himself what next to do, 

" And," quoth he, " I'll take a drive. 
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night ; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I'll see how my favorites thrive. 

" And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then — 

" If I follow'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will bo furnish'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may. 
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away. 

" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A chariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends 

By driving my favorite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something fir both at the end of their race. 

" So now for the earth to take my chance." 

Then up to the earth sprung ho ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea. 
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 



ing to a character whose tints were otherwise romantic. — 
Sir Walter Scott.] 

2 [" Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never 
wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, 
and many years ago, as an exercise— and I will never write 
another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly 
platonic compositions." — Byron Diary, 1813.] 

3 [" I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished 
rhapsody, called 'il'he Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I 
took from Person's ' Devil's Walk.' " — Byron Dia-y, 1812. 
" Of this strange, wild poem," says Moore, " the oiily copy 
that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord 
Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagina- 
tion, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, want- 
ing the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr 
Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion longprevar 
lent, has attributed to Professor Person."] 



568 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1814. 



But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way 

Tc look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, 

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood oi Uie dead 

That it blush'd like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he : 
" Methinks they have here little need of ?ne.'" 

But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing : 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear. 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying — 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she look'd to heaven with that phrensied air, 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut. 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! 

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, 
Who bid preccy well — but they cheated him, though ! 

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail, 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 

And seized him by the throat : 
" Aha !" quoth he, " what have we here ? 
'Tis a iiew barouche, and an ancient peer !" 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear. 
But be true to his club and stanch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beer ; , 

" Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
I would rather see him here." 



The Devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd to " the room" of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there. 

That " the Lords" had received a summons ; 
And he thought, as a " quondam aristocrat," [flat ; 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own. 
That they say that he stood pretty near tho throne. 

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly. 

And Johnny of Norfolk — a man of seme size — 
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 



1 [" I cannot conceive how the VauJt has got about ; but 
so it is. It is too farouche ; but truth to say, my sallies are 
not very playful."— iord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 12, 
1814.] 

» [" Thou hajt asked me for a song, and I enclose you an 



And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes. 
Because the Catholics would not rise, 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
And he heard — which set Satan himself a staring — 
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearivg 
And the Devil was shock'd — and quoth he, " I must gc 
For I find we have much better manners below : 
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, 
I shill hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 



WINDSOR POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness tLe 
Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of 
Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties. 
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ; 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
— In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust hi vain, 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a George.' 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC.'' 

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace 
Were those hours — can their joy or their bitternes8 
cease ? [chain, — 

We repent — we abjure — we will break from our 
We will part, — we will fly to — unite it again I 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee. 

This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet, 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 

May, 1814. 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT 
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 
Ard baflled back the fiery-crested Dane, 



experiment, which has cost me something more than trou 
ble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking 
any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into 
the fire without pArase." — Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, May 10 
1814.] . 



1814. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



569 



Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ? 
That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
O'ei Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And, England I add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
But give support — the world hath given Mm fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following where the mighty led — 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod. 
To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows — 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While sad, she chants the solitary song. 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly cravo 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 

'Tis Heaven — not man — must charm away the wo, 
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care. 
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 

May, 1814. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOORE. 

" What say / ?" — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom, — so 

here goes ! 
Hero goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood, 
We are ymother'd, at least, in respectable mud. 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, 
And Southey's last Pasan has pillow'd his sleep ; 
That " Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, 
Singing " Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza. 
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never 

man saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusees. 
The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, — * 
Of hLs Majesty's suite, up fron: coachman to Het- 

man, — 
And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. 



1 [" The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of 
emperors, &c. They have dmod and supped, and shown 
their flat faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. 
Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the 
skirts ; and their conversation is a catechism, for which, 
and the answers, I refer you to those who have heaid it." — 
Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Juno 14, 1814.] 



72 



I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,— 
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. 
You know, we are used to quite different graces. 



The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker. 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker ; 
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
-meie breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With majesty's presence as those she invited. 



June, 1814. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE RE- 
GENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE." 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord. 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust. 
That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? 
What spread from face to face that wondering air? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth, — that absence fix'd 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze. 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness. 
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd loss; 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits. 
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart. 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts. 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be. 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause. 
Than all he snail not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine. 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair. 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair ! 
Each glance that wins us, and- the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose. 



2 ["The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of 
the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-ab- 
duction by our Regent, and have published them— with ray 
name, too, smack— without even askuig leave, or inquiring 
whether or no ! D — n their impudence, and d— n every 
thing. It has put me out of patience, and so— I shall say 
no more about it." — Byron Letters-'^ 



570 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1814. 



But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone, 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none : — 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd the portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine. 

August, 1814. 



TO BELSHAZZAR. 

Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
Behold ! while yet before thee bum 

The graven words, the glowing wall. 
Many a despot men miscall 

Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 

Is it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses fi-om thy brow — 

Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 

More than thy very diadem. 
Where thou hast taruish'd every gem : — 

Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 

And leani like better men to die I 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh'd. 

And ever light of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd. 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF 
SIR PETER PARKER, BART 

There is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry. 

And Triumph weeps above the brave 

FuJ them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 

In vain their bones unburied fie, 

AH earth becomes their monument . 

A tomb is theirs on every page. 

An epitaph on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age. 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

1 [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty- 
ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging 
to Ids ship, the JMenelaus, and animating them, in storming 
the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's 
first cousin ; but they had never met since boyhood.] 

« [These verses were gu'en by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, 
of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful 
music by Sir John Stevenson.—" I feel merry enough to 
send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, 
(see mte, p. 394,) and the recollection of what I once felt. 



For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes. 
Who would not share their glorious lot ; 

Who would not die the death they chose 7 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with ihee 

In wo, that glory cannot quell ; 
And shuddering hear of victory, 

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where ,ghall they turn to mourn ti.ee less? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name 7 
Time cannot teach forgett'ulness. 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas ! for them, though not for thee. 

They cannot choose but weep the more ; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 

October, 1814. 



gTANZAS FOR MUSIC 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium orlus ex animo : qualer 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it 

takes away. 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 

which fades so fast. 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youtli 

itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
happiness 

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of ex- 
cess : 

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in 
vain 

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 
stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itaolf 

comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its 

own: 



and ought to have felt now, but could not — set me ponder 
ing, and finally into the train of thought which you have in 
your hands. 1 wrote them with a view to your setting 
them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept the 
words, and you did not think yourself degraded, i ir onc« in 
a way, by marrying them to music. 1 don't care what 
Power says to secure the property of the song, so that it is 
not complimentary to me, nor any Ihing about ' conde- 
scending' or ' noble author' — both 'vile phrases,' as Polonius 
says." — Lord Byron to MVi Moore.} 



1S15. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



571 



That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears, 
And though tlie eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the 

ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 

distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their 

former hope of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret 

wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 

beneath. 

Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I have 

been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish'd scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would 

flow to me.' 

March, 1815. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming. 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 

Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
Whose breast is gently heaving, 
• As an infant's asleep : 
' So the spirit bows before thee, 
To listen and adore thee ; 
With a full but soft emotion, 
Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure. 
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes. 
Making halls for the ladies, and hows to his foes.' 

March 27, 1815. 



1 [" Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year ? 
I don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to clami the character of 
' Vates,' in all its translations,— but were they not a little 
prophetic ? I mean those beginning, ' There's not a joy the 
world can give,' &c., on which I pique myself as being the 
truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." — Byron 
Letters, March, 1816.] 

2 [" I can forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line 
of mine Ode — which I take to be the last and uttermost 
stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story 
of a certain abbs, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish con- 
stitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal ? Just as he 
had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the 
Third had destroyed this immortal government. 'Sir,' quoth 
theabb6, ' the Kingof Sweden mayoverthrowthecon5/j7u;ion, 
but not r\y book'.!'' I think o/ the abb6, but not with him. 
Making every allowance for talent and most consummate 
daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. He 
might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the 
Gulf of Lyons, which Is particularly tempeituous— or— a 



ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 

L 

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ; 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew J 
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk. 
Like the waicr-spout from ocean. 
With a strong and growing motion — 
It soars, and mingles in the air. 
With that of lost Labedoyere — 
With that of him whose honor'd grav^ 
Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder — 
Never yet wi-s heard such thunder, 
As then shall shake the world witii wonder- 
Never yet was seen such lightning 
As o'er heaven shall then bo bright'ning ! 
Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 
Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood 

XL 

The chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo . 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's sou — 

Who, of all the despots banded. 

With that youthful chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated. 
Till lone Tyranny commanded 1 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting. 
The Hero sunk into the King? 
Then he fell : — so perish all. 
Who would men by man enthrall ! 

IIL 

And thou, too, of the snow-v/hite plume l* 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb f 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as ho of Naples wears. 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
On thy war-horse through the ranks 
Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 



thousand things. But he is certainly fortune's favorite." — 
Byron Letters, ^i&xch, 1815.] 

3 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, &c. " The first angel sourded, 
and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. 
V. 8. " And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great 
mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea ; and the 
third part of the sea became blood," &c. t;. 10. " And the 
third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, 
burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell upon the third part of 
the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." w. 11. " And 
the name of the star is called iVormwood: and the third part 
of the waters became wormwood ; and many men died of the 
waters, because they were made bitter." 

4 [" Poor dear JIurat, what an end ! His white plume used 
to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He 
refused a confessor and a bandage ; so would neither suffer 
his soul nor body to be bandaged."— JSyron Letters.} 

6 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the 
grave and burnt. 



573 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1815. 



Shone and shiver'd fast around thee— 

Of the fate at last which found thee : 

Was that haughty phnne laid low 

By a slave's dishonest blow? 

Once — as the Moou sways o'er the tide, 

It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 

Through the smoke-created night 

Of the black and sulphurous fight, 

The soldier raised his seeking eye 

To catch that crest's ascendency — 

And as it onward rolling rose, 

So moved his heart upon our foes. 

There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 

And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 

Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There witli thunder-clouds to fan her. 
Who could then her wing arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

I'hero ho ne'er shall charge again ! 

IV. 

O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each lovell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice ; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored ; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

The " moral lesson" dearly bought — 

Hei safety sits not on a throne. 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 

Pouring nations' blood like water. 

In imperial seas of slaughter I 

V. 

But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union? 
The time is past when swords subdued — 
Man may die — the soul 's renew'd: 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her forever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble, 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet.' 



FROM THE FRENCH 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,' 

Sever'd from thy faithful few? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 

Dear as both have been to me- 
What are they to all I feel, 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

Idol of lihe soldier's soul ! 

First in %ht, but mightiest now: 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 
By thy side for years I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 
When their dying shout was heard, 

Blessing him they served so well.^ 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thoe, 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh I although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own. 

All thou calmly dost resign, 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thiiio ? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue. 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



1 [" Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look 
et the conclusion of my ' Ode on Waterloo,' written in the 
y3ar 1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Bern's catas- 
;rophe in 1820, tell ine if I have not as good a right to the 
character of ' Votes,' in both senses of the word, as Fitz- 
gerald and Coleridge ?— 

' Crimson tears will follow yet ;' 
anl have they not 7"— Byron Letters, 1820.] 

All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer 



ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOR." 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 
Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
Thou radiant and adored deceit! 
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 
Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 



who had been exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. Ho 
clung to his master's knees : wrote a letter to Lord Keith, 
entreating permission to accompany him, even in Ihe most 
menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 

3 " At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose leff arm was 
shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it oft" with tne ether, 
and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, 
' Vive I'Empereur, jusqu'u la mort !' There were many 
other instances of the like : this, liovvever, you .Toay depend 
on as true." — Private Letter from Brussels. 



1816. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



573 



The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honor here ; 
And thy hglit broke on human eyes, 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colors,' each divine, 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

For Freedom's hand had blended them, 

Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light: 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Wlio proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may wo be 
For evermore vvith them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory 

Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 

She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 

The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 

I have-warr'd with a world which vanquish'd mo only 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown'd me, 
I made thee the gem and tlie wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 



. 1 The tricolor. 

2 [In the original MS.—" A Dream.".] 

s [In this poem Lord Byron has abandoned the art, so pe- 
culiarly his own, of showing the reader where his purpose 
lends, and has contented himself with presenting a mass of 
powerful ideas unarranged, and the meaning of which it is 
not easy to attain. A succession of terrible images is placed 
before us, flitting and mixing, and disengaging themselves, 
as in the dream of a feverish man— cliimeras dire, to whose 
existence the mind refuses credit, which confound and 
weary the ordinary reader, and baffle the comprehension, 
even of those more accustomed to the fliglits of a poetic 
muse. The subject is the progress of utter darkness, until 
it becomes, in Shakspeare's phrase, the " burier of the dead ;" 
and the assemblage of terrific ideas wtich the poet has placed 



Oh I for the veterau hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 

Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty ral/ina 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again — 
Yci, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
There are links which must break in the chain that 

has bound us. 
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 



ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEP- 
ARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816. 

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she ! 

" To love, to honor," and so forth ; 
Such was the vow you pledged to me, 

And 'lere 's exactly what 'tis worth. 



DARKNESS.^ 



I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream 

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came and v/ont — and came, and brought no day, 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 

And they did live by watchfires — and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings — the huts. 

The habitations of all things which dwell. 

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. 

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 

To look once more into each other's face ; 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 

Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 

Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 

And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 

With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 



before us only fail in exciting our terror from the extrava- 
gance of the plan. To speak plainly, the framing of sucli 
phantasms is a dangerous employment for the exalted and 
teeming imagination of such a poet as Lord Byron, whose 
Pegasus ever required rather a bridle than a spur. The 
waste of boundless space into which they lead tlie poet, the 
neglect of precision which such themes may render habitual, 
make them, in respect to poetry, what mysticism is to re- 
ligion. The meanuig of the poet, as he ascends upon cloudy 
wing, becomes the shadow only of a thought, and having 
eluded tlie comprehension of others, necessarily ends by 
escaping from that of the author himself. , The strength of 
poetical conception, and the beauty of diction, bestowed 
upon such prolusions, is as much thrown away as the colors 
of a painter, could he take a cloud of mist, or c wreath of 
smoke, for liis canvass. — Sir Walter Scott.] 



574 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1816. 



The pall of a past world ; and then again 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild birds 

shriek'd, 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food : 
And War, which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
Immediate ana inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meager by the meager were devour'd. 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one. 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay. 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food. 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
And shivering Ecraped with their cold skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a littie life, and made a flamo 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each othor's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died — 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died. 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, 
The populace and the powerful was'a lump, 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
A lump of death, — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave. 
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds were wither'd in the stajrnant air. 



1 [" Darkness" is a grand and gloomy sketch of the sup- 

Eosed consequence ; of the final extinction of the Sun and the 
eavenly bodies ; ex ;cuted, undoubtedly, with great and fear- 
ful force, but vsilL something of German exaggeration, and a 
fantastical solution of mcidents. The very conception is ter- 
rible above all conception of known calamity, and is too op- 
pressive to the imagination to be contemplated with pleas- 
ure, even in tlie faint reflection of poetry.— Jeffrey.] 

■^ [On the sheet containing the original draught of these 
lines, Lord Byron has written:— "Tlie following poem (as 
most that I have endeavored to write) is founded on a fact ; 
and this detail is an attempt at a serious imitation of the 
style of a great poet— its beauties and its defects : I say the 
stij'^- , lor the thoughts 1 claim as my own. In this, if there 
oe any thing ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as 
much as to Mr. Wordsworth ; of whom there can exist few 
greater admirers than myself. I have blended what I would 
deem to be the beauties us well as defects of his style ; and 
it ought to be remembered, that, in such things, whether 
there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called 
a compliment, however unintentional."] 



And the clouds perish'd ! Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them — She was the Universe.' 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE.' 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comei, of a season, and I saw 
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
With name no'clearer than the names unknowu. 
Which lay unread around it ; ai.u 7 asiv'd 

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

Through the thick deaths of half a century ? 
And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
He died before mj' day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
I know not what of honor and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? 
So soon, and so successless ? As I said. 
The Architect of all on which we tread, 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought. 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day. 
And therefore travellers step from out their way 
To pay him honor, — and myself whate'er 

Your honor pleases," — then most pleased I shook 
From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a soft >u'd eye, ■ 
On that Old Sexton's natural homily 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name.^ 

Diodati, 1816. 



3 [" The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord 
Byron a deeper commemoration ; for, though they generally 
differed in character and genius, there was a resemblance be- 
tween their history and character. The satire of Churchill 
flowed with a more profuse, though not a more embittered, 
stream ; while, on the other hand, he cannot be compared to 
Lord Byron in point of tenderness or unagination. But both 
these poets held themselves above the opinion of the world, 
and both were ioi lowed by the laiue and pupnlanty which 
they seemed lo despise. The writings of both exlubil an m- 
borii,thoughsometimesill-regulated,gerierosityof mind, and 
a spirit of proud inUependence, frequently pushed to ex- 
tremes. Both carried their hatred of hypocrisy beyand tho 
verge of prudence, and indulged their vein of satire to the bor- 
ders of licentiousness. Both died in the flower of their age in 
a foreign land."— Sir Walter Scott. — Churchill died at 
Boulogne, November, 4, 1764, in the thirty-third year of his 
age. — " Though his associates obtained Christian burial for 
him, by bringing the body to Dover, where it was ir\,terred 
in the (dd ceu-Stery which once belonged to the collegiate 
church of St. .Martin, tiiey inscribed y on his tombstone, in 



1816. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



575 



PROMETHEUS. 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 

The suffenngs of mortaUty, 

Seen in Iheir sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense? 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show 
The suffocating sense of wo, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will. 
Which torture where they cannot kill 

And the inexorable Heaven, 

And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 

The ruling principle of Hate, 

Which for its pleasure doth create 

The things it may annihilate. 

Refused thee even the boon to die : 

The wretched gift eternity 

Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 

Was but the menace which flung back 

On him the torments of thy rack ; 

The fate thou didst so well foresee. 

But would not to appease him tell ; 

And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 

And in his Soul a vain repentance. 

And evil dread so ill dissembled, 

That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness. 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy. 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance. 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes. 

And a firm will, and a deep sense. 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense, 
Triumphant where it dares defy, 
And making Death a Victory. 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



stead of any consolatory or monitory text, this Epicureai 
line from one of his own poems — 

' Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies.' " 

Southcy's 'Cowper, vol. ii. p. 159 ] 



A FRAGMENT. 

Could I remount the river of my years 

To the first fountain of our smiles aiid tears, 

I would not trace again the stream of hours 

Between their outw*n banks of wither'd flowers, 

But bid it flow as now — until it glides 

Into the number of the nameless tides. * * * » 

What is this Death? — a quiet of the heart? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
JFor life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead. 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold, 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless,^or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
Of breathless being? — darken'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude? — Oh Earth ! 
Where are the past? — and wherefore had they birth? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave. 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave. 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. * * « « 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and De StaSl — 
Leman !' these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the coro 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee. 

How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 

Diodati, July, 1816. 



1 Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne. — [See ante, p. 45. — 
" I have traversed all Rousseau's ground with the II61oise 
before me, and am struck to a degree that I cannot express, 
with the force and accuracy of his descriptions, and the 
beauty of their reality." — Bi/ron Letters, 1S16.J 



576 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1816. 



ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO 

DEL SITIO Y TOMA DE ALIIAMA.* 

El qual dezia en Aravigo assi. 

Passeavase el Rey IV^ro 
Por la ciudad de Granada, 
Desde las puertas de Elvira 
Hasta las de Bivarambla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Cartas le fueron veiiidas 
Que Alhama era gaiiada. 
Las cartas ech6 en el fuego, 

Y al mensagero matava. 

Ay do mi, Alhama ! 

Descavalga de una mula, 

Y en un cavallo cavalga. 
Por el Zacatin arriba 
Subido se avia al Alhambra. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Como en el Alhambra estuvo, 
Al mismo punto mandava 
Que se toquon las trompetas 
Con anafiles de plata. 

Ay de mi, Alhama! 

Y que atambores de guerra 
Apriessa toquen alarma ; 
Por que lo oygan sus Mores, 
Los do la Vega y Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Los Mores que el son oyeron, 
Que al sangriento Marte llama, 
Uno a uno, y dos a dos, 
Un gran esquadron formavan. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Alii habli) un More viejo ; 
Desta manera hablava : — 
Para que nos llamas, Rey? 
Para quo es este llamada? 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Aveys de saber, amigos, 
Una nueva desdichada : 
Que Christianos, con braveza, 
Ya nos han tornado Alhama. 
■» Ay do mi, Alhama ! 

Alii habl6 un viejo Alfaqui, 
De barba crecida y cana : — 
Bieu se to emp!ea,,buen Rey, 
Buen Rey ; bien se to empleava. 
Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Mataste los Bencen-ages, 
Quo era la flor de Granada : 
Cogiste los tornadizos 
Do Cordova la nombrada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

Por esse mereces, Rey, 
Una pone bien doblada ; 
Que te pierdas tu y el reyno, 

Y que se pierda Granada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 

' The effect of the original ballad— which existed both 
in Spanish and Arabic— was such that it was forbidden 



A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA, 

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport. 

The Moorish King rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to tho monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell : 
In the fire the scroi he threw, 
And tho messenger ho slew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course; 
Through the street of Zi-catin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra w^alls he gain'd. 
On the moment he ordain'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar. 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there. 
One by one, and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh King? 
What may mean this gathering?" 

Wo is me, Alhama '. 

" Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow. 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold." 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see, 
" Good King ! thou art justly served, 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" By thee were slain, in evil hour. 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 

" And for this, oh King ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Wo is me, Alhama . 



to be sunj 
nada. 



by the Moors, on pain of death, within Gra- 



1816. OCCASIONAL PIECES. 577 


SL no se respetan leyes, 
Es ley quo todo se pierda ; 

Y que se pierda Granada, 

Y que te pierdas en ella. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law ; 
And Granada must bo won, 
Ana thyself with her undone." 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Fuego por los ojos vierte, 
El Rey que esto oyera. 
Y como el otro de leyes 
De leyes tambien hablava. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes. 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise. 
Because he answor'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Wo is me, Alhama . 


Sabe un Rey que no ay leyes 
De darle a Reyes disgusto — 
Esso dize el Rey Moro 
Relinchando de colera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings :" — 
Thu? snorting with his choler, said 
The TVIoorish King, and doom'd htm dead. 
Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Moro Alfaqui, Moro Alfaqui, 
El de la vellida barba, 
El Rey te mauda prender, 
Por la perdida de Alhama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be. 
The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Albania's loss displeased. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Y cortarte la cabeza, 

Y pouerla eu el Albambra, 
Por que a ti castigo sea, 

Y otros tiemblen en miralla. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

W^o is me, Alhama! 


Cavalleros, hombres buenos, 
Dezid de mi parte al' Rey, 
Al Rey Moro de Granada, 
Como no le devo nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know. 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Wo is mo, Alhama ! 


De averse Alhama perdido 
A mi me pesa en el alma. 
Que si el Rey perdi6 su tierra, 
Otro mucho mas perdiera. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost. 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Perdieran hijos ]^dres, 
Y casados las casadas: 
Las cosas quo mas amara 
Perdi6 1' un y el otro fama. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" Sires have lost their chiWren, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

^Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Perdi una hija donzella 
Que era la flor d' esta tierra, 
Cien doblas dava por ella. 
No me las estimo en nada. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


" I lost a damsel in that hour, 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Wo is me, Alhama I 


Diziendo assi al hacen Alfaqui, 
Lo cortaron la cabecja, 
Y la elevan al Alharabra, 
Assi come cl Rey lo manda. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


And as tlicse things the old Moor said. 
They sever'd from the trunk his head ; 
And to the Alhambra's w^all with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Hombres, nii"ios y mugeres, 
Lloran tan grande perdida. 
Lloravan todas las damas 
Quantas en Granada avia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep : 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her walls, burst into tears. 

Wo is me, Alhama ! 


Por las callcs y ventanas 
Mucho luto parecia ; 
Lloia cl Rey como fembra, 
Qu' es mucho lo que perdia. 

Ay de mi, Alhama ! 


And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Wo is me, Alhama! 



73 



578 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1816. 



SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. 

PER MONACA. 

Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta 
poco innanzi una figlia appena maritata ; e diretto al ge- 
nitore della sacra sposa. 

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte 
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo, 
II ciel, che degiie di piti nobil sorte 
L' una e 1' altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo. 

La mi a fu tolta da veloco morte 
A le fumanti tede d' imeneo : 
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte 
Eterna prigionicra or si reiideo. 

Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa 
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde, 
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa. 

lo verso un fiume d' amarissim' onde, 

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa, 
BattOj 6 ribatto ma nessun rispoude. 



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLL 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter 
had recently died shortly after her marriage ; and ad- 
dressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, 

Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires ; 
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, 
And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mine, while the- torch of Hymen newly fired 
Becomes extinguish'd, soon — too soon — expires ; 
But thine, within the closing grate retired, 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But tJiou at least from out the jealous door, 

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 

I to the marble, where iny daughter lies,. 
Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour. 
And knock, and knock, and knock — but none re- 
plies. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

Bric.ht be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be ! 
There should not be the shadow of gloom, 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 

For v/hy should we mourn for the blsss'd? 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

They say that Hope is happiness ; 

But genuine Love must prize the past. 
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless : 

They rose the first — they set the last ; 

And all that Memory loves the most 
Was once our only Hope to be, 

And all that Hope adored and lost 
Hath melted into Memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all : 

The future cheats us from afar, 

Nor can wo bo what we recall. 

Nor dare we think on what we are. 



i [" This should have been written fifteen moons ago : the 
first stanza was. lam just come out from an hour's swim in 
the Adriatic."— //onZ Hijron to Mr. Moore, July 10, 1S17.] 

a [" The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house 



TO THOMA^ MOORE. 

Mv boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea ; 
But, before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here 's a double health to thee ! • 

Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
And a smile to those who hate ; 

And, whatever sky 's above me. 
Here 's a heart for every fate 

Though the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me. 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last ^op in the well, 

As I gasp'd upon tlie brink, 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'Tis to thee that I would driiiii. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be — peace with thine and mine, 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

July, isn 



ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA." 

In this beloved marble view. 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
What nature could, but would not, do. 

And beauty and Canova can I 
Beyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the Bard's defeated art. 
With immortality her dower, 

Behold the Helen of the heart .' 

November, 1816. 



of Madaine the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, 
" without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful 
of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas r{ human 
execution."— iorii Byron to Mr. Murray, Nov. 25, 1616.] 



1816. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



579 



SONG FOR THE LUDDITES. 

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free. 
And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 

When the web that we weave is complete, 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword, 

We will fling the winding-sheet 

O'er the desppt at our feet, 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

Though black as his heart its hue, 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 

Which the tree shall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd !' 

December, 1816. 



TO THOMAS MOORE. 

What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
What are you doing now. 

Oh Thomas Moore ? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Rhyming or wooing now. 
Billing or cooing now, 
Which, Thomas Moore'? 

But the Carnival 's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
The Carnival 's coming. 

Oh Thomas Moore ! 
Masking and humming, 
Fifing and drumming,'^ 
Guitarring and strumming, 
Oh Thomas Moore I 



SO, WE'LL GO»NO MORE A ROVING. 

So, we'll go no more a roving 

So lato into the. night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath,' 
And the soul wears out the breast, 
• And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 



1 [" Are you not near the Luddites ? By the Lord ! if 
thero's a row, but I'll be among ye ! How go on the weav- 
ers—the breakers of frames— the Lutherans of politics — the 

reformers ■? There's an amiable chanson for you ! — all 

impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your 
neighbor , who is all clergy and loyalty— mirth ancl in- 
nocence — milk and water." — Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Dec. 
24, 1816.] * 

* [" And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming, 
Guitars, and every other sort of strumming." — Beppo. 
See ante, p. 155.] 

3 [" I went to most of the ridottos, &c., and though I did 
not dissipate much upon the whole, yet I found the sword 
wearing out the scabbard, though I have but just turned 
tie corner of twenty-nine."— Lord Buron to Mr Moore, Feb. 
28, 1817.] 

^ [*■' I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to 
fljing, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, af- 



Though the night was made for loving. 

And the day returns too soon. 
Yet we'll go no more a roving 

By the light of the moon. 1817 



VERSICLES' 



I READ the ' Christabel ;" 

Very well : 
I read the " Missionary ;" 

Pretty — very : 
I tried at " Ildeili:' ;" 

Ahem ! 
I read a sheet of ' Marg'ret of Anjou ,•"* 

Can you ? 
I turn'd a page of Scott's " Waterloo ;" 

Pooh ! pooh ! 
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white " Rylstone Doe :" 

Hillo : 
&c. &c. &c. 

March, 1817. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have publish'd " Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry, 
(At least, it has not been as yet ;) 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em. 
Without remorse you set up " Ilderim ;" 

So mind }'ou don't get into debt. 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books would be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would bo very treacherous — very, 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally. 
All in my little boat, against a Galley ; 
And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, 
Have next to combat with the female knight. 
March 25, 1817. 



EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO 
DR. POLIDORI.^ 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play. 
Which is a good one in its way, — 



ter a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot head 
ache, horrible pulsation, and no s'eep, by the blessing of bar- 
ley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. 
It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, 
which I made one sleepless night." — Lord Byron to Mr. 
Moore, March 25, 1817.] 

6 [The " Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles ; " Il- 
derim" by Mr. Gaily Knight ; and " Margaret of Anjou" by 
Miss Holford.] 

6 [For some particulars relating to Dr. Polidori see 
Moore's " Notices." " I never," says Lord Byron, " \vas 
much more disgusted with any human production than with 
the eternal nonsense, and tracasseries, and emptiness, and 
ill-humor, and vanity of this young person ; but he has_ 
some talent, and is a man of honor, and has dispositions of 
amendment. Therefore use your interest for him, for he is 
improved and improveable. You want a ' civil and delicate 
declension' for the medical tragedy 1 Take it." — Loid By 
ron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 21, 1817.] 



580 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1817. 



Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs hke towels 
With tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
AflFord hysterical relief 
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery ; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art ; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and everybody dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it — plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by " Manuel," — 
Too lucky if it prove not annual, — • 
And Sotheby, with his " Orestes," 
(Which, by the by, the author's best is,) 
Has lain so very long on hand. 
That I despair of all demand. 
I've advertised, but see my books. 
Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There 's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded iu a letter, 
A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Keharaa ; 
So alter'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 
In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
I dare not venture on another. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
My room 's so full — we've GifFord here 
Reading MS., with Hookham Frero, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The Quarterly — Ah, sir, if you 
Had but the genius to review ! — 
A smart critique upon St. Helena^, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but, to resume : 

As I was saying, sir, the room — 

The room 's so full of wits and bards, 

Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Wards, 

And others, neither bards nor wits : — 

My humble tenement admits 

All persons in the di'ess of gent., 

From Rlr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 

A party dines with me to-day, 
All clever men, who make their way ; 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They're at this moment in discussion 
On poor De Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of Franco I 



» [The fourth canto of " Cliilde Harold."] 



Thus run our time and tongues away. — 
But, to return, sir, to your play : 
Sorry, sir, but I can not deal, 
Unless 'twere acted by O'Neill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

JoiiN Murray. 

August, 1817 



EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 
You're in a damn'd hurry 

To set up this ultimate Canto ;' 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You'll see Mr. Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you hint of. 
As ready to print off. 

No doubt you do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ oiF 
The devil a bit of 

Our " Beppo :" — when copied, I'll send it 

Then you've * * * * 's Tour, — 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
For the pompous rascallion. 
Who don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. 

You can make any loss up 
With " Spence" and his gossip, 

A work which must surely succeed ; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft, 
With the new " Fytte" of « Whistlecraft ' 

Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on, 

To serve with a Muscovite master 
And help him to polish 
A nation so owlish. 

They thought shaving their beards a disaster 

For the man, " poor and shrewd,"* 
With whom you'd conclude 

A compact without more delay. 
Perhaps some such pen is 
Still extant in Venice ; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay. 

Venice, January 8, 1918. 



TO MR. MURRAY 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times. 
Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
My Murray 

To thee, with hope aiid terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all — and sellest some — • 
My Murray. 

' Vide your letter 



1818. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



581 



Upon thy table's baize so green 
Tho last new Quarterly is seen, — 
Bui where is thy new Magazine, 
• My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucesi bookshelves shine 
The works thou deenicst most divine — 
The " Art of Cookery," and mine, 
My Murray. 

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without " the Board of Longitude," 
Although this narrow paper would. 
My Murray. 

Venice, March 25, 1818. 



1 [On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice- 
consul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are 
in no other respect remarkable, than that they were thought 
worthy of being metrically translated into no less than ten 
different languages ; namely, Greek, Latin, Italian, (also in 
the Venetian dialect,) German, French, Spanish, lllyrian, 
Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan. The original lines, 
with the different versions above mentioned, were printed, 
in a small neat volume, in the seminary of Padua ; from 
which we take the following : — 

GREEK. 

^piiv TTVKvfi Tlarpcs Kal Mriripo; dyXabv eiiog 
'ApriTiKou Koajxoi votv ts, 6f'//a? tc Ppi(povi' 

0(;i(30 6i -Kavrl (iit^ rj iXSioi, aUv Ipavvov 
2x01)7 7r«(j 'Vi^ov Kal ydvoi, tjie fiiriv. 

LATIN. 

Magnanimos Patris verset sub pectore sensus, 

Maternus roseo fulgeat ore decor ; 
Neu quid felici desit, quo robore Rizzus 

Festivo poUet, poUeat iste puer. 

ITALIAN. 

Del Padre il senno, e il bel matemo aspetto 
Splendano ognora In Te, fanciul diletto : 
Felice appien ! se al tuo corporeo velo 
Dona il lieto vigor di Ilizzo il cielo. 

THE VENETIAN DIALECT. 

De graziete el to modelo 
Sia la Mama, bel Putelo. 
E '1 talento del Papa 
In ti cressa co 1' eta ; 
E per salsa, o contentin 
Roba a Riizz^ i\ so morbin. 

GERMAN. 
JCuS tciS Sintc^ Jfugc prnMet 

Scintg !Bfl(cri) I)t[)cc Sinn, 

Unb in OSuttcc Scfyonljcit inalet 

Sill) in Jl'anje, OTimB unb Sinn. 
CSliitflicf;, Stlcinct, ivirft bii fein, 

iilannfl bn Kijio'i^ fcolicn OTuKjeol, 

StincS ftutii)cn 251ulc^, 

Seincc £tfivfe bi(() crftcii'n. 

FRENCH. 

Sois en tout fortune, semillant Jouvenceau, 
Porte dans les festins la valeur de Rizzo, 
Porte au barreau I'esprit r/ae faitbriller ton pere, 
Et pour vairiire ?— au boudoir sois beau comme ta mere, 

SPANISH. 

Si t la gracia materna el gusto ayuntas 
Y cordura del Padre, o bello Infante, 
Seris feliz, y lo seras bastante ; 
Mas, si felicidad guieres completa, 
S6, como Rizo, alegre, s6 un atleta. 



ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO 
HOPPNER. 

His father's sense, his mother's gracC; 

In him, I hope, will always fit so ; 
With — still to keep him in good case — 

The health and appetite of Rizzo.' 

February, : 819. 



STANZAS TO THE PO." 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls,^ 

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting meraery of me ; 

What if thy deep and ample stream should bo 
A mirror of my heart, where she may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thc-e, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 



ILLYRIAN. 

Ako ti sjagnu— Otcieve kriposti 
■ Budesc zadruscrti— majcinu ghisdavost, 
Prisladki ditichiu— , srichjansi zadosti. 

Ako pak narav— ti budesc sliditi 

Rizza privesela— , gnegovu i nasladost, 
Srichjnia od tebe— nechiesce viditi. 

HEBREW. 

S-iJin r,b i:jin db tits 

2 [About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled 
from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to 
find the Countess Guiccioli. The above' stanzas, which 
have been as much admired as any thing of tlie kind he ever 
wrote, were composed, according to Madame Guiccioli's 
statement, during this journey, and while Lord Byron was 
actually sailing on the Po. In transmitting them to Eng- 
land, in May, 1620, he says,—" They must not be published : 
pray recollect this, as they are mere verses of society, and 
written upon private feelings and passions." They were 
first printed in 1824.] 

3 [Ravenna— a city to which Lord Byron afterwards de- 
clared himself more attached than to any other place, ex- 
cept Greece. He resided in it rather more than two years, 
" and quitted it," says Madame Guiccioli, " with the deep- 
est regret, and with a presentiment that his departure would 
be the forerunner of a thousand evils ; he was continually 
performing generous actions : many families owed to him 
the few prosperous days they ever enjoyed ; his ariiVrtl was 
spoken of as a piece of public good fortune, and his depart- 
ure as a public calamity." In the third canto of "Dm 
Juan," Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, n 
this time, he was leading :— 

" Sweet hour of twilight !— in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood. 

Rooted where once the Adrian waveflow'd o'er, 
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 

Evergreen forest I which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

" The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
And vesper bells that rose the boughs among ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 

Which learn'd from this example not to iiy 

From a true lover, shadow'd my mind's eye."] 



582 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1819. 



What do I say — a mirror of my heart? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them, — not forever ; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Tliy floods subside, andmine have sunk away, 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again, 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main. 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee, — I have look'd on thee, 

Full of that thought : and, from that moment, ne'er 

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream, — 
Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep? — 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot. 

As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land. 

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 

By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not, 
I had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 

'Tis fain to struggle — let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung. 

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er ba moved. 

/.pril, 1819. 



SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALd's FOR- 
FEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, [raise 

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and 
His offspring, who expired in other days 

To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 



This is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, 
For who would lift a hand, except (l» bless ? 

Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus 

Thy soverei^ty would grow but more complete ; 
A despot thou, and yet thy people free. 

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

Bologna, August 12, 1319 » 



1 [" So, the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's 
forfeiture ? Ecco un' sonetto ! There, you dogs ; there's 
a sonnet for you : you won't have such as that in a hurry 
from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye 
wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good : it whs a very 
njble piece of principality."— iorii Bi^ron to Mr. Murray.] 

2 [" Would you like an epigram— a translation ? It was 
written on some Frenchwoman, by Rulhieres, I believe." — 
Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 12, 1816.] 



EPIGRAM. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIEREa" 

If, for silver or for gold, 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half a dozen dimples, 
Then your face we might behold. 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly ; 

Yet even then 'twould be d d ugly. 

August 13, 1819. 



STANZAS.' 



Could Love forever 
Run like a river, 
And Time's endeavoi 

Bo tried in vain — 
No other pleasure 
With this could measure ; 
And like a treasure 

We'd hug the chain. 
But since our sighing 
Ends not in dying. 
And, form'd for flying. 

Love plumec! his wing ; 
Then for this reason 
Let 's love a season ; 
But let that season be only Spring. 

When lovers parted 
Feel broken-hearted. 
And, all hopes thwarted, 

Expect to die ; 
A few years older. 
Ah ! how much colder 
They might behold her 

For whom they sigh ! 
When link'd together. 
In every weather. 
They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing — 
He'll stay forever. 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.* 



3 [A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ru 
venna when he wrote these Stanzas, says, — " They were 
composed, like many others, with no view of publication, 
but merely to relieve liimself in a moment of suffering. Ho 
had been painfully excited by some circumstances which 
appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately 
quit Italy ; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the 
song was laboring under an access of fever."l 

i [V. L.— " That sped his Spring."! 



1820. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



583 



Like Chiefs (f Faction, 

His life is action — 

A formal paction 

That curbs his reign, 

Obscures his glory, 

Despot no more, he 

Such territory- 
Quits with disdain. 

Still, still advancing, 

With banners glancing, 

His power enhancing. 
He must move on — 

Repose but cloys him, 

Retreat destroys him, 
Love brooks not a degraded throne. 

Wait not, fond lover ! 
Till years are ovei, 
And then recover, 

As from a dream. 
While each bewailing 
The other's failing. 
With wrath and railing, 

All hideous seem — 
While first decreasing, 
Yet not quite ceasing, 
Wait not till teasing 

All passion blight : 
If once diminish'd 
Love's reign is finish'd — 
Then part in friendship, — and bid good-night 

So shall AfFeotion 
To recollection 
The dear connection 

Bring back with joy : 
You had not waited 
Till, tired or hated, 
Your passions sated 

Began to cloy. 
Your last embraces 
licave no gold traces — 
The same fond faces 

As through the past : 
And eyes, the mirrors 
Of your sweet errors 
Reflect but rapture — not least though last. 

True, separations 

Ask more than patience ; 

What desperations 

From such have risen ! 
But yet remaining. 
What is 't but chaining 
Hearts which, once waning, 

Beat 'gainst their prison? 
Time can but cloy love, 
And use destroy love : 
The winged boy. Love, 

Is but for boys — 
You'll find it torture 
Though sharper, shorter, 
T^ wean, and not wear out your joys. 

1819. 



' [V L.— "One last emoiace, then, and bid good-night." 1 

•• You come to him on earth again, 
He'll go with you to hell."] 

I" Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name. 



ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 

Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason 

I beg you'll permit me to say — 
Wish me many returns of the season, 

But as few as you please of the day. 

January 2, 1820. 



EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. 

With death doom'd to grapple. 

Beneath this cold slab, he 
Who lied in the Chapel 

Now lies in the Abbey. 

January, 1820. 



EPIGRAM. 



In digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 

Will. Cobbett has done well : 
You visit him on earth again, * 

He'll visit you in hell.^ 

January, 1820.3 



STANZAS. 



When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, 
Let him comb&t for that of his neighbors ; 

Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 
And get knock'd on the head for his labors. 

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 

And is always as nobly requited ; 
Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted. 

November. 1820. 



EPIGRAM. 



The world is a bundle of hay. 
Mankind are the asses who pull ; 

Each tugs it a different way, 
And the greatest of all is John Bull. 



THE CHARITY BALL. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small. 

So the Pharisee's glories around her, she gather. 
And the saint patronizes her " charity ball !" 

What matters — a heart which, though faulty, was 
feeling, 
Be driven to excesses which once could appal — 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
As the saint keeps her charity back for " the 
ball !"^ 



except among the initiated, because my friend Hobhoiise 
has foamed into a reformer, and, I greatly fear^wiU subside 
into Newgate."— Ziord Byron to Mr. Moore.'\ 

* These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, 
that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of somo 
charity at Hinckley. 



584 



BYRON'S WORKS 



1821. 



EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 

TO PENELOPE. 

This day, of all our days, has done 

The worst for me and you : — 
'Tis just six years since we were one, 

And five since we were two. 

January 2, 1821. 



ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY. 

JANUARY 22, 1821.' 

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
What have these years left to me ? 
Nothing — except thirty-three. 



EPIGRAM, 

ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO 
PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE.'^ 

The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 
An address, and present it themselves all in brass ; — 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 
They'll find where they're going much more than 
they carry .^ 



MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epig. I. 

"Hic est, quern legis, ille, quem requiris, 
Tola notus in orbe Martialis," &c. 

He mito whom thou art so partial. 
Oh, reader ! is the well-known Martial, 
The Epigrammatist : while living, 
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving ; 
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
F:st-obits rarely reach a poet. 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. 

To the tune of " Why, how now, saucy jade?" 

Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Remarks on Mister Campbell. 

1 [In Lord Byron's MS. Diary of the preceding day, we 
find the following entry : — "January 21 , 1 82 1 . Dined — visited 
— came home— read. Remarked on an anecdote in Grimm's 
Correspondence, which says, that ' Regnard et la plupart 
des poiites comiques 6taient gens bilieux et mtlancoliques ; 
et que M. de Voltaire, qui est tres-gai, n'a jamais fait que 
des tragedies— et que la comedie gaie est le seul genre oii 
il n'ait point rtussi. C'est que celui qui rit et celui qui fait 
rire sont deux hommes fort differens 1' At this moment I 
feel as bilious as the best comic writer of them all, (even 
as Regnard himself, the next to Bloliere, who has written 
some of the best comedies in any language, and who is sup- 
posed to have committed suicide,) and am not in spirits to 
continue my proposed tragedy. To-morrow is my birth- 
day—that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight, i. e. in 
twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty and three 
years of age I ! I— and I go to my bed with a heaviness of 
heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose. * 
* * * * It is three minutes past twelve — "Tis 
tne middle of night by the castle-cloci,' and I am now 
thirty-three ! — 



ANSWER. 

Why, how now, Billy Bawles ? - 

Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
(To the public) How can you, d — n your souls! 

Listen to his twaddling? 

February 22, 1821 * 



EPIGRAMS. 



Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now ; 
Cato died for his country, so didst thou : 
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved. 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved ! 



So Castlereagh has cut his throat ! — Tlio worst 
Of tJiis is, — that his own was not the first. 



So He has cut his throat at last ! — He ! Who? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



EPITAPH 



Posterity will ne'er survey 
A nobler grave than this : 

Here lie the bones of Castlereagh: 
Stop, traveller 



JOHN KEATS.' 

Who kill'd John Keats ? 

" I," says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartarly ; 

" 'Twas one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow ? 

" The poet-priest Milman, 
(So ready to kill man,) 

Or Southey or Barrow." 



July, 1821. 



THE CONQUEST 



[This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, 
after his departure from Genoa for Greece.] 

March 8-9, 1823. 

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than king 

To his unconquerable dynasty. 

' Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume, 
Labuntur anni ;' — 
but I don't regret them so much for what I have done, as 
for what I might have done."] 

2 [The procession of the Braziers to Brandenburgh House 
was one of the most absurd ftoleries of the time of the late 
Queen's trial.] 

3 [" There is an epigram for you, is it not ? — worthy 

Of Wordsworth, the grand metaquizzical poet, 
A man of vast merit, though few people know it ; 
Tlie perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) 
I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry." 

Byron Letters, January 22, 1821.1 

* ["Excuse haste,— I write with my spurs putting on."— 
Lord Byron to Mr Moore, Feb. 22, 1621 ] 

6 [" Are you aware that Shelley has written an elegy on 
Keats, and accuses the Quarterly of killing him V -Lord 
Byron to Mr. Murray, July 30, 1621.] 



1821. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



585 



Not fanii'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing, 
He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high : 

The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, 
And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

For Orford' and for Waldegrave" 

You give much more than me you gave ; 

Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray 

Because if a live dog, 'tis said. 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes. 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
" My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
So, if you toill, I shan't be shamm'd. 
And if you won't, you may be damn'd, 
My Murray.' 



THE IRISH AVATAR.* 

" And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to 
receive the paltry rider." — Curran. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave. 
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave, 
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his — 
bride. 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone. 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause 

For the few little years, out of centuries won. 

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her 
cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore — where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ; 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes ! the Mesaah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves ! 
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes. 

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore, 
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 



1 [Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine Years of 
the Reign of George II.] 

2 [Jlemoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of 
George III. when Prince of Wales.] 

2 [" Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters 
must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my 
trustee, and a man of honor. To him you can state all your 
mercantile reasons, which you might not like' to state to me 
personally, such as ' heavy season' — ' flat public' — ' don't 
go off' — ' lordship writes too much' — ' won't take advice' — 
' declining popularity' — ' deduction for the trade'—' make 
very hltle'— ' generally lose by him'—' pirated edition'— 



74 



But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er ! 
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart I 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, 
And a new spring of noble affections arise — 

Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 

chain, [skies. 

And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? 

Were he God-^as he is but the commonest clay, 
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow — 

Such servile devotion might shame him away. 

Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride — 

Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 

His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.* 

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the vest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endm d, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun — 
But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 

Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one I 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind ; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 

And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of 
his mind. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 

Feasts furnish'd by Famine .' rejoicings by Pain ! 
True freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves, 

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the palace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 

Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied ! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay. 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield 
their prey ? 

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign, — 
To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 

The cause of the curses all annals contain, 

From Cffisar the dreaded to George the despised ! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connell, proclaim 
His accomplishments I His ! ! I and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame. 

And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
prince !" 



' foreign edition' — ' severe criticisms,' &c., with other hints 
and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an 
orator, to answer." — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 
1821.] 

4 [" The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are 

written by the Rev. W. L. B . Of course it is for him 

to deny Ihein, if they are not'" — Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, 
Sept. 17, 1821.] 

6 ["After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to 
cause insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of 
during to-day's siesta." — Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept SO, 
1821.] 



586 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



1821. 



Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall 
The letters from miliions of Catholic limbs ? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with 
hymns ? 

Ay ! " Build him a dwelling !" let each give his mite ! 

Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen I 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 

And a palace bestow for a poorhouse and prison I 

Spread — spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, 
Till the gluttonous despot be stufF'd to the gorge ! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
The Fourth of the- fools and oppressors call'd 
" George !" 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 

Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo ! 
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne. 

Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet 
has to flow. 

But let not Jiis name be thine idol alono — 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! 

Thine own Castlereagh ! let him still bo thine own ! 
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers !' 

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth. 
Deep, deep as the gore which ho shed on her soil, 

Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her 
earth, 
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race — 

The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she evor gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did — let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd. 
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 

See the cald-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd. 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter ! Oh ! Erin, how low 
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 

Thy welcome cf tyrants hath plunged thee below 
Tiij depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right. 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 

This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy fight. 
And thie beart, though outworn, had a throb still 
for thee ! 



1 [" The last line — ' A name never spoke but with curses 
or jeers' must run, either ' A name only uttered with curses 
or jeers,' or, ' A wretch never named but with curses or 
jeers,' becase as how ' spoke' is not grammar, except in the 
House of Commons. So pray put your poetical pen through 
the MS., and take the least bad of the eir.endations. Also, 
if there be any further breaking of Priscian s head, will you 
a^ply a plaster V'—Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Sept. 19.] 

2 [" I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added 
now) a few days ago. on the road from Florence to Pisa." 
—Byron Diary, Pisa, 6th Nov., 1821.] 

3 [In tl.e same Diary, we find the following painfully in- 
teresting passage :— " As far as Fame goes, (that is to say, 
living Fame.) 1 have had my share, perhaps— indeed, cer- 
ifltn/y— more than my deserts. Some odd instances have oc- 
curred to my own experience of the wild and strange places 
to which a name may penetrate, and where it may impress. 
Two years ago— (almost three, being in August, or July, 
1819)— I received a letter in i:n!;Hsh verse from Drontheim 
in Norway, wiitten by a Norwegian, and full of the usual 
compliments, &c. <kc. In the same month I received an in- 
vitation into Holstein, from a Mr. Jacobson, I think, of Ham- 
burgh ; also (by the same medium) a translation of Medora's 



Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
land, [sons, 

I have known noble hearts and groat souls in thy 
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band 

Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled ; 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy — thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 

My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore, 
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upon 
power, 
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! 

September, 1821. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PIBA." 

On, talk not to me of a name great in story ; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

Oh Fame !' — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

November, 1821. 

song in the ' Corsair,' by a Westphalian baroness, (not 
' Thunderten-tronck,') with some original verses of hers, 
(very pretty and Klopstockish,) and a prose translation an- 
nexed to them, on the subjectof my wife. As they concerned 
her more than me, I sent them to her with Mr. Jacobson's 
letter. It was odd enough to receive an invitation to pass 
the summer in Holstein, while in Italy, from people I never 
knew. The letter was addressed to Venice. Mr. J. talked 
to me of the ' wild roses growing in the Holstein summer:' 
why, then, did the Cimbri and the Teutones emigrate ?— 
What a strange thing is life and man 1 Were I tc present 
myself at the door of the house where my daughter new is, 
the door would be shut in my face, unless (as is not imycs 
sib'a) I knocked down the porter ; and if I had gone in that 
ye.>/ (and perhaps now) to Drontheim, (the furthest town 
in Norway,) or into Holstein, I should have been received 
with open arms into the mansions of strangers and foreigners 
— attached to me by no tie but that of mind and rOmor. 
As far as Fame goes, I have had my share : it has, indeed, 
been leavened by other human contingencies ; and this in a 
greater degree than has occurred to most literary men of a 
decent rank in life ; but, on the whole, I take it ii.at such 
equipoise is the condition of humanity."] 



1824. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



587 



STANZAS 

TO A HINDOO AI^.^ 

Oh ! — my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover ? 
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover? 

Far — far away ! and alone along the billow ? 

Oh ! my lonely — lonely — lonely — Pillow ! 
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 

And my head droops over thee like the willov/ ! 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt — no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy — but to oehold him I 

Oh ! my lone bosom I — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



IMPROMPTU.* 

Beneath Blessington's eyes 

The reclaim'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil ; 

But, if the new Eve 

For an Apple should grieve, 
What mortal would not play the Devil ?' 



1823. 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 'twere sirange to deny ; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry 

Were I now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence has painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue. 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead ; 

What I loved I now merely admire. 
And my heart is as gray as my head 

My life IS not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough ; 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep iu my soul eis my brow. 



1 [These verses were written by Lord Byron a little re- 
fore he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the 
Hindostanee air, — "Alia Malla Punca," which the Countess 
Guiccioli was fond of singing.] 

2 [With a view of inducing Loi-d and Lady Blessington to 
prolong their stay at Genoa, Lord Byron suggested their 
taking a pretty villa called " II Paradiso," in the neighbor- 
hood of hi.s own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon 
that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some in- 
tentions of residmg there, he produced this impromptu. — 
Moore.] 

3 [The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare 
jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa 
(which was also, I beiieve, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the 
one fixed on for his own residence, they said " II Diavolo e 
ancoia entrato ui Paradiso."— Moore.] 



Let the young and the brilliant aspire 
To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 

For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
SIXTH YEAR. 

Missolonghi, Jaa 22, 1824.* 
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
Since others it hath ceased to move ; 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 

A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field. 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
AVas not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Tliink through whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 
Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, ivhy live ? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out — less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground. 
And take thy rest." 



* [This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into 
the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends 
were assembled, and said with a smile — " You were com- 
plaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. 
This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, 
which, I think, is better than what I usually write." He 
then produced rhese noble and affecting verses. — Count 
Gamba.] 

5 [Taking into consideration every thing connected with 
these verses, — the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit 
which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause which 
they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave 
glimmering sadly through the whole,— there is perhaps no 
production within the range of mere human composition, 
round which the circumstances and feelings under which 
it was written cast so touching an interest.— Mooke.J 



588 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



DON JUAN. 



" Difficile est proprie communia dicere." — HoR. 

■ x>ost th:iu tliink, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale 1 — Yes, by Saint Anne, and Ginger shall 
lie hot i' the mouth, too !" — Shakspeare, Twelfth J^igkt, or IVhat You Will. 



[EDITOR'S PREFACE. 

Tir5 reader of the " Notices of the Life of L-.,id 
Byron" ia already in possession of abundant details, 
concerning tlie circumstances under whicli the suc- 
cessive cantos of Don Juan were produced. We think 
it right, however, to repeat, in this place, some of the 
most striking passages of the Poet's own letters, with 
reference to this performance : — 

September 39, 1818. — " I have finished the first Canto (a long 
cne, of about 180 octaves) of a poem in the style and manner 
of Beppo, encourageil by the good success of the same. It is 
called Don Juan, and is meant to be a little quietly facetious 
«pon every thing. But I doubt whether it is not — at least, as 
far as it has yet gone — too free for these very modest days. 
However, I shall try the experiment anonymously; and if it 
don't take, it will be discontinued. It is dedicated to Southey, 
in good, simple, savage verse, upon the Laureate's politics, 
and the way he got them." 

January 25, 1819. — " Print it entire, omitting, of course, the 
lines oil Castlereagh, as I am not on the spot to meet him. I 
have acquiesced in the request and representation ; and hav- 
ing done so, it is idle to detail my arguments in favor of my 
own self-love and ' poeshie ;' but I protest. If the poem has 
poetry, it would stand; if not, fall; the rest is 'leather and 
prunello,' and has never yet affected any human production 
'pro or con.' Dulness is the only annihilator in such cases. 
As to the cant of the day, I despise it, as I have ever done all 
its other finical fashions, which become you as paint became 
the ancient Britons. If you admit this prudery, you must omit 
half Ariosto, La Fontaine, Shakspeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, 
Massinger, Ford, all the Charles Second writers; in short, 
something of most who have written before Pope and are worth 
reading, and much of Pope himself. Read him — most of you 
dorCt — but rfo — and I will forgive you ; though the inevitable 
consequence would be, that you would burn all I have ever 
written, and all your other wretched Claudians of the day (ex- 
cept Scott and Crabbe) into the bargain." 

February 1, 1819. — "I have not yet begun to copy out the 
second Canto, which is finished, from natural laziness, and 
the discouragement of the milk and water they have thrown 
upon the first. I say all this to them as to you, that is, for you 
to say to them, for I will have nothing underhand. If they 
had told me the poetry was bad, I would have acquiesced ; 
but they say the contrary, and then talk to me about morality 
— the first time I ever heard the word from anybody who was 
not a rascal that used it for a purpose. I maintain that it is 
the most moral of poems ; but if^ people won't discover the 
moral, that is their fa j t, not mine." 

April 6, 1819. — "You sha'n't make canticles of my cantos. 
The poem will please, if it is lively ; if it is stupid, it w'M fail : 
b It I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. 
If you please you may publish anonymously; it will perhaps 
be belter; bu 1 will battle my way against them all, like a 
porcupine." 

August 12, 1819. — "You are right, GiTord is right, Crabbe 
h right, Hobhouso is right — you are all ''sht, and I am all 
wrong; but do, pray, let me have that pleasure. Cut me up 
root and branch; quarter me in the Quarterly; send round 
my 'disjecli membra poetoe,' like those of the Levite's concu- 
bine ; make r.ie, if you will, a spectacle to men and angels ; 
but don't ask no to alter, fori won't: — I am obstinate and 
lazy — and there's the truth. — You ask me for the plan of 
Donny Johnny: I have no plan , I had no plan ; but I had or 
have materials ; though if, like Tony Lumpkin, 'I am to be 
Bmibbed so when I am in spirits,' the poem will be naught, 
and the poet turn serious again. If it don't take, I will leave 
it off where it is, with all due respect to the public; but if 
continued, it must be in my own way. You might as well 
make Hamlet (or Diggory) 'act mad' in a strait waistcoat, 
as trammel my buffoonery, if I am to be a buffoon ; their 
gestures and my tt.«-.5hts would only be pitiably absurd and 
ludicrously constrained. Why, man, the soul of such writing 
is its license , at least the liberty of that license, if one likes — 

1 [B&fiWoU's Johnson, vol vii. p. 10, edit. 1835.1 



not that one should abuse it. It is like Trial by Jury and 
Peerage, and the Habeas Corpus — a very fine thing, but chiefly 
in the reversion ; because no one wishes to be tried for the 
mere pleasure of proving his possession of the privilege. But 
a truce with these eflections. You are too earnest and eager 
about a work neve, intended to be serious. Do you suppose 
tlmt I could have any intention but to giggle and make giggle ! 
— a playful satire, with as little poetry as could be helped, 
was what I meant. And as to the indecency, do, pray, read 
in Boswell what Johnson, the sullen moralist, says of Prior 
and Paulo Purgante.''^ 

August 24, 1819. — " Keep the anonymous : it helps what fun 
there may be. But if the matter grows serious about 'Don 
Juan,' and you feel jwirself in a scrape, or me either, ovrn that 
I am the author. I will never shrink ; and if you do, I can 
always answer you in the question of Guatimozin to his min- 
ister — each being on his own coals.2 I wish that I had been 
in better spirits; but lam out of sorts, out of nerves, and, now 
and then, (I begin to fear,) out of my senses." 

Such additional particulars, respecting the produc- 
tion of the later Cantos, as may seem to deserve pres- 
ervation, shall be given as the poem proceeds. In the 
mean time, we have been much puzzled how to put 
the reader, who does not recollect the incidents of 
1819, in possession of any thing like an adequate view 
of the nature and extent of the animadversion called 
forth by the first publication of Don Juan. 

Cantos I. and II. appeared in London, in July, 1819, 
without the naine either of author or bookseller, in q 
thin quarto ; and the periodical press immediately 
teemed with the "judicia doctorum — necnon aliorum." 
It has occurred to us, that on this occasion we might 
do worse than adopt the example set us in the Preface 
to the first complete edition of the Dunciad. We 
there read as follows : — " Before we present thee, 
Reader, with our exercitations on this most delectable 
Poem, (drawn from the many volumes of our Adver- 
saria on modern Authors,) we shall here, according to 
the laudable usage of editors, collect the various judg- 
ments of the Learned concerning our Poet : various, 
indeed ! — not only of different authors, but of the same 
author at different seasons. Nor shall we gather only 
the Testimoi;l3s of such eminent Wits as would of 
course descend to posterity, and consequently be read 
without our collection ; but we shall likewise, with in- 
credible labor, seek out for divers others, which, but 
for this our diligence, could never, at the distance of a 
few months, appear to the eye of the most curious. 
Hereby thou mayst not only receive the delectation 
of variety, but also arrive at a more certain judgment, 
by a grave and circumspect comparison of the wit- 
nesses with each other, or of each with himself." Ih 
like manner, therefore, let us now gratify our readers, 
by selecting, in reference to Don Juan, a few of the 
chief 

TESTIMONIES OF AUTHORS, 

beginning with ;he most courtly, and decorous, and 
high-spirited of newspapers, 

I. THE MORNING POST. 

"The greatest anxiety having been excited with respect to 
the appearance of this Poem, we shall lay a few stanzas befcce 



2 [" Am I now reposing on a bed of flowers 3"— RoDKHTsaj).' 



DON JUAN. 



639 



OUT readers, merely observing, that, whatever its character, 
report has been completely erroneous respecting it. If it is not 
—(and truth compels us to admit it is not)— the most moral 
production in the world, but more in the ' Bcppo' stylij, yet 
is there nothing of tlie sort which Scandal with her hundred 
tongues w-hispered abroad, and Malignity joyfully believed and 
repeated, contained in it. 'Tis simply a tale and righte merrie 
conceit, flighty, wild, extravagant— immoral too, it must be 
confessed; but no arrows are levelled at innocent liosoms, no 
sacred family peace invaded ; and they must have, indeed, a 
strange self-consciousness, who can discover their ewn por- 
trait in any part of it. Thus much, though we cannot advocate 
the book, truth and justice ordain us to declare." 

Even more complimentary, on this occasion, was 
the sober, matter-of-fact Thivaitsism of the 
11. MORNING HERALD. 
" It is hardly safe or discreet to speak of Don Juan, that tru- 
ant offspring of Lord Byron's muse. It may be said, however; 
that with all its sins, the copiousness and flexibilily of the En- 
glish language were never before so triumphantly approved — 
that the same compass of talent — ' the grave, the gay, the 
{,'reat, the small,' comic force, humor, metaphysics, and obser- 
vation — boundless fancy and ethereal beauty, and curious 
knowledge, curiously applied, have never been blended with 
the same felicity in any other poem." 

Next comes a harsher voice, from — probably Lees 
Giffard, Esq., LL.D. — at all events, from that stanch 
organ of high Toryism, the " St. James's Chronicle," 
still flourishing, but now better known to London read- 
ers by its daily title of " The Standard." 
III. ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE. 

" Of indirect testimony, that the poem comes from the pen of 
Lord Byron, there is enough to enforce conviction. The same 
full command of our language, the same thorough knowledge 
of all that is evil in our nature, the condensed energy of sen- 
timent, and the striking boldness of imagery — all the cfiaracter- 
Istics by which Childe Harold, the Giaour, and the Corsair are 
distinguished — shine with kindred splendor in Don Juan. 
Would we had not to add another point of resemblance, in the 
uttei ubsence of moral feeling, and the hostility to religion, 
which betray themselves in almost every passage of the new 
poem ! But Don Juan is, alas ! the most licentious poem 
which has for many years issued from the English press." 

The fourth on our list is " The New Times," con- 
ducted in those days by the worthy and learned Sir 
John Stoddart, LL.D., now Chief Justice of Malta. 

IV. NEW TIMES. 
"The work is clever and pungent, sometimes reminding us 
of the earlier and more inspired day of the writer, but chiefly 
characterized by his latter style of scattered versification and 
accidental poetry. It begins with a few easy prefatory stanzas 
relative to the choice of a hero ; and then details the learned 
and circumspect education of Don Juan, under his lady mothej s 
eye. Lord Byron knows the additional vigor to be found iu 
drawing from the life ; and his portraiture of the literary ma- 
tron, who is, like Michael Cassio, a great arithmetician, some 
touches on the folly of female studies, and a lament over the 
henpecked husbands who are linked to ' ladies intellectual,' 
are obviously the results of domestic recollections." 

Lord Burleigh himself never shook his head more 
sagely than 

V. THE STATESMAN. 
" This is a very large hook, affecting many mysteries, hut pos- 
sessing very few ; assuming muc'n originality, though it hath it 
not. The author is wrong to pursue so eccentric a flight. It is too 
artificial : it is too much like the enterprise of Icarus ; and his de- 
clination, or, at any rate, that of his book, will be as rapid, if not 
as disastrous, as the fabled tumble of that ill-starred youth." 

We pass to " The Literary Gazette," edited then, 
as now, by William Jerdan, Esq. of Grove House, 
Brompton ; who is sure of being remembered here- 
after for his gallant seizure of Belliugham, the as- 
sassin of Perceval, in the lobby of the House of Com- 
mons, on the 11th of May, 1812 ; and the establish- 
ment of the first Weekly Journal of Criticism and 
Belles Lettros in England. 

VI. LITERARY GAZETTE. 

" There is neither author's nor publisher's name to this book ; 
and the large quarto tillepage looks quite pure, with only sev- 



enteen words scattered over its surface: perhaps we cannot 
say that there is equal purity throughout ; but there is not much 
of an opposite kind, to oftend even fastidious criticism, or sour 
morality. That Lord Byron is the author there is internal proof 
The public mind, so agitated by the strange announcement of 
this stranger, in the newspaper advertisements, may repose in 
quiet; since we can assure our readers that the avatar so 
dreaded, neither -efers to the return of Bonaparte, nor to the 
coming of any other great national calamity, but simply to the 
publication of an exceedingly clever and entertaining poem. 
Even when we blame the too great laxity of the poet, we cannot 
but feel a high admiration of his talent. Far superior to the 
libertine he paints, fancifulness and gayety gild his worst er- 
rors, and no lirute force is employed to overthrow innocence. 
Never was English festooned into more luxuriant stanzas than 
in Don Juan. Like the dolphin sporting in its native waves, at 
every turn, however grotesque, displaying a new hue and a 
new beauty, the noble author has shown an absolute control 
over his means ; and at every cadence, rhyme, or construction, 
however whimsical, delighted us with novel and magical asso- 
ciations. The style and nature of this pctn; s ppear to us to be a 
singular mixture of burlesque and pathos, of humoroxis observa- 
tion and the higher elements of poetical composition. I-n ribaldry 
and drollery, the author is surpassed by many writers who have 
had their day and sunk into obUvion: but in highly wrought 
interest, and overwhelming passion, he is himself alone." 

As the Editor of the Journal above quoted thought 
fit to insert, soon after, certain extracts from a work 
then — (and probably still) — in MS., entitled " Lord 
Byron's Plagiarisms," he (the Editor) will not think it 
indecorous in us here to append a specimen of the 
said work — which is known to have proceeded from 
no less a pen than that of 

VII. ALARIC A. WATTS, ESQ. 

" A great deal has been said, at various times, about the ori- 
ginality of Lord Byron's conception, as it respects the charac- 
ters of the heroes and heroines of his poetry. We are, how- 
ever, disposed to believe, that his dramatis persona are mostly 
the property of other exhibitors, although he may sometimes 
furnish theiii with new dresses and decorations, — with 'sable 
hair,' 'unearthly scowls,' 'a vital scorn' of all besides them- 
selves, — and such additional improvements as he may consider 
necessary, in order to enable them to make their appearance 
with satisfaction to himself, and profit, or at least amusement, 
to the public. Sooth to say, there are few people better adapted 
to play the part of a Corsair than his lordship; for he is pos- 
itively unequalled by any marauder we ever met with or heard 
of, in the extent and variety of his literary piracies, and unac- 
knowledged obligations to various great men — ay, and women 
too — living as well as deceased." 

The next weekly Journalist whom we hold it proper 
to quote is " The Champion" — in other words, Thomas 
Hill, Esq., the generous original patron of Kirke White 
and Robert Bloomfield, so eloquently lauded by Southey 
in his Life of the former of these poets — then proprietor of 

- VIII. THE CHAMPION. 

" Don Juan is undoubtedly from the pen of Lord Byron ; and 
the mystery in the publication seems to be nothing but a book- 
seller's trick to excite curiosity and enhance the sale : for al- 
though the book is infinitely more immoral than the publica- 
tions against which the prosecutions of the Society for the 
Suppression of Vice are directed, we find nothing iu it that could 
be likely to be regarded as actionable. At the bar of moral 
criticism, indeed, iP may and must be arraigned; and agamsf 
the process and decrees of that court, the subterfuges appealed 
to will be no protection. Other writers, in their attacks upon 
whatever mankind may or ought to reverence, make their ad- 
vances in partial detail; Lord B>Ton proceeds by general as 
sault. Some, while they war against religion, pay homage to 
morality ; and others, while they subvert all morals, cant about 
religion ; Lord Byron displays at once all the force and energy 
of his faculties, all the powers of poetry, and the missiles of 
wit and ridicule, against whatever is respectable in either. 
There is, of course, a good deal of miscellaneous matter dis- 
persed through the two cantos : and though, in those parts 
which affect to be critical, the wantonness of wit is sometimes 
more apparent than the sedateness of impartial judgment; and 
though the politics occasionally savor more of caustic misan- 
thropy, than of that ardent patriotic enthusiasm which consti- 
tutes the charmof that subject — upon both these topics, on the 
whole, we find much more to commend than to censure." 

Among the Monthly critics, the first place is due 
to the venerable Sylvanus Urban 



590 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



IX. GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. 
"Don Juan is obviously intended as a satire upon some of the 
conspicuous characters of the day. The best friends of the poet 
must, with ourselves, lament to observe abilities of so high an or- 
der rendered subservient to the spirit ofinfidelity and libertinism. 
The noble bard, by employing his genius on a worthy subject, 
might delight and instruct mankind ; but the present work, 
though written with ease and spirit, and containing many truly 
poetical passages, cannot be read by persons of moral and re- 
ligious feelings without the most decided reprobation." 

We next have the 

X. MONTHLY REVIEW. 

" Don Juan is a poem, which, if originality and variety be the 
surest test of genius, has certainly the highest title to it; and 
which, we think, would have puzzled Aristotle, with all his 
strength of poetics, to e.tplain, have animated Longinus with 
some of its passages, have delighted Aristophanes, and have 
choked Anacreon with joy instead of with a grape. We might 
almost imagine that the ambition had seized the author to please 
and to displease the world at the same time ; but we can scarcely 
think that he deserves the fate of the old man and his son and 
the ass, in the fable, — or that he will please nobody, — how 
strongly soever we may condemn the more than poetic license 
of his muse. He has here e.xhiliitcd that wonderful versatility 
of style and thoucht, which appears almost incompatible within 
the scope of a single subject; and the familiar and the senti- 
mental, the witty and the sublime, the sarcastic and the pa- 
thetic, the gloomy and the droll, are all touched with so happy 
an art, and mingled together with such a power of union, yet 
such a discrimination of style, that a perusal of the poem 
appears more like a pleasing and ludicrous dream, than the 
sober feeling of reality. It is certainly one of the strangest, 
though not the best, of dreams; and it is much to be wished 
that the author, before he lay down to sfeep, had invoked, like 
Shakspeare's Lysander, some good angel to protect him against 
the wicked spirit of slumbers. We hope, however, that his 
readers have learned to admire his genius without being in 
danger from its influence ; and we must not be surprised if a 
poet will not always write to instruct as well as to please us." 

To which add a miscellany which, in spite of great 
occasional merit, is now defunct — the 

XI. LONDON MAGAZINE. 

" Lord Byron's poem of Don Juan, though a wonderful proof 
of the versatility of his powers, is avowedly licentious. It is a 
satire on decency, on fine feeling, on the rules of conduct ne- 
cessary to the conservation of society, and on some of his own 
near connections. Vivacious allusions to certain practical ir- 
regularities are things which it is to be supposed innocence is 
strong enough to resist: but the quick alternation of pathos 
and profineness, — of serious and moving sentiment and inde- 
cent ribaldry, — of afilicting, smil-rending pictures of human dis- 
tress, rendered keen by the most pure and hallowed sympa- 
thies of the human breast, and absolute jeering of human na- 
ture, and general mockery of creation, destiny, and heaven 
itself— this is a sort of violence, the efl'ect of which is either to 
sear or to disgust the mind of the reader, and which cannot be 
fairly characterized but as an insult and outrage." 

The journal next to be cited is now also defunct ; 
but the title has been revived. 

XII. BRITISH MAGAZINE. 

" Byron, after having achieved a rapid and glorious fame, has, 
by the publication of this poem, not only disgusted every well- 
regulated mind, and afflicted all who respected him for his ex- 
traordinary talents, but has degraded his personal character 
lower than even his enemies (of whom he has many) could 
have wished to see it reduced. So gratuitous, so melancholy, so 
despicable a prostitution of genius was never, perhaps, betbre 
witnessed. We wish we were the poet's ne.xt of kin : it should 
go hard but that a writ de lunatito inqidrcndo should issue." 

Another sage long since dead and forgotten, was 
entitled the 

XIII. EDINBURGH MONTHIiY MAGAZINE. 

"Don Juan presents to us the melancholy spectacle of the 
greatest poet of the age lending the enchantment of his genius to 
themes upon which we trust that, for the benefit of mankind, the 
charm of its perverted inspiraticjn will forever be expended in 
vain. This is by far the most offensive of all Lord Byron's per- 
formances. We have here, for the first time in the history of 
our literature, a great work, of which the very basis is infidelity 
and licentiousness, and the most obtrusive ornaments are im- 
pure imaginations and blasphemous sneers. The work cannot 
perish ; for it has in it, full and overHowing, the elements of 
intcliectual vigor, and bears upon it the stamp of surpassing 
power. The poet is, udeed, ' damned to everlasting fame.' " 



The Monthly organ of criticism possessirig most 
sway among certain strictly religious circles, was, in 
1819, as now, the 

XIV. ECLECTIC REVIEW 

" We have had enough of that with which Lord Byron's 
poetry is replete — himself. The necessary progress of character, 
as developed in his last reputed production, has conducted him 
to a point at which it is no longer snfe to follow him even in 
thought, for fear we should be beguiled of any portion of the de- 
testation due to this bold outrage. Poetry which it is impossible 
not to read without admiration, yet which it is equally impos 
sible to admire without losing some degree of self respect, can be 
safely dealt with OL y in one way, — by pa.ssing it over in silence. 
There are cases in which it is equally impossible to relax into 
laughter, or to soften into pity, without feeling that an im- 
moral concession is made to vice. The author of the following 
stanza might seem to invite our compassionate sympathy : — 

'No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 
Canst thou be my sqle world, my universe ! 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
Thou canst not be my blessing or my cu'se ; 

The illusion's gone forever, and tho;; art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, 

And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment. 

Though heaven knows how it ever found a lo; gement,' iStc 

These lines are exceedingly touching, and they have that char- 
acter of truth which distinguishes Lord Byron's poetry. He 
writes like a man who has that clear perception of the truth 
of things, which is the result of the gnilly knowledge of good 
and evil ; and who, by the light of that knowledge, has delib- 
erately preferred the evil, with a proud malignity of purpose 
which would seem to leave little for the last consummating 
change to accomplish. When he calculates that the reader is 
on the verge of pitying him, he takes care to throw him back the 
defiance of laughter, as if to let him know that all the Poet's 
pathos is but the sentimentalism of the drunkard between his 
cups, or the relenting softness of the courtesan, who the next 
moment resumes the bad boldness of her degraded character. 
With such a man, who would wish to laugh or to weep 1 And 
yet, who that reads him can refrain alternately from either 1" 

Another now silent oracle was 

XV. THE BRITISH CRITIC. 

" A satire was announced, in terras so happily mysterious, 
as to set the town on the very tiptoe of expectation. A thou- 
sand low and portentous murmurs preceded its birth. At one 
time it was declared to be so intolerably severe, that an alarm 
ing increase was to be apprehended in the catalogue of our 
national suicides ; at another, it was stated to be of a com- 
plexion so blasphemous, as, even in these days of liberality, to 
endanger the personal security of the bookseller. Fearfnl in- 
deed was the prodigy — a book without a bookseller — an adver- 
tisement without an advertiser — ' a deed without a name.' Af- 
ter all this portentous parturition, out creeps Don Juan, — and, 
doubtless, much to the general disappointment of the town, as 
innocent of satire as any other Don in the Spanish dominions. 
If, then, it be not a satire — what is it? A more perplexing ques- 
tion could not be put to the critical squad. Of the four hun- 
dred and odd stanzas which the two Cantos contain, not a tit- 
lie could, even in the utmost latitude of interpretation, be dig- 
nified by the name of poetr)'. It has not wit enough to be 
comic ; it has not spirit enough to be lyric ; nor is it didactic 
of any thing but mischief. The versification and morality are 
about upona par ; as far, therefore, as we are enabled to give 
it any character at all, we should pronounce it a narrative of 
degrading debauchery in doggerel rhyme. The style which the 
noble Lord has adopted is' tedioirs and wearisome to a most 
insuflerable degree. Don Juan is no burlesque, nor mock 
heroic: it consists of the common adventures of a common 
man, ill-conceived, tediously told, and poorly illustrated. In 
the present thick and heavy quarto, containing upwards of 
four hundred doggerel stanzas, there are not a dozen places that, 
even in the merriest mood, could-raise a smile. It is true that 
we may be very ddll dogs, and as little able to comprehend 
the wit of his lordship, as to construe his poetry." 

We now arrive at two authorities to which, on thLj 
occasion, uncommon attention is due, inasmuch a& 
their castigations of Don Juan wero considered worthy 
of very elaborate comment and reclamation on the 
part of Lord Byron himself. Of these, the first is 
that famous Article in the no otherwise famous work, 
since defunct, styled " The British Review " or, ia 
the phrase of Don Juan — 



DON JUAN. 



591 



XVr. " MY GRANDMOTHER'S REVIEW, THE BRITISH." 

"Of a poem so flagitious, that no bookseller has been wil- 
ling to take upon himself the publication, though most of them 
disgrace themselves by selling it. what can the critic say? His 
praise or censure ought to found itself on examples produced 
from the work itself. For praise, as far as regards the poetry, 
many passages might be exhibited; for condenmation, as far 
as regards the morality, all : but none for either purpose can 
be produced, without insult to the ear of decency, and vexa- 
tion to the heart that feels for domestic or national happiness. 
This poem is sold in the shops as the work of Lord Byron ; 
but the name of neither author nor bookseller is on the title- 
page: we are, therefore, at liL)erty to suppose it not to be Lord 
Byron's composition ; and this skepticism has something to 
justify it, in the instance which has lately occurred of the 
name of that nobleman having been borrowed for a tale of dis- 
gusting horror, published under the title of ' Tlie Vampire.' 
But the strongest argument against the supposition of its being 
the performance of Lord Byron is this ; — that it can hardly be 
possible for an English nobleman, even in Ms mirth, to send 
forth to the public the direct and palpable falsehood contained 
in the 209th and 210th stanzas of the first Canto. 

' For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British. 

I sent it in a letter to the editor, 
Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her. 
Denying the receipt of what it cost, 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 

All I can say is — that he had the money.' 

No misdameanor — not even that of sending into the world ob- 
scene and blasjihemous poetry, the product of studious lewd- 
ness and labored impiety — appears to us in so detestable a light 
as the acceptance of a present by an editcT of a Review, as 
the condition of praising an author; and yet the miserable 
man, (for miserable he is, as having a soul of which he cannot 
get rid,) who has given birth to this pestilent poem, has not 
scrupled to lay this to the charge of ' The British Review ;' 
and that, not by insinuation, but has actually stated himself 
to have sent money in a letter to the Editor of this journal, 
who acknowledged the receipt of the same by a letter in re- 
turn, with thanks. No peer of the British realm can surely be 
capable of so calumnious a falsehood, refuted, we trust, by the 
very character and spirit of the journal so defamed. We are 
compelled, therefore, to conclude that this poem cannot be 
Lord Byron's production : and we, of course, expect that Lord 
Byron will, with all gentlemanly haste, disclaim a work im- 
puted to him, containing a calunuiy so wholly the product of 
malignant invention. 

" If somebody personating the editor of the British Review 
lias received money from Lord Byron, or from any other per- 
son, by way of bribe to praise his compositions, the fraud might 
be traced by the production of the letter which the author 
states himself to have received in return. Surely, then, if the 
author of this poem has any such letter, he will produce it for 
this purpose. But lest it should be said that we have not in 
positive terms denied the charge, we do utterly deny that there 
is one word of truth, or the semblance of truth, as far as re- 
gards this Review or its Editor, in the assertions made in the 
stanzas above referred to. We really feel a sense of degrada- 
tion, as the idea of this odious imputation passes througli our 
minds. 

" We have heard, that the author of the poem under con- 
sideration designed what he has said in the 35th stanza as a 
sketch of his own character : — 

' Yet Jose was an honorable man 

That I must say, who knew him very well.' 

If, then, he is this honorable man, we shall not call in vain 
for an act of juslxe at his hands, in declaring that he did not 
mean his word to be taken, when, for the sake of a jest, (our 
readers will judge how far such a mode of jesting is defensible,) 
he stated, with the particularity which belongs to fact, the 
forgery of a groundless fiction." [No. xvm. 1819.] 

The foregoing vindication of the Editor of the Brit- 
isli Review (Mr. Roberts) called forth from Lord Byron 
that " Letter to the Editor of my Grandmother's 
Rev.sw," which the reader will find in the present 
volurr.3. We ne.xt solicit attention to the following 
passages from the redoubted orgaii of Northern Tory- 
ism, — 



1 [See Appendix : Don Juan, Note A.] 



XV IL BLACKWOOD. 

"In the composition of this work there is unquestionably a 
more thorough and intense infusiort of genius and vice — power 
and profligacy — than in any poem which had ever before been 
written in the English or, indeed, in any other modern language. 
Had the wickedness been less inextricably mingled with the 
beauty, and the grace, and the strength of a most inimitable and 
incomprehensible muse, our task would have been easy. Don 
Juan is by far the most admirable specimen of the mixture of 
ease, strength, gayety, and seriousness extant in the whole 
body of English poetry: the author has devoted his powers to 
the worst of purposes and passions ; and it increases his guilt 
and our sorrow, that he has devoted them entire. 

"The moral strain of the whole poem is pitched in the low 
est key. Love — honor — patriotism — religion, are mentis fled 
only to be scotfed at, as if their sole resting-place were, or ought 
to be, in the bosoms of fools. It appears, in short, as if this 
miserable man, having exhausted every species of sensual grat- 
ification — having drained the cup of sin even to its bitterest 
dregs — were resolved to show us that he is no longer a human 
being, even in his frailties; but a cool unconcerned fiend, laugh- 
ing with a detestable glee over the whole of the better and 
worse elements of which human life is composed — treating 
well-nigh with equal derision the most pure of virtues, and the 
most odious of vces — dead alike to the beauty of the one, and 
the deformity of the other— a mere heartless despiser of that 
frail but noble humanity, whose type was never exhibited in a 
shape of more deplorable degradation than in his own con- 
temptuously distinct delineation of himself To confess to his 
Maker, and weep over in secret agonies, the wildest and most 
fantastic transgressions of heart and mind, is the part of a con- 
scious sinner, in whom sin has not become the sole principle 
of life and action. But, to lay bare to the eye of man — and of 
woman — all the hidden convulsions of a wicKed spirit — and to 
do all this without one symptom of contrition, remorse, or hesi- 
tation, with a calm, careless ferociousness of contented and 
satisfied depravity — this was an insult which no man of genius 
had ever before dared to put upon his Creator or his species, 
impiously railing against his God — madly and meanly disloyal 
to his Sovereign and his country, — and brutally outraging all the 
best feelings of female honor, affection, and confidence, — how 
small a part of chivalry is that which remains to the descend- 
ant of the Byrons — a gloomy visor and a deadly weapon ! 

" Those who are acquainted (as who is not 7) with the main 
incidents in the private life of Lord Byron — and who have not 
se€n this production, will scarcely believe that malignity should 
have carried him so far, as to make him commence a filthy and 
impious poem with an elaborate satire on the character and 
manners of his wife — from whom, even by his own confession, 
he has been separated only in consequence of his own cruel 
and heartless misconduct. It is in vain for Lord Byron to at- 
tempt in any way to justify his own behavior in that affair ; 
and, now that he has so openly and audaciously invited inquiry 
and reproach, we do not see any good reason why he should 
not be plainly told so by the general voice of his countrymen. 
It would not be an easy matter to persuade any Man, who has 
any knowledge of the nature of Woman, that a female such as 
Lord Byron has himself described his wife to be, would rashly, 
or hastily, or lightly, separate herself from the love with which 
she had once been inspired for such a man as he is, or was. 
Had he not heaped insult upon insult, and scorn upon scorn — 
had he not forced the iron of his contempt into her very soul — 
there is no woman of delicacy and virtue, as he admitted Lady 
Byron to be, who would not have hoped all things and suffered 
all things from one, her love of whom must have been in- 
woven with so many exalting elements of delicious pride, and 
more delicious humility. To oftend the love of such a woman 
was wrong — but it might be forgiven ; to desert her was un- 
manly — but he might have returned, and wiped forever from 
her eyes the tears of her desertion ; — but to injure, and to de- 
sert, and then to turn back and wound her widowed privacy 
with unhallowed strains of cold-blooded mockery — was brutal 
ly, fiendishly, inexpiably mean. For impurities there might be 
some possibility of pardon, were they supposed to spring only 
from the reckless buoyancy of young blood and fiery passions ; 
— for impiety there might at least be pity, were it visible that 
the misery of the impious soul equalled its darkness ; — but for 
oti'ences such as this, which cannot proceed either from the 
madness of sudden impulse, or the bewildered agonies of doubt 
— but which speak the wilful and determined spite of an unre- 
penting, unsoflened, smiling, sarcastic, joyous sinner — there can 
be neither pity nor pardon. Our knowledge that it is cojiimit- 
ted by one of the most powerful intellects our island ever has 
produced, lends intensity a thousand fold to the bitterness of 
our indignation. Every high thought that was ever kimlled in 
our breasts by the muse of Byron — every pure and lofty feeling 
that ever responded from within us to the sweep of his majes- 
tic inspirations — every renieudjcred moment of admiration and 
enthusiasm, is up in arms against him. We look back with a 
mixture of wrath and scorn to the delight with which we suf- 
fered ourselves to be filled by one who, all the while he was 



592 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



furnishing us with delight, must, we cannot doubt it, have been 
mocking lis with a cruel mockery — less cruel only, because less 
peculiar, than that with wjiich he has now turned him from 
the lurking-place of his selfish and polluted exile, to pour the 
pitiful chalice of his contumely on the surrendered devotion 
of a virgin-bosom, and the holy hopes of the mother of his 
child. It is indeed a sad and an humiliating thing to know, 
that in the same year there proceeded from the same pen two 
productions, in all things so different, as the Fourth Canto of 
Childe Harold and this loathsome Don Juan. 

" We have mentioned one, and, all will admit, the worst in- 
stance of the private malignity which has been embodied in so 
many passages of Don Juan : and we are quite sure the lofty- 
minded and virtuous men whom Lord Byron has debased him- 
self by insulting, will close the volume which contains their 
own injuries, with no feelings save those of pity for him that 
has inflicted them, and for her who partakes so largely in the 
same injuries." (Aug. 1819.) 

The " Remarks uion an Article in Blackwood's 
Magazine," — which Lord Byron wrote on peritsing 
the above-quotsd passages, and which were printed at 
the time, but on consideration suppressed, — are now, 
for the first time, published in the present vohtme.' 

As a pleasing relief, in the midst of these prose 
criticisms, wo present an extract from " Common 
Sense, a Poem," published in 1819, by a gentleman, 
we are informed, of eminent respectability, the Rev. 
Mr. Terrot, of Cambridge. 

XVIII. TERROT. 

"Alas, for Byron ! — Satire's self must own 
His song has something of a lofty tone : 
But 'tis an empty sound. If vice be low, 
Hateful and mean, then Byron's verse is so. 
Not all his genius saves him from the curse 
Of plunging deeper still from bad to worse; 
With frantic speed, he runs the road to ruin, 
And damns his name forever by ' Don Juan.' 
He wants variety ; nor does his plan 
Admit the idea of an honest man : 
One character alone can he afford 
To Harold, Conrad, Lara, or my Lord 
Each half a madman, mischievous and sour. 
Supremely wretched each, and each a Giaour. 
Some fumigate my lord with praises sweet, 
Some lick the very dust beneath his feet. 
Jeffrey, with Christian charity so meek. 
Kisses the hand that smote him on the cheek. 
Giffbrd's retainers, Tory, Pittite, Rat, 
All join to soothe the surly Democrat. 
•I, too, admire — but not through thick and thin, 
Nor think him such a bard as ne'er hath been." 

Let us indulge our readers, before wo return to the 
realms of prose, with another wreath from the myrtles 
of Parnassus, — ?'. e. with an extract from an " Expos- 
tulatory Epistle to Lord Byron" — 

"By Cottle — not he whom the Alfred made famous; 
But Joseph of Bristol, the brother of Amos."2 

XIX. COTTLE. 

" Is there a man, how fallen ! still to fall ! 
Who bears a dark precedency o'er all, 
Rejected by the land which gave him birth. 
And wandering now an outcast o'er the earth, 
On every virtuous door engraven ' hence !' 
Whose very breath is plague and pestilence ; 
A son, dismember'd, and to aliens thrown, 
Corrupting other climes — but first his own *? 
One such there is! whom sires unborn will curse, 
Hasting with giant stride from bad to worse. 
Seeking untired to gain the sensual's smile, 
A pander for the profligate and vile ; 
His head rich fraught (like some bazaar's sly stall) 
With lecherous lays, that come at every call. 
There is a man, usurping lordly sway, 
Aiming alone to hold a world at bay ; 
Who, mean as daring, arrogant as vain, 
Like chaff regards opinion with disdain. 
As if the privilege with him were found 
The laws to spurn by which mankind are bound, 
As if the arm which drags a despot down 
Must palsied fall before a Byron's frown !" 



1 [See Appendix : Don Juan, Note B.] 

2 [See ante, p. 437. 



The " Testimonies" hitherto quoted refer to the 
earlier — most of them to the first two — Cantos of 
Don Juan. We now pass to critical observations on 
the Poem as a whole ; some introduced in periodical 
works of the time, others froin separate tracts. Let 
us begin with the more measured language of Black- 
wood, in 1825 — when Lord Byron was no more. 

XX. BLACKWOOD,— Uerum. 

"We shall, like all others Who say any thing about Lord 
Byron, begin, sa?is apulogie, with his personal character. This 
is the great object of attack, the constant theme of open vi- 
tuperation to one set, and the established mark for all the petty 
but deadly aitiUery of sneers, shrugs, groans, to another. Two 
widely different matters, however, are generally, we might say 
iiniversally, mixed up here — the personal character of the man, 
as proved by his course of life, and his personal character as 
revealed in, or guessed from, his books. Nothing can be more 
unfair than the style in which this mixture is made use of Is 
there a noble sentiment, a lofty thought, a sublime conception, 
in the book 7—' Ah, yes,' is the answer. ' But what of that ? It 
is only the roue Byron that speaks !' Is a kind, a generous action 
of the man mentioned? 'Yes, yes,' comments the sage, 'but 
only remember the atrocities of Don Juan ; depend on it, this, 
if it be true, must have been a mere freak of caprice, or perhaps 
a bit of vile hypocrisy.' Salvation is thus shut out at either 
entrance : the jioet damns the man, and the man the poet. 

"Nobody will suspect us of being so absurd, as to suppose 
that it is possible for people to draw no inferences as to the 
character of an author from his book, or to shut entirely out of 
view, in judging of a book, that which they may happen to know 
about the man who writes it. The cant of the day supposes 
such things to be practicable, but they are not. But what we 
complain of, and scorn, is the extent to which they are carried 
in the case of this particular individual, as compared with 
others ; the impudence with which things are at once assumed 
to be facts in regard to his private history, and the absolute un- 
fairness of never arguing from his writings to him — but for evil. 

"Take the man, in the first place, as unconnected, in so far 
as we can thus consider him, with his works ; — and ask, what, 
after all, are the bad things we know of him? Was he dishon- 
est or dishonorable ? — had he ever Oone any thing to forfeit, or 
even endanger, his rank as a gentleman 1 Most assuredly no 
such accusations have ever been maintained against Lord 
Byron, the private nobleman — although something of the sort 
may have been insinuated against the author. ' But, he was 
such a profligate in his morals, that his name cannot be men- 
tioned with any thing like tolerance.' Was he so, indeed 1 We 
should like extremely to have the catechizing of the individual 
vian who says so ? That he indulged in sensual vices to some 
extent is certain — and to be regretted and condemned. But, 
was he worse, as to such matters, than the enormous majority 
of those who join in the cry of horror upon this occasion I We 
most assuredly believe exactly the reverse ; and we rest our 
belief upon very plain and intelligible grounds. First, we hold 
it impossible that the majority of mankind, or that any thing 
beyond a very small minority, are or can be entitled to talk of 
sensual profligacy as having formed a part of the life and 
character of the man who, dying at six-and-thirty, bequeathed 
a collection of works such as Byron's to the world. Secondly, 
we hold it impossible that, laying the extent of his intellectual 
labors out of the question, and looking only to the nature of 
the intellect which generated, and delighted in generating, 
such beautiful and noble conceptions as are to be found in al- 
most all Lord Byron's works — we hold it impossible that very 
many men can be at once capaole of comprehending these 
conceptions, and entitled to consider sensual profligacy as 
having formed the principal, or even a principal, trait in 
Lord Byron's character. Thirdly, and lastly, we have never 
been able to hear any one fact established, which could prove 
Lord Byron to deserve any thing like the degree, or even kind 
of odium which has, in regard to matters of this class, been 
heaped upon his name. We have no story of base unmanly 
seduction, or false and villanous intrigue, against him — 
none whatever. It seems to us quite clear, that, if he had 
been at all what is called in society an unprincipled sensual- 
ist, there must have been many such stories — authentic and 
authenticated. But there are none such — absolutely none. 
His name has been coupled with the names of three, four, 
or more women of some rank ; but what kind of women? — 
every one of them, in the first place, about as old as himself 
in years, and therefore a great deal older in character — every 
one of them utterly battered in reputation long before he camo 
into contact with them — licentious, unprincipled, character- 
less women. What father h:is ever reproached him with tho 
ruin of his daugl Ier7 What husband has denounced him as 
the destroyer of iiis peace ? 

" Let us not be mistaken. We are not defending the offences 
of whicli Lord Byron tinfiuestionably was guilty: neither 



DON JUAN. 



593 



BTC we finding fau)t with those who, after looking honestly 
within and around themselves, condemn those oti'ences— no 
matter how severely. But we are spealiing of society in gen- 
er;il, as it now exists ; and we say that there is vile hypocrisy 
in the tone in which Lord Byron is talked of there. We say 
that, although all otTences against purity of life are miserable 
things and cOndeninable things, the degrees of gnilt attached 
to (lillerent oftences of this class are as widely ditferent as are 
the degrees of guilt between an assault and a murder ; and we 
confess our belief, "hat no man of Byron's station and age 
could have run much risk of gaining a very bad name in so- 
ciety, had a course of life similar (in ^o far a" we knew any 
thing of that) to Lord Byron's been the only thing chargeable 
against him. 

"The last poem he wrote (see ante, p. .587) was prndcied 
upon his birthday, not many weeks before he died. We cou 
siller it as one of the finest and most touching efiusions of his 
noble genius. We think he who reads it, and can ever after 
bring himself to regard even the worst transgressions that 
have been charged against Lord Byron with any feelings but 
those of humble sorrow and manly pity, is not deserving of 
the name of man. The deep and passionate struggles with 
the inferior elements of his nature (and ours) which it re- 
cords—the lofty thirsting after purity— the heroic devotion 
of a soul half weary of life, because unable to believe in its 
own powers to live up to what it so intensely felt to be, and 
so reverentially honored as, the right — the whole picture of 
this mighty spirit, often darkened, but never sunk, often erring, 
but never ceasing to see and to worship the beauty of virtue 
— the repentance of it, the anguish, the aspiration, almost 
stifled in despair— the whole of this is such a whole, that 
we are sure that no man can read these solemn verses too 
often, and we recommend them for repetition, as the best 
and most conclusive of all possible answers, whenever the 
name of Byron is insulted by those who permit themselves 
to forget nothing, either in his life or his writings, but tlie 
good." 

The present Lord x\.dvocate of Scotland tlius grate- 
fully admonished the yet livina; author of Don Juan, ia 
the LXXIId Number of the Ediuburgh Review. 

XXT. JEFFREY. 

"Lord Byron complains bitterly of the detraction by which 
he has been assailed — and intimates that his works have been 
received by the public with far less cordiality and favor than 
he was entitled to expect. We are constrained to say that 
this appears to us a very extraordinary mistake. In the 
whole course of our experience, we cannot recollect a single 
author who has had so little reason to complain of his recep- 
tion — to whose genius the public has been so early and so 
constantly just — to whose faults they have been so long and 
so signally indulgent. From the very first he must have been 
aware that ho offended the principles and shocked the pre- 
judices of the majority, by his sentiments, as much as he 
delighted them by his talents. Yet there never was an au- 
thor so universally and warmly applauded, so gently admon- 
ished — so kindly entreated to look more heedfully to his 
opinions. He took the praise, as usual, and rejected the 
advice. As he grew in fame and authority, he aggravated all 
his offences — clung more fondly to all he had been reproached 
with — and only took leave of Childe Harold to ally himself 
to Don Juan 1 That he has since been talked of, in public 
and in private, with less unmingled admiration — that his 
nijie is now mentioned as often for censure as for praise — 
and the ; the exultation with which his countrymen once 
hailed tne greatest of our living poets, is now alloyed by the 
recollection of the tendency of his writings — is matter of 
notoriety to all the world ; btit matter of surprise, we should 
imagine, to nobody but Lord Byron himself. 

" That the base and the bigoted — those whom he has 
darkened by his glory, spited by his talent, or mortified by 
his neglect — have taken advantage of the prevailing disaffec- 
tion, to vent their puny malice in silly nicknames and vulgar 
scurrility, is niilural and true. But Lord Byron may depend 
upon it, that the dissatisfaction is not confined to them, — 
and, indeed, that they would never have had the courage to 
assail one so immeasurably their superior, if he had not at 
once made himself vulnerable by his errors, and alienated his 
natural defenders by his obstinate adherence to them. We 
are not bigots, nor rival poets. We have not been detractors 
from Lord Byron's fame, nor the friends of his detractors ; 
and wc tell him — fiir more in sorrow than in anger— that 
we verily believe the great hody of the English nation — the 
religious, the moral, and the candid part of it — consider the 
tendency of his writings to be immoral and pernicious — and 
look upon his perseverance in that strain of composition with 
regret and reprehension. We ourselves are not easily startled, 
either by levity of temper, or boldness, or even rashness of re- 
mark ; we are, moreover, most sincere admirers of Lord Byron's 
genius, and have always felt a pride and an interest in his fame : 



75 



but we cannot dissent from the censure to which we have al- 
luded ; and shall endeavor to explain, in as few and as temperate 
words as possible, the grounds upon which we rest our con- 
currence. 

" He has no priestlike cant or priestlike reviling to apprehend 
from us. We do not charge him with being either a disciple or 
an apostle of Satan ; nor do we describe his poeliy as a mere 
compound of blasphemy and obscenity. On the contrary, we 
are inclined to believe that he wishes well to the happiness of 
mankind — and are glad to testify, that his poems abound with 
sentiments of great dignity and tenderness, as well as passages 
of JTfinile sublimity and beauty. But their general tendency 
we believe to be in the highest degree pernicious ; and we even 
think that it is chiefly by means of the fine and lofty sentiments 
they contain, that they acquire their most fatal power of cor- 
ruption. This may sound at first, perhaps, like a paradox ; but 
we are mistaken if we shall not make it intelligible enough in 
the end. 

"We think there are indecencies and indelicacies, seduc- 
tive descriptions and profligate representations, which are 
extremely reprehensible ; and also audacious speculations, 
and erroneous and uncharitable assertions, equally indefensi- 
ble. But if these had stood alone, and if the whole body of 
his works had been made up of gaudy ribaldry and flashy 
skepticism, the mischief, we think, would have been much less 
than it is. lie is not more obscene, perhaps, than Dryden or 
Prior, and other classical and pardoned writers; nor is there 
any passage in the history even of Don Juan so degrading 
as Tom Jones's affair with Lady Bellaston. It is no doubt a 
wretched apology for the indecencies of a man of genius, that 
equal indecencies have been forgiven to his predecessors: 
but the precedent of lenity might have been followed; and 
we might have passed both the levity and the voluptuousness 
— the dangerous warmth of his romantic situations, and the 
scandal of his cold-blooded dissipation. It might not have 
been so easy to get over his dogmatic skepticism — his hard- 
hearted maxims of misanthropy — his cold-blooded and eager 
expositions of the non-existence of virtue and honor. Even 
this, however, might have been comparatively harmless, if it 
had not been accompanied by that which may look, at first 
sight, as a palliation — the frequent presentment of the most 
touching pictures of tenderness, generosity, and faith. 

"The charge we bring against Lord Byron in short is, that 
his writings have a tendency to destroy all belief in the reality 
of virtue — and to make all enthusiasm and constancy of affec- 
tion ridiculous; and that this is effected, not merely by direct 
maxims and examples, of an imposing or seducinc kind, but by 
theconstant exhibition of the most profligate heartlessness in the 
persons of those who had been transiently represented as actuated 
by the purest and most exalted emotions — and in the lessons of 
that very teacher who had been, but a moment before, so beauti- 
fully pathetic in the expression of the loftiest conceptions. 

" This is the charge which we bring against Lord Byron. We 
say that, under some strange misapprehension as to the truth, 
and the duty of proclaiming it, he has exerted all the powers 
of his powerful mind to convince his readers, both directly and 
indirectly, that all ennobling pursuits, and disinterested virtues, 
are mere deceitsorillusions— hollow and despicable mockeries 
for the most part, and, at best, but laborious follies. Love, 
patriotism, valor, devotion, constancy, ambition — all are to bo 
laughed at, disbelieved in, and despised \ — and nothir.g is really 
good, so far as we can gather, but a succession of dangers to stir 
the blood, and of banquets and intrigues to soothe it again ! If 
this doctrine stood alone, with its examples, it would revolt, we 
believe, more than it would seduce : — but the author of it has the 
unlucky gift of personating all those sweet and lofty illusions, 
and that with such grace and force and truth to nature, that it 
is impossible not to suppose, for the time, that he is among the 
most devoted of their votaries — till he casts oft' the character 
with a jerk — and, the moment after he has moved and exalted 
us to the very height of our conception, resumes his njockery 
at all things serious or sublime— and lets us down at once on 
some coarse joke, hard-hearted sarcasm, or fierce and relentless 
personality, as if on purpose to show — ' Whoe'er was edified, 
himself was not' — or to demonstrate practically as It were, and 
by example, how possible it is to have all fine and noble feelings, 
or their appearance, for a moment, and yet retain no particle of 
-respect for them— or of belief in their intrinsic worth or per- 
manent reality." 

The next Author we must cite, is the late industrious 
Dr. John Watkins, well known for his " Biographical 
Dictionary," his " Life of the Right Honorable Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan," &c. — styled ignominiously by Lord 
Byron " Old Grobius." 

XXII. WATKINS 
"Of this Odyssey of immorality, there cannot be two opin- 
ions; for, let the religious sentiments of thf reader be as lax 
as possible, he must be shocked at the bareftted licentiousness 



594 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



of the poem. Maniage is of course reprobated, and all the laws 
of social life are set at open defiance as violations of natural 
liberty. Lord Byron is the very Comus of poetry, who, hy the 
bewitching airiness of his numbers, aims to turn the whole 
moral world into a herd of monsters. It must, however, be 
allowed that in this tale, he has not acted the wily part, of con- 
cealing the poison under the appearance of virtue ; on the con- 
trary, he makes a frank confession of his principles, and glories 
in vice with the unblushing temerity of a rampant satyr who 
acknowledges no rule but appetite. The mischief of the work 
is rendered doubly so by the attractive gayety of the language, 
the lu.xuriance of the imagery, and the humorous digressions 
with which the story is embellished and checkered." 

Another great moralist — practically we believe, a 
most eminent one — is the 5iext on our : utalogne ; name- 
ly, the late Rev. Caleb Colton, the author of " Lacon ; 
or, Many Things in Few Words," (or, as Lord Byron, 
somewhere, was wicked enough to misquote it — " Few 
Things in Many Words,") in his " Remarks on the 
Tendencies of Don Juan," published in 1822. 

XXIII. COLTON 
" The impurity of Rochester is too disgusting to do harm ; the 
morality of Pope is too neutralized to do good: but the muse 
of Byron has mixed her poison viith the hand of an adept; it 
is proffered in a goblet of crystal and of gold ; it will please the 
palate, remain on the stomach, and circulate through the veins. 
There are persons who think that some of the objectionable 
parts of Don Juan are reclaimed by others that are both beau- 
tiful and faultless But, alas ! the poison is general, the anti- 
dote particular; the ribaldry and obscenity \v\\\ be understood 
by the many ; the profundity and the sublimity only by the few. 
We live in an age when orators are trying how much treason 
they may talk without being hanged, poets hovv^ much non- 
sense they may write without being neglected, and libertines 
how much licentiousness they may venture upon without being 
execrated and despised. We consider Don Juan to be a bold 
experiment, made by a daring and determined hand, on the 
moral patience of the public. It is most melancholy to reflect 
that a man of Lord Byron's stupendous powers should lend 
himself to such unworthy purposes as these ; led thereto by the 
grovelling gratification of dazzling the foid, or encouraging the 
knave; of supporting the weakest sophistry by the strongest 
genius, and the darkest wickedness by the brightest wit. He ap- 
plies, alas, the beams of his mighty mind, not to comfort, but to 
censure us, and, like Nero, gives us nothing but a little harmony 
to console us for the conflagration he has caused. I shall sum 
up my opinion of Don Juan In the words of Scalige-r on a poem 
of Cardinal Bembns :^//oc ;)oeOTa vocare possis aut obscanissi- 
mam elegantiam, aut elegantissimam obsccenitatem.' " 

We now introduce the Poet's ever kind and grateful 
friend, Mr. Leigh Hunt, in his work entitled " Lord 
Byron and some of his Contemporaries," concerning 
which consult Thomas Moore, Esq., apud The Times 
— or ante, p. 535. 

XXIV. HUNT 

" Speaking of Pon Juan, I will here observe, that Lord Byron 
had no plan with regard to that poem. His hero in this work 
was a picture of the better part of his own nature. When the 
author speaks in his own person, he is endeavoring to bully 
himselt into a satisfaction with the worse, and courting the 
eulogies of the 'knowing.' His jealousy of Wordsworth and 
others who were not town poets was not more creditable to 
him. He pretended to think worse of them than he did. He 
had the modesty one day to bring me a stanza, intended for 
Don Juan, in which he had sneered at them all, adding, that 
nobody Imt myself thought highly of them. He fiincied I should 
put up with this, for the sake of being mentioned in the poem ; 
an absurdity which nothing but his own vanity had suggest- 
ed. I told him I should consider the introduction of such a 
stanza an artVont, and that he had better not put it in. I am 
sorry I did not let it go ; for it would have done me honor with 
posterity." 

Another historical evidence is that of Mr. — or 
Captaiia — 

XXV. MEDWIN. 

"People are always advising me," said Byron, (at Pisa, in 
October, 1821,) " to v-rite an epic. If you must have an 
epic, there's 'Don Juan' for you. I call that an epic; it is 
an epic as much in the spirit of our day as the Iliad v/as in 
that of Homer. Love, religion, and politics form the ar- 
gument, and are as much the cause of quarrels now as they 
were then. There is no want of Parises and Menelauses, 
nor of criiu cons, into the bargain. In the very first canto you 



have a Helen. Then, I shall make my hero a perfect Achilles 
for fighting,— a man who can snuflT a candle three successive 
times with a pistol-ball: and, depend upon it, my moral 
will be a good /one : not even Dr. Johnson should be able I 
to find a flaw in it. I will make him neither a dandy in I 
town, nor a fox-hunter in 'lie country. He shall get into all 
sorts of scrapes, and at length end his career in France. 
Poor Juan shall be guillotined in the French Revolution ! 
What do you think of my plot? It shall have twenty-four 
books too, the legitimate number. Episodes it has, and will 
have, out of nutnber; and my spirits, good or bad, must serve 
for the machinery. If that be not an epic — if it be not 
strictly according to Aristotle— I don't know wliat an epic 
poem means." 

Returning to mere criticism, we light upon the 
!ate ingenious but eccentric author of " Spirits of 
the Age" — 

XXVI. MR. WILLIAM HAZLITT. 

" Don Juan has, indeed, great power ; but its power is owing 
to the force of the serious writing, and to the oddity of the 
contrast between that and the flashy passages with which it is 
interlarded. From the sublime to the ridiculous there is but 
one step. You laugh and are surprised that any one should 
turn round and travestie himself; the drollery is in the utter 
discontinuity of ideas and feelings. He makes virtue serve 
as a foil to vice ; dandyism is (for want of any other) a variety 
of genius. A classical intoxication is followed by the splash- 
ing of soda water, by frothy efl'usions of ordinary bile. After 
the lightning and the hurricane, we are introduced to the 
interior of the cabin, and the contents of wash-liand basins. 
The solemn hero of tragedy plays Scrub in the farce. This 
is ' very tolerable and not to be endured.' The noble lord is 
almost the only writer who has prostituted his Uilents in this 
way. He hallows in order to desecrate; takes a pleasure in 
defacing the images of beauty his hands have wrought; and 
raises our hopes and our belief in goodness to heaven, only 
to dash them to the earth again, and break them in pieces 
the more effectually from the very height they have fallen. 
Our enthusiasm for genius or virtue is thus turned into a jest 
by the very person who has kindled it, and who thus fatally 
quenches the sparks of both. It is not that Lor<l Byron is 
sometimes serious and sometimes trifling, sometimes profli- 
gate and sometimes moral — but when he is most serious 
and most moral, he is only preparing to mortify the unsus- 
pecting reader by putting a pitiful hoax upon him. This is a 
most unaccountable anomaly. Don Juan has been called a 
Tristram Shandy in rhyme : it is rather a poem about itself." 

We find no " Sir Cosmo Gordon" in any baronetage 
of this age, or even in any list of K.B.'s or K.H.'s ; but 
it stands on the titlepage of a book published in 1825, 
and entitled " The Life and Genius of Lord Byron." 
Take, then, 

XXVII. SIR COSMO GORDON. 

" At Venice, Lord Byron planned that which, had he lived 
to complete it, must have been considered as the most daring 
and the most wonderful of all his works, Don Juan. This 
work was general in its satire, and warm and glowing in its 
coloring ; and though it liad an obvious and important moral, — 
the absurdity of giving to a young man a secluded and monk- 
ish education, in the hope that that would preserve him from 
temptations, — it excited a great deal of clamor, especially 
among those upon whom, in the execution of it, the iiand of 
the poet had been heavy. Tiie Don was the most singular and 
the most original poem that had perhaps ever appeared. It 
was made up of the most cutting and searching satires, mixed 
with dissecliens of the human hsart, and delineations of 
human passi:;r, and frailty, which were drawn both to and 
with the life, and therefore threw all those who dreaded ex- 
posure into the nmst serious alarm. There was much more 
both of politics and of personality in this poem than in any of 
his former ones, and upon this account, the outcry ag:iinst it 
was more loud and general. The stuff' of immortality was, 
however, in the poem, and not a few of those who were 
offended at its appearance will probably find (if indeed they 
shall live as long) their only memorials in it, after all which, 
good or bad, they have done for themselves shall be for- 
gotten." 

The " West" that follows is not Benjamin, the 
President, but a young American brother of the brush, 
who visited Lord Byron in Italy, anno Domini 1822. 
XXVIII. WEST. 

" He showed me tvA'o of the Cantos of Don Juan in manu- 
script. They were written on large sheets of paper, put to- 
gether like a schoolboy's copybook. Here and there I observed 



DON JUAN. 



595 



alterations of words, bnt seldom of whole lines; and just so, 
he fold me, it was written down at once. It was all gin, he 
said, meaning thereby that he drank nothing but gin when he 
wrote it. The Guiccioli was present, and said, ' she wished 
my lord would leave off' writing that ugly Don .luan.' 'I can- 
not give up my Don Juan,' he replied ; ' I do not know what I 
should do without my Don Juan.' " 

From " Lord Byron's Works, viewed in connection 
with Christianity and the ObHgations of Social Life," 
— a sermon preached in Holland Chapel, Kennington, 
by the Rev. John Styles, D. D. — and sold by the Doc- 
tor's pew-openers, we now submit a brief extract. We 
believe Dr. Styles has been familiarized to every read- 
er, by one of the Rev. Sidney Smith's articles in the 
Edinburgh Review. 

XXIX. STYLES. 

" Be assured, my Brethren, it is with sorrowful reluctance I 
feel myself called upon to denounce the greatest genius of the 
age as the greatest enemy of his species. The poem is one in 
which the author has put forth all the energy of his wonder- 
ful faculties; nor has he written any thing more decisively 
and triumphantly expressive of the greatness of his genius. It 
is at once the glory and disgrace of our literature ; and will 
remain to all ages a perpetual monument of the e.valted genius 
and depraved heart of the writer. It is devoted to the worst 
of purposes and passions ; and flows on in one continued stream 
of pollution. Its great design seems to Lc, to shame the good 
out of their virtues, and to inspire the wicked with the pride 
of depravity. If, for a moment, the author appears to forget 
himself, and to suffer his muse to breathe of purity and ten- 
derness — if a touch of humanity, a faint gleam of goodness, 
j awaken our sympathy, he turns upon us with a sneer of con- 
tempt, or laughs our sensibility to scorn. Indeed, throughout, 
we discover the heartless despiser of human nature ; — a de- 
naturalised being, who, having exhausted every species of 
sensual gratification, and drained the cup of sin to its bitterest 
dregs, is resolved to show that he is no longer human, even in 
his frailties, but a cool, unconcerned fiend, treating, well-nigh 
with equal derision, the most pure of virtues and the most 
odious of vices, dead alike to the beauty of the one and the 
deformity of the other; yet possessing a restless spirit of se- 
duction, — debasing the nobler part of man, that he may more 
surely bring into action his baser appetites and passions. To 
accomplish this, he has lavished all the wiles of his wit, all 
the enchantuients of his genius. In every page the poet is a 
libertine ; and the most unexceptionable passages are mildewed 
with impurity. The cloven foot of the libidinous satyr is mon- 
strously associated with the angel-wing of genius. — 

' I'd rather be the wretch that scrawls 
His idiot nonsense on the walls ; 
Not quite a man, not quite a brute, 
Than I would basely prostitute 
My powers to serve the cause of vice, 
To build some jewell'd edifice 
So fair, so foul, — framed with such art 

"To please the eye and soil the heart. 
That he who has not power to shun, 
Homes, looks, and feels himself undone.' 

O my Brethren ! how I wish that the style of this discourse 
could be less accusatory and severe !" 

The " Letter of Cato to Lord Byron," next to be 
quoted, attracted considerable notice ; and was, we 
know not whether justly or unjustly, ascribed to the 
pen of the Rev. George Croly, D. D., Rector of Rom- 
ford, in Essex — author of " Paris in 1815," a poem — 
" Pride shall have a Fall, a Comedy," — " Catiline, 
a Tragedy," — " Salathiel, a Romance," — " Life of 
George the Fourth," — " Comment on the Apoca- 
lypse," &c. &,c. &c. 

XXX. CATO 

"Whatever your principles, no page of any of your .writings 
has contributed to the security or the adarnment of virtue. 
Have you not offended against decency? and repudiated 
shame 1 Have you not represented almost every womnn as a 
harlot ■? How your fame wul stand with posterity, it would be 
idle to speculate upon. It is not improbable that something 
like the doubt which crossed the mind jf the senate, whether 
they should pronounce their deceased emperor a tyrant or a 
god, 4vill perplex the judgment of succeeding generations as to 
the credit and character of your poetry. They will hardly 
kuow .f they shall deify or desecrate a genius so majestic, de- 



grading itself by subjects and sentiments so repulsive. With 
an insane partiality, we are undervaluing our standard writers, 
and placing licentious drivellers in their room. The Shaks- 
peares and Wiltons of better days are superseded by the Byrons 
and Shelleys, the Hunts and Moores of our own : but let us 
hope that the garbage which the present generation luxuriates 
upon, posterity will nauseate and cast upon the dunghill. 
With such a teacher as you have shown yourself, how is it 
possible for the disciples of your school to be any other than 
most vicious beings'! He who brutalizes every feeling that 
gives dignity to social, every principle that imparts comfort to 
domestic life — he who represents all chastity as visionary, and 
all virtue as vile, is not entitled to be considered as a man— he 
is a living literary monster." 

The ensuing paragraphs are from a writer who af- 
fixes to his lucubration the initials W. C — ; but with 
whose full name and suriiame we have, after much 
diligence, failed to make ourselves acquainted. 

XXXI. ANON. 

"It is to Don Juan the last of Lord Byron's productions, 
that he will owe his i:nmortality. It is his only work which 
excels by its allurement and delight; by its power of attract- 
ing and detaining attention. It keeps the mind in pleasing 
captivity; it is perused with eagerness, and, in hopes of new 
pleasure, is perused again. The wild and daring sallies of 
sentiment with which it abounds, the irregular and eccentric 
violence of wit which pervades every canto, excite at once 
astonishment and enthusiasm. The original humor, the pecu- 
liarity of expression, the incidents, the circumstances, the sur- 
prises, the jests of action and of thought, the shades of light 
and darkness so exquisitely intermingled, impart a peculiarity 
of character to the work, which places it above all modern, 
above all ancient fiinie. Indeed, if we except the sixteen 
satires of Juvenal, there is nothing in antiquity so bitter or so 
decisive as the sixteen cantos of Don Juan. The Roman 
satirist exhibits a mixture of dignity and aversion, of hatred 
and invective ; the English censor displays a contempt of the 
various relations of society, of the hyprjcrisies, the tunuills, 
and the agitations of lile. Juvenal disdains to wield the 
feeble weapon of ridicule — Byron delights to mix seriousness 
with merriment, and thoughts purely jnciiUir with sentiments 
of exasperation and revenge. JuMn.il is never pathetic — 
Byron, when he arrives at this specii^ df cxcrllence, destroys 
its effect by effusions of ridicule or insensibility. Both poets, 
however, exhibit the same ebullitions of resentment against 
the miserable victims which they sacrifice to their fury — the 
same scorn for mankind — and the same vehemence in depict- 
ing their crimes, passions, and follies. Both attack existing 
villany, strike at corruption and profligacy, and trample upon 
the turpitude and baseness of high life. Both are grave, in- 
trepid, and implacable. If at any time they relax the stern- 
ness of their manner, they never forget themselves. They 
sometimes smile, indeed, but their smile is more terrible than 
their frown: it is never excited but when their indignation is 
mingled with contempt. — Don Juan will be read as long as 
satire, wit, mirth, aiul supreme excellence shall be esteemed 
among men : it will continue to enchain every affection and 
emotion of the mind : and every reader, when he arrives at 
its conclusion, will view it with an eye of sorrow, such as the 
traveller casts on departing day." 

Another (or the same) Mr. Anon., in a work, in 
three volumes 8vo, London, 1825, entitled " The Life, 
Writings, Opinions, and Times of Lord Byron," thus 
observes— 

XXXII. ANON. (Second.) 

" All at once the accumulated torrent of obloquy is poured 
forth upon the devoted bead of Lord Byron! Well — he de- 
spised it, and justly he might do so: it will never tarnish a 
leaf of his laurels. Every man who has once read Don Juan, 
if he ingenuously confesses the truth, will feel inclined to pe- 
ruse it again and again. If Byron's works be proscribed on the 
score of want of decency, it will be necessary to sweep off one 
half of English literature at once, as libri expurgati. But 
Byron was a proscribed poet with the puritanical moralists, or 
e.xclusively good men !" 

A third " Anon." meets us in the Author of " Don 
John ; or Don Juan uiiinaskod ; being a Key to the 
mystery attending that remarkable publication'' 

XXXIII. ANON. (Third.) 

' In Don .luan, his lordship's mtise displays al! his chanic 
teristic beauties and blemishes — soaring to the vasCest heights, 



59G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



or creeping to the lowest depths — glancing with an eye of 

fantasy at things past, at things present, and at things to come. 
The poem is constructed, like the image of Nebuchadnezzar's 
dream — of fine gold, silver, and clay. It abounds in sublime 
thought and low humor, in dignified feeling and malignant 
passion, in elegant wit and obsolete conceit. It alternately 
presents us with the gayely of the ball-room, and the gloom of 
the scafibld leading us among the airy pleasantries of fashion- 
able assemblages, and suddenly conducting us to haunts of 
depraved and disgusting sensuality. We have scarcely time to 
be refreshed and soothed by the odors of flowers and bursting 
blossoms, the pensive silence of still waters, and the contem- 
plation of beautiful forms, before we are terrified and horror- 
stricken by the ferocious clamors of tumultuous crowds, and 
the agonies of innocent and expiring victims. This poem 
turns decorum into jest, and bids defiance to the established 
decencies of life. It wars with virtue as resolutely as with 
vice." 

Our next author is a pseudonomous one — the writer 
of a " Letter to Lord Byron, by Jolin Bull," Loudon, 
8vo, 182L This production much excited Lord By- 
ron's curiosity. Li one of his letters to Mr. Murray 
he asks, " Who the devil can have done this diabol- 
ically well-written letter?" and subsequently ho is 
found resting his suspicion (unfoundedly, no doubt) 
on one of his own most intimate personal friends. We 
extract a few paragraphs. 

XXXIV. JOHN BULL. 

" Stick to Don Juan ; it is the only sincere thing you have 
ever written ; and it will live many years after all your Har- 
olds have ceased to be, in your own words, 

'A school-girl's tale — the wonder of an hour.' 

I consider Don Juan as out of all sight the best of your works: 
it Is by far the most spirited, the most straightforward, the 
most interesting, and the most poetical ; and everybody thinks 
as I do of it, although they have not the heart to say so. 
Old Gilford's brow relaxed as he gloated over it; Sir. Croker 
chuckled ; Dr. Whitaker smirked ; Mr. Milman sighed ; Mr. 
Coleridge took it to his bed with him. 

" I think the great charm of its style is, that it is not much 
like the style of any other poem in the world. It is utter 
humbug to say, that it is borrowed from the style of the Italian 
weavers of merry ottava riina : their merriment is nothing, 
because they have nothing but their merriment; yours is 
every thing, because it is delightfully intermingled with, and 
contrasted by all manner of serious things — murder and lust 
included. It is also mere humbug to accuse you of having 
plagiarized it from Mr. Frere's pretty and graceful little 
VVhistlecrafts. The measure, to be sure, is the same ; but 
then the measure is as old as the hills. But the spirit of the 
two poets is as diflerent as can be. Mr. Frere writes elegantly, 
playfully, very like a gentleman, and a scholar, and a respect- 
able man ; and his poems never sold, nor ever will sell. Your 
Don Juan, again, is written strongly, lasciviously, fiercely, 
laughingly, — everybody sees in a moment that nobody co'iJd 
have written it but a man of the first order, both in genius ana 
in dissipation — a real master of all his tools — a profligate, per- 
nicious, irresistible, charming devil ; — and accordingly the Don 
sells, and will sell, to the end of time, whether our good 
friend, Mr. John Blurray, honor it with his imprimatur, or 
doth not so honor it. I wiil .nention a book, however, from 
which I do think you have taken a great many hints ; nay, a 
great many pretty full sketches, for your Juan. It is one 
which (with a few more) one never sees mentioned in re- 
views, because it is a book written on the anti-humbug prin- 
ciple. It is — you know it exceedingly well — it is no othei 
than 'Faublas,' a book which contains as much good fun as 
Gil Bias, or Moliere ; as much good luscious description as 
the Heloise; as much fancy and imnginatior as all the come- 
dies in the English language put together, and less humbug 
than any one given romance that has been written since Don 
(iui.\ote — a book which is to be found on the tables of rou6s, 
and in the desks of divines, and under the pillows of spinsters 
— a book, in a word, which is read universally — I wish I could 
add — in the original. 

" But all this has nothing to do with the charming style of 
Don Juan, which is entirely and inimitably your own— the 
sweet, fiery, rapid, easy — beautifully easy, — anti-humbug style 
of Don Juan. Ten stanzas of it are worth all your Manfred — 
and yet your Manfred is a noble poem, too, in its way. I had 
really no idea what a very clever fellow you were till I read 
Don Juan. In my humble opinion, there is very little in the 
j literature of the present day that will stand the test of half a 
century, e.xcpt the Scotch novels of Sir Walter Scott, and 
Don Juan. They will do so because they are written with 



perfect facility and nature — because their materials aro all 
drawn from life." 

Coming once more to men with names, we present 
this extract from a life of Byron, by the well-knowa 
author of " The Annals of the Parish," " The Pro- 
vost," " The Entail," " Sir Andrew Wylie," " Laurls 
Todd," and " The Member" 

XXXV GALT 

" Strong objections have been made to the moral tendency 
of Don Juan ; but, in the opinion of many, it is Lord Byron's 
masterpiece ; and undoubtedly it displays all the varieties of 
his powers, combined with a quaint playfulness not found to 
an equal degree in any other of his works. The serious and 
pathetic ])ortions are exquisitely beautiful ; the descriptions 
have all the distinctness of the best pictures in Childe Harold, 
and are, moreover, generally drawn from nature ; while the 
satire is for the most part curiously associated and sparklingly 
witty. The characters are sketched with amazing firmness 
and freedom ; and, though sometimes grotesque, are yet not 
often overcharged. It is professedly an epic poem, but it may 
be more properly describejl as a poetical novel. Nor can it be 
said to inculcate any painicular moral, or to do more than un- 
mantle the decorum of society. Bold and buoyant throughout, 
it exhibits a free irreverent knowledge of the world, laughing 
or mocking as the thought serves, in the most unexpected an- 
titheses to the proprieties of lime, place, and circumstance. 
The object of the poem is to describe the progress of a libertine 
through life; not an unprincipled prodigal, whose profligacy, 
growing with his growth and strengthening with his strength, 
passes from voluptuous indulgence into the morbid sensuality 
of systematic debauchery ; but a young gentleman who, whirl- 
ed by the vigor and vivacity of his animal spirits into a world 
of adventures, in which his stars are chiefly in fault for his 
liaisnvs, settles at last into an honorable lawgiver, a moral 
speaker on divorce bills, and possibly a subscriber to the So- 
ciety for the Suppression of Vice." 

Next to Mr. Gait we place the amiable and humane 
Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges, Baronet, of Denton 
and Lee Priory, Kent, author of " Mary Clifford," the 
" Censura Literaria," the " Autobiography of Claver- 
ing," &c. Sec. &LC. 

XXXVI. BRYDGES. 

Don Juan is, no doubt, very licentious in parts, which ren- 
ders it dangerous to praise it very much ; and makes it im- 
proper for those who have not a cool and correct judgment, 
and cannot separate the objectionable parts from the numer- 
ous beautiful passages intermixed. But nowhere is the poet's 
mind more elastic, free, and vigorous, and his knowledge of 
human nature more surprising. It has all sorts of faults, 
many of which cannot be defended, and some of which are 
disgusting; I ut it has, also, almost every sort of poetical 
merit; there are in it some of the finest passages which Lord 
Byron ever wrote; there is amazing knowledge of human 
nature in it ; there is exquisite humor ; there is freedom, 
and bound, and vigor of naiTative, imagery, sentiment, and 
style, which are admirable ; there is a vast fertility of deep, 
extensive, and original thought, and, at the same time, there 
is the profusion of a prompt and most richly-stored mcmor>'. 
The invention is lively and' poetical ; the descriptions are 
brilliant and glowing, yet not over-wrought, but fresh from 
nature, and fiiithful to her colors; and the prevalent charac- 
ter of the whole (bating too many dark spots) not dispiriting, 
though gloomy; not misanthropic, though bitter; and not 
repulsive to the visions of poetical enthusiasm, though in 
dignant and resentful. I know nothovv to wish he had never 
written this poem, in spite of all its faalts and intermingled 
mischief! There are parts of it which are sniong the most 
brilliant proofs of his genius ; and, what is even better, there 
are parts s\ hich throw a blaze of light upon the knowledge 
of human 'ife." 

After depicting the mode of life pursued by Lord 
Byron at Venice, in 1817-18, his biographer thus no- 
tices Don Juan : — 

XXXVII. MOORE. 

" It was at this time, as the features of the progeny itself 
would but too plainly indicate, that Lord Byron conceived 
and wrote part of his poem of Don Juan ; — and never did 
pages more faithfully, and in many respects lamentably, 
reflect every variety of feeling, and whim, and passion that, 
like the rack of autumn, swept across the author's uiind in 
writing them. Nothing less, indeed, than that singular coaj 



' bination of attributes, which existed and were in fuil activity 
in his mind at this moment, could have siisgesled, or been 
capable of, the execution of such a worlv. The cool shrewd- 
ness of age, with the vivacity and !;lowing temperament of 
youth, — tlie wit of a Voltaiie, willi the sensibility of a Rous- 
se;ui,^the minute practical knowledge of the man of society, 
with the abstract and self contemplative spirit of the p^et, — 
a susceptibility of all that is grandest and most affecting in 
human virtue, with a deep, withering experience of all that is 
most fatal to it, — the two extremes, in short, of man's mixed 
and inconsistent nature, now rankly smelling of earth, now 
breathing of heaven, — such was the strange assemblage of 
contrary elements, all meeting together in the same mind, and 
all brought to bear, in turn, upon the same task, from which 
alone could have sprung this extraordinary poem — the most 
powerful, and, in many respects, painful display of the ver- 
satility of genius that has ever been left for succeeding ages 
10 wonder at and deplore." 

Immediately on receiving the news of Lord Byron's 
death, Sir Walter Scott, as is known to all, sent to 
one of the Edinburgh newspapers a touching tribute 
to his memory. Perhaus a more fitting place might 
have been foimd in this collection for parts of the fol- 
lowing extract ; — but we cannot prevail on ourselves 
to present it here in a mutilated form. 

XXXVIII. SCOTT. 

"Amidst the general calmness of the political atmosphere, 
we have been stunned, from another quarter, by one of those 
UL-ath-notes, which are pealed at intervals, as from an arch- 
angel's trumpet, to awaken the soul of a whole people at 
once. Lord Byron, who has so long and so amply filled the 
highest place in the public eye, has shared the lot of humanity. 
That mighty genius, which walked amongst men as something 
superior to ordinary mortality, and whose powers were beheld 
with wonder, and something approaching to terror, as if we 
knew not whether they were of good or of evil, is laid as 
soundly to rest as the poor peasant whose ideas went not 
beyond his daily task. The voice of just blame and of malig- 
nant censure are at once silenced ; and we feel almost as if 
the great luminary of heaven had suddenly disappeared from 
the sky, at the moment when every telescope was levelled 
for the examination of the spots which dimmed its brightness. 
It is not now the question, what were Hyron's faults, what 
his mistakes ; but, how is the blank which he has left in 
British literature to be filled np ? Not, we fear, in one gen- 
eration, which, among many highly-gifted persons, has pro- 
duced none which approached Lord Byron, in originality, 
the first attribute of genius. Only thirty-six years old — so 
i much already done for immortality — so much time remaining, 
as it seemed to us short-sighted mortals, to maintain and to ex- 
tend his fame, and to atone for errors in conduct and levities 
in composition, — who will not grieve that such a race has 
been shortened, though not always keeping the straight path ; 
such a light extinguished, though sometimes flaming to dazzle 
and to bewilder 1 One word on this ungrateful subject, ere 
we quit it forever. 

" The errors of Lord Bjron arose neither from depravity 
of heart, — for Nature bad not committed <he anomaly of 
uniting to such extraordinary talents an imperfect moral 
sense, — nor from feelings dead to the admiration of virtue. 
No man had ever a kinder heart for sympathy, or a more open 
hand for the relief of distress ; and no mind vas ever more 
formed lor the enthusiastic admiration of nob.e actions, pro- 
viding he was convinced that the actors had proceeded on 
disinterested principles. Remonstrances from a friend, of 
whoso intentions and kindness he was secure, had often great 
weight with him ; but there were few who would venture on 
a task so difficult. Reproof he endured with impatience, and 
reproach hardened hiiu in his error; so that he often resein- 
bled the gallant war-steed, who rushes forward on the steel 
that wounds him. In the most painful crisis of his private 
life, he evinced this irritability and impatience of censure in 
such a degree, as almost to resemble the noble victim of the 
bull-fight, which is more maddened by the squibs, darts, and 
petty annoyances of the unworthy crowds beyond the lists, 
than by the lance of his nobler, and, so to speak, his more 
legitimate antagonist. In a word, njuch of that in which he 
erred was in bravado and scorn of his censors, and was done 
with the motive of Dryden's despot, ' to show his arbitrary 
power. 

" As various in composition as Shakspeare himself, (this 
will be admitted by all who are acquainted with his 'Don 
J'-an,') he has embraced every topic of human lite, and sound- 
ed every string on the divine harp, from its slightest to its 
most powerful and heart-astounding tones. There is scarce a 
passion or a situation which has escaped his pen; and he 



might be drawn, like Garrick, between the weeping and the 
laughing Muse, although his most powerful efforts have cer- 
tainly been devoted to Melpomene. His genius seemed as 
prolific as various. The most prodigal use' did not exhaust 
his powers, nay, seemed rather to increase their vigor. Neither 
Ohilde Harold, nor any of the most beautiful of Byron's 
earlier tales, contain more exquisite morsels of poetry than 
are to be found scattered through the cantos of Don Juan, 
amidst verses which the author appears to have thrown off 
with an elfort as spontaneous as that of a tree resigning its 
leaves to the wind. But that noble tree will never inore bear 
fruit or blossom ! It has been cut down in its strength, and 
the past is all that remains to us of Byron. We can scarce 
reconcile ourselves to the idea — scarce think that the voice is 
siTent forever, which, bursting so often on our ear, was often 
heard with rapturous admiration, sometimes with regret, but 
always with tlie deepest interest, — 

' All that's bright must fade. 
The brightest still the fleetest" 

With a strong feeling of awful sorrow, we take leave of the 
subject. Death creeps upon our most serious as well as upon 
our most idle eiuployments ; and it is a reflection solemn and 
gratifying, that he found our Byron in no moment of levity, 
but contributing his fortune, and hazarding his life, in behalf 
of a people only endeared to him by their own past glories 
and as fellow-creatures sulTering under the yoke of a heathen 
oppressor. To have fallen in a crusade for Freedom and 
Humanity, as in olden times it would have been an atone- 
ment for the blackest crimes, may in the present be allowed 
to expiate greater follies than even exaggerating calumny has 
propagated against Byron." 

In a little journal conducted by the great poet of 
Germany, Goethe, and entitled " Knnst und Alther- 
thum," i. e. " Art and Antiquity," (Part III., 1821,) 
there appeared a translation into German of part of 
tire first canto of Don Juan, with some remarks on 
the poem by the venerable Editor, of which we next 
submit a specimen : — 

XXXIX. GOETHE. 

" Don Juan is a thoroughly genial work — misanthropical 
to tlie bitterest savageness, tender to the most exquisite deli- 
cacy of sweet feelings; and when we once understand and 
appreciate the author, and make up our minds not fretfully 
and vainly to wish him other than he is, it is impossible 
not to enjoy what he chooses to pour out before us with snch 
unbounded audacity — with such utter recklessness. Tiie 
technical execution of the verse is in every respect answer- 
able to the strange, wild simplicity of the conception and 
plan: the poet no more thinks of polishing his phrase, than 
he does of flattering liis kind ; and yet, when we examine the 
piece more narrowly, we feel that English poetry is in posses- 
sion of what the German has never attained, a classically 
elegant comic style 

" If I am blamed for recommending this work for transla- 
tion — for throwing out hints which may serve to introduce so 
inunoral a performance among a quiet and uncorrupted na- 
tion — I answer, that I really do not perceive any likelihood of 
our virtue's sustaining serious damage in this way : Poets and 
Romancers, bad as they may lie, have not yet learned to be 
more pernicious than the daily newspapers which lie on every 
table." 

After Scott and Goethe we should be sorry to quote 
anybody but Lord Byron himself. In Mr. Kennedy's 
account of his " Conversations" with the noble poet 
at Cephalonia, a few weeks before his death, we find 
the following passage, with which let these prolego- 
mena conclude. 

XL. BYRON ipse (apud Kennedy.) 

"I cannot,' said Lord Byron, "conceive why people will 
always mix up my own character and opinions with those of 
the imaginary beings which, as a poet, 1 have the right and 
liberty to draw." 

"They certainly," said I, "do not spare your Lordship in 
that respect, and in Childe Harold, Lara, the Giaour, and Don 
Juan, they are too much disposed to think that you paint, in 
many costumes, yourself^ and that these characters are only 
the vehicles for the expression of your own sentiments and 
feelings." 

"They do me great injustice," he replied, "and what was 
never before done to any poet. Even in Don Juan I have 
been equally misunderstood. I take a vicious and unprin- 



598 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



cipled character, and lead him throu-ih those ranks of society, 
whose high external acconiplishinents cover and cloak internal 
and secret vices, and I paint the natural effects of such 
characters ; and certninly they are not so highly colored as we 
find them in real life." 

" This may be true ; but the question is, what are your 
motives and object for painting nothing but scenes of vice 
iind folly?" — "To remove the cloak, which the manners and 
maxims of society," said his Lordship, " throw over their 
secret sins, and show them to the world as they really are." 

33ostscript. 

We had intended to stop witli the above — but after 
it was too late to derange the order of our earlier tes- 
timonies, our attention was solicited to a sportive efFa- 
Bion by the learned Dr. William Maginn, of Trinity 
College, Dublin, which appears to us not unworthy of 
being transferred' to tliis Olla podrida. Every one 
ought to have, but every one has not, by heart Words- 
worth's " Yarrow Unvisited ;" therefore we shall place 
the original alongside of the parody. 

YARROW UNVISITED, ( 1809.) DON JOAN UNREAD, (1319.) 



DEDICATION ■ 



id Tay, 



From Stirling Castle we ha< 

The ma-iv Forth uiiravell 
Hail trod the banks of Clyil 

And with the Tweed had travel 
And when we rame to Clovenford 

Then aaid my " winsome Marroi 
"Whate'er littide, we'll turn aaid 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 



' Let Yarrow Folk, fraa Selkirk Town, 



Who ha 



I buv 



Go back t 

Each Maiden lo her Dwelling : 
On Yarrow'B banks let herons feed. 

Hares eouch, and rnbbits burrow ! 
But we will downwards with the Tweed, 

IJor turn aside to Yarrow. 

"There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us; 
And DryUorough, where with chiraing 
Tweed 

The Liutwhites wng in chorus ; 
Th(^rt-'s pl<?asant Tiviot Dale, a land 

Made blithe with plough and h^irrow ; 
Why throw away a needful day 

To go in seaich of Yarrow 7 



"Wha 



I Yarrow but a Kirer bare, 



That glides the dark hills 
There ure a thousand such elsewhere 

As worthy of your wonder." 
—Strange words theyseera'd of slight and 

Mv true-love sigh'd for sorrow ; 

And'look'd me in the face, to think 

1 thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

** Oh I green," said I, " are Yarrow's 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing! [Holms, 
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 

But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly ;.X-Ji\, a'jd open Strath, 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, th mgh so near, we will not turn 

Into ■ Dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kiae partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow, 

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
Float double, swan and shadow 

We Will not see them ; will not go 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 



Of Cnrinth Castle we had read 

The aroaaing Siege unraTelI'd, 
And swalJowM Lara and the Giaour, 

And with Childe Harold Iravell'd ; 
And so we follow'd Cloven foot, 

And faiihTaily as any. 
Until he cried, " Come turn aside. 

And read of Don Giovanni." 

" Let Whiggish folk, frae Holland House, 

Who have been lying, prai.ng. 
Read Don Giovanni, 'tis Iheir own ; 

A child of their creating ! 
On jests profane they love to feed. 

And there they are — and many! 
But we, who link not with the crew, 

Regard not Don Giovanni. 

*There*8 Godwin's daughter, Shelley'o 



The 

Brays forth in Cockney cho 
There's pleasant Thomas Moore, a lad 

Who sings of Rose and Fanny : 
Why throw away these wits so gay 

To take up Don Giovanni? 

" What's Juan but a shameless tale 
That burst.-, all rules asunder I 

There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 

— Strange words they seem'd of alight and 



His lordship !o<>k*d no 

And took a pinch of snu 

I flouted Don tiiovanu: 






"Oh ! rich," said I, " are Juan's rbTxaea, 

And warm its verse is flowing ! 
Fair crops of blasphemy it bears. 

But we will leave them growing; 
In findar's strain, in prose of Paine, 

And many another Zany, 
As gross we read, so where's the need 

To wade through Don Giovanni 7 

*' Let Colburn's town-bred cattle anuflT 

The sweets of Lady Morgan ; 
Let Maturin to amorous themes 

Attune his barrel organ ! 
We will not read them, will not hear 

The parson or the granny ; 



Enough if i n our hearts we know 


And, I dare say, as bad as they. 


There's such a place as Yarrow. 


Or worse, is Don Giovanni. 


•• Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown ! 


"Be Juan then unseen^ unknown* 


it must, or we shall rue it: 


It must, or we shall rue it; 


We have a vision of our own ; 


We may have virtue of our own ; 


Ah ! why should we undo it 7 


Ah 1 why should we undo it ? 


The treasured dreams of times long past, 


The treasured faith of days long past. 




We still would prize o*tr any; 


For when We're there, although 'tis fair. 


And grieve to hear the ribald jeer 


'Twill be another Yarrow. 


Of scamps like Don Giovanni. 



f ith freeiing years should *' Whei 



nth freezing rule fiha)) 



Shall wander melancholv 
WhenCobbetl.Wooler, WatscD, Hunt, 
And all the swinish many, [State ; 



Tha bonny Holms of Ya 



" Then hey ! for Don Giovanni !" — What Tory will 
not pronounce Dr. Maginn's last octave a prophetic 
one, when he compares it with the time of tlie forth- 
coming of this, the first complete and uumutilated 
edition oi Don Juan ?" 

January 30, 1833.] 



Bob Southey ! You're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all tlie race. 
Although 'tis true that j'ou turn'd out a Tory at 

Last, — yours has lately been a common case, — 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like '• four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 

IL 

" Which pye being open'd they began to sing," 
(This old song and new simile holds good,) 

" A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; — 

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 

E.xplaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his Explanation.^ 

in. 

You, Bob ! are rather in.solent, you know. 

At being disappointed in your wish 
To supersede all warblers here below. 

And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
And tlien you overstrain yourself, or so. 

And tumble downward like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob I 

IV. 

And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion," 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pa^es.) 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system' to perplex the sages ; 

'Tis poetry — at least by his assertion. 

And may appear so when the dog-star rages — 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel 



1 [This " Dedication" was suppressed, in 1819, with Lord 
Byron's rehictant consent ; but, shortly after his deatli, its 
existence became notorious, in consequence of an article in 
the Westminster Review, generally ascribed to Sir John 
llobhouse ; and, for several years, the verses have been 
soiling in the streets as a broadside. It could, therefore, 
serve no purpose to exclude them on the present occasion.] 

2 [Coleridge's "Biogvapliia Literaria" appearetl in 1817.} 

3 [" When, some years ago, a gentleman, the chief writer 
and conductor of a celebrated review, distinguished by its 
hostility lo Mr. Soulhey, spent a day or two at Kesvk-ick, 
he was circumstantially informed by what series of acci- 
dents it had happened, that Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Soutnoy, 
and I had become neighlx)rs ; and how utterly groundless 
was the supposition, that we considered ourselves as be 
longing to any common school, but that of good sense, 
confirmed by the long-e.stablished models of the best limes 
of Greece, Rome, Italy, and England ; and still more 
groundless the notion, that Mr. Southey (for, as to myself, 
I have published so little, and that little of so little im- 
portance, as to make it almost ludicrous to mention my 
name at all) could have been concerned in the formation of 
a poetic sect with Mr. Wordsworth, when so many of bis 
works had been published, not only previously to any ac- 
quaintance between them, but before Blr. Wordsworth him- 
self had written any thing but in a diction ornate, and uni- 
formly sustained ; when, too, the slightest examination 
will make it evident, that between those and the after- 
writings of Mr. Southey there exists no other difference 
than tliat of a progressive degree of excellence, from pro- 
gressive development of power, and progressive lacility 
from habit and increase of experience. Yet, among the 
first articles which this hian wiote after his return from 
Ke.swick, we were characterized as ' the School of whi 
ning and hypochondriacal poets that haunt the Lakes ' " — 

COLEHIDGE.] 



DON JUAN. 



599 



V. 
You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 

From better company, have kept your own 
At Keswick,' and, through still continued fusion 

Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
To deem as a most logical conclusion, 

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
There is a narrowness in such a notion, [ocean. 

Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for 

VI. 

I would not imitate the petty thought, 
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 

For all the glory your conversion brought, 

Since gold alone should not have been its price. 

You have your salary ; was 't for that you wrought? 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.''' 

You're shabby fellows — true — but poets still. 

And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows — 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you would engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 

Scope to all such as feel the inherent glo\y : 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses, 
Contend not with you on the winged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need ; 

And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 

IX. 

lie that reserves his laurels for posterity 

(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he ^ 

Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

And although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion. 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where — for no one else can know 

X. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 



1 [Mr. Southey is the only poet of the day that ever re- 
sided at Keswick. Mr. Wordsworth, who lived at one time 
on Grasmere, has for many years past occupied Mount Ry- 
dal, near Ambleside •. Professor Wilson possesses an ele- 
gant villa on Windermere: Coleridge, Lambe, Lloyd, and 
others classed by the Edinburgh Review in the Lake School, 
never, we believe, had any connection with that part of the 
country.] 

2 Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs— it is, I 
think, in that or the Excise— besides another at Lord Lons- 
dale's table, where this poetical charlatan and political pa- 
rasite licks up the crumbs with a hardened alacrity ; the 
converted Jacobin having long subsided into the clownish 
sycophant of the worst prejudices of the aristocracy. 

3 " Pale, but not cadaverous:" — Milton's two elder 
daughters are said to have robbed him of his books, besides 
cheatmgand plaguing him in theeconomy of his house, &c., 
fcc. His feelings on such an outrage, both as a parent and 
a scholar, must have been singularly painful Hayley com- 
pares liim to Lear. See part third, Life of IMilton, by W. 
Hayley, (or Hailey, as spelt in the edition before me.) 



If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs. 

And makes the word " Miltonic" mean " sublime" 

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 

He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 

But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 

The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 
Or be alive again — again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes. 

And heartless daughters — worn — and pale^ — and 

Would he adore a sultan? he obey [poo'} 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?* 

XII. 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore. 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want. 

With just enough of talent, and no more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 

XIII. 

Aji orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 
Nor even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 

States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains. 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind. 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind. 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
Eutropius of its many masters,^ — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 



4 Or,— 

" Would he subside into a hackney Laureate — 
A scribbling, self-sold, soul-hired, scorn'd Iscariot?" 
1 doubt if " Laureate" and " Iscariot" be good rhymes, but 
must say, as Bon Jonson did to Sylvester, who challenged 
him to rhyme with— 

" I, John Sylvester, 
Lay with your sister." 
Jonson answered — "I, Ben Jonson, lay with j-our wife." 
Sylvester answered, — " That is not rhyme." — " No," said 
Ben Jonson ; " but it is true." 

5 For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and mmister 
atthecourtof Arcadius,seeGil3bon. [" Eutropius, one of the 
principal eunuchs of the palace of Constantinople, succeed- 
ed the haughty minister whose ruin he had accomplished, 
and whose vices he soon imitated. He was the first of his 
artificial sex who dared to assume the character of a Roman 
magistrate and general. Sometimes, in the presence of the 
blushiUr' senate, he ascended the tribunal ta pronounce 
judgmei I, or to repeat elaborate harangues ; and sometimes 



600 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a A'ico 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn mo not to view its bonds, 

For I will novcr /ccZ them ; — Italy ! 
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
' Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee — 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds. 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Euro])e has slaves — allies — kings — armies still. 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedicate, 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 

And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'Tis that I still retain my "buff and blue;'" 

My politics as yet are all to educate : 
Apostacy 's so fashionable, too. 

To keep one creed 's a task grown quite Herculean ; 

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?'^ 

^ Venice, Sept. 16, 1818. 



appeared on horseback at the head of his troops, in the dress 
and armor of a hero. The disregard of custom and decency 
always betrays a weak and ill-regulaicd mind : nor does 
Eutropius seem to have compensated for the folly of the de- 
sign by any superior merit or ability in the execution. His 
former habits of life had not introduced Ihm to the study of 
the laws, or the exercises of the field ; liis awkward and un- 
successful attempts provoked the secret contempt of the 
spectators ; the Goths expressed a wish that such a general 
tnight always command the armies of Rome, and the name 
of the minister was branded with ridicule, more pernicious, 
perhaps, than hatred to a public character."— Gibbon.] 

1 [Mr. Fox and the Whig Club of his time adopted a 
uniform of blue and buff: hence the coverings of the Edin- 
burgh Review, «kc.] 

s I allude not to our friend Lander's hero, the traitor 
Count Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept "The 
Apostate." 

a [Begun at Venice, September 6 ; finished JVov. 1, 1818.] 

4 [We find the following Fragment on the back of the 
Poet's MS. of Canto I. 
" I would to heaven that I were so much clay, 

As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling — 
Because at least the past were pass'd away — 

And for the future— (but I write this reeling, 
Having got drunk exceedingly to-day. 

So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling) 
I say— the future is a serious matter- 
And so— for God's sake— hock antl soda-water !"] 

' [Remodelled under the name of " Don Juan," " The 
Libertine," &c. &c., the old Spanish spiritual play, entitled 
" Atheista Fulminate," formerly acted in the churches and 
monasteries, has had its day of favor in every country 
throughout Europe. It was first introduced upon the regular 
stage, under the title of " El Burlador de Sevilla y Combi- 
dado de Pierra," by Gabriel Tellez, the cotcn.^irary of Cal- 
deron. It was soon translated into Italian by Cicognini, and 
performed with so much success in this language, not only 
in Italy but even at Paris, that Moliere, shortly before his 
death, produced a comedy in five acts, called " Don Juan ; 
ou, Le Festinde Pierre." This piece was, in 1677, put into 
verse by T. Corneille ; and thus it has been performed on 
the French stage ever since. In 1670, Shadwell, the suc- 
cessor of Dryden in the laureateship, introduced the subject 
into this country, in his tragedy of the " Libertine ;" but he 
made his hero so unboundedly wicked, as to exceed the 
limits of probability. In all these works, as well as in Mo- 
zart's (;elebrated opera, the Don is uniformly represented as 
a travelling rake, who practises everywhere the arts of se- 
duction, and who, for his numerous delinquencies, is finally 
consumed by flames coram populo, or, as Lord Byron has 
it, — •' Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. "J 

6 [Admiral Vernon, who served with considerable dis- 
tinction in the navy, particularly in the capture of Porto 
Bello, died in 1757.1 

7 [Sscond son of George II., distinguished himself at the 
battles ol Dettingen and Fontenoy, and still more so at that 



DON JUAN/ 



CANTO THi: FIRST. 



I WA.\T a hero : an uncommon want. 

When every year and month sends forth a new ono, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers ho is not the true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,^ 

I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan — 
We all have seen him, in thopantomime. 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 

II. 
Vernon," the butcher Cumberland,'' Wolfe,' Hawke,' 

Prince Ferdinand," Granby," Burgoyne,''- Keppel,'' 
Evil and good, have haJ their tithe of talk, [Howe," 

And fiH'd their sign-posts then, like Wellcsley now } 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarcbs stalk. 

Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow 
France, too, had Buonaparte'^ and Dumourier 
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 



of Culloden, where he defeated the Chevalier, in 1746. The 
Duke, however, obscured his fame by the cruel abuse which 
he made, or suflx-red liis soldiers to make, of the victory. 
He died in 1765.] 

8 [General Wolfe, the brave commander of the expedition 
against Quebec, terminated his career in the moment of 
victory, whilst fighting against the French in 1759.] 

8 [In 1759, Admiral Lord Hawke totally defeated the 
French fieet equipped at Brest for the invasion ofcEngland. 
In 1765 he was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty; 
and died, full of honors, in 1781.] 

'" [Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, who gained the victory 
of Minden. In 1762, he drove the French out of Hesse 
He died in 1792.] 

11 [Son of the third Duke of Rutland — signalized himself 
in 1745, on the invasion by Prince Charles ; and was con- 
stituted, in 1759, commander of the British forces in Ger- 
many. He died in 1770.] 

12 [An English general oflScer and dramatist, who distin- 
guished himself in the defence of Portugal, in 1702, .against 
the Spaniards, and also in America by the capture of Ti- 
conderoga ; but was at last obliged to surrender, with his 
army, to General Gates. Died in 1792.] 

"[Second son of the Earl of Albemarle. Placed at the 
head of the Channel fleet, he partially engaged, in 1778, the 
French fleet off Ushant, which contrived to escape : he was, 
in consequence, tried by a court martial, and honorably ac- 
quitted. He died in 1780.] 

" [Lord Howe distinguished himself on many occasions 
during the American war. On the breaking out of the 
French war, he took the command of the English fleet, and, 
bringing the enemy to an action on the 1st of June, 1794, 
obtained a splendid victory. He died in 1799.] 

1^' [We find on Lord Byron's MS. the following note to this 
stanza : — " In the eighth and concluding lecture of Mr. 
Hazlitt's canons of criticism, delivered at the Surrey Insti- 
tution, I am accused of having 'lauded Bonaparte to the 
skies ii. the hour of his success, and then peevishly wreaking 
my disappointment on the god of my idolatry.' The first 
lines I ever wrote upon Bonaparte were the ' Ode to Na- 
poleon,' [see ante, p. 470,] after his abdication in 1814. All 
that I have ever written on that subject has been done since 
his decline ; — I never ' met him in the hour of his success.' 
I have considered his character at different periods, in its 
strength and in its weakness : by his zealots I am accused of 
injustice- by his enemies as his warmest partisan ; in many 
publications, both English and foreign. 

" For the accuracy of my delineation I have high authori- 
ty. A year and some months ago, I had the pleasure of see- 
ing at Venice my friend the honor.able Douglas Kinnaird. 
In his way through Germany, he told me that he had been 
honored with a presentation to, and some interviews with, 
one of the nearest family connections of Napoleon, (' Eu- 
gene Beauliarnais.') During one of these, he read and 
translated the lines alluding to Bonaparte, in the third 
Canto of Childe Harold, [ante, p. 42.] He informed me, that 
he was authorized by the illustrious personage — (still re- 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



COl 



III. 

Burnavc,- Brissot," Condorcet," Mirabeau,* 

PeLion,^ Clootz,^ Danton,' Marat,^ La Fayette," 

Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert,'" Hoche," Marcean," LanneSj^^* Desaix," 
With many of the mihtary set, [Moreau,'^ 

Exceedaigly remarkable at times. 

But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 

IV. 

Nelson was once Britannia's ^od of war, 
And still should be so, but the tide is turu'd ; 

There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'Tis with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army 's grown more popular. 
At which the naval people are concern'd ; 

Besides, the prince is all for the laud-service, ^, 

Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jcrvis. 

cognised as such by the Legitimacy in Europe)— to whom 
they were read, to say, that. ' the delineation was complete,' 
or words to ttiis effect. It is no puerile vanity which in- 
duces me to publish this fact ;— but Mr. HazUtt accuses my 
inconsistency, and infers my inaccuracy. Perhaps he will 
admit that, with regard to the latter, one of tlie most in- 
timate family connections of the Emperor may be equally 
capable of deciding on the subject. I tell Mr. Hazlitt, that 
I never flattered Napoleon on the throne, nor maligned 
him since his fall. I wrote what I think are the incredible 
antitheses of his character. 

" Mr. Hazlitt accuses me further of delineating myself in 
Childe Haroitf, &c. &c. I have denied this long ago— but, 
even were it true, Locke tells us, that all his knowledge of 
human understanding was derived from studymg his own 
mind. From Mr. Hazlitt's opinion of my poetry I do not ap- 
peal ; but I request that gentleman not to insult me by im- 
puting the basest of crimes,— viz. ' praising publicly the 
same man whom I wished to depreciate in his adversity :' — 
the first lines I ever wrote on Bonaparte were in his dis- 
praise, in 1814, — the last, though not at all in his favor, 
were more impartial and discriminative, in 1818. Has he 
become more fortunate since IS14 T—Uyron, Venice, 1819."] 

1 [Barnave, one of the most active promoters of the French 
revolution, was in 1791 appointed president of the Constitu- 
ent Assembly. On the flight of the royal family, he was sent 
to conduct them to Paris. He was guillotined, Nov., 1793.] 

2 [Brissot de Warville, at the age of twenty, published 
several tracts, for one of which he was, in 1784, thrown 
into the Bastile. He was one of the principal instigators 
of the revolt of the Champ de Mars, in July, 1789. He was 
led to the guillotine, Oct., 1793.] 

3 [Condorcet was, in 1792, appointed president of the Le- 
gislative Assembly. Having, in 1793, attacked the new Con- 
stitution, he was denounced. Being thrown into prison, he 
was on the following morning found dead, apparently from 
poison. His works are collected in twenty-one volumes.] 

^ [Mirabeau, so well known as one of the chief promoters 
of, and actors in, the French revolution, died in 1791.] 

5 [Petion, mayor of Paris in 1791, took an active part in 
the imprisonment of the king. Becoming, in 1703, an ob- 
ject of suspicion to Robespierre, he took refuge in the de- 
partment of the Calvados ; where his body was found in a 
field, half-devoured by wolves.] 

6 [John Baptiste (better known under the appellation of 
Anacharsis) Clootz. In 1790, at the bar of the National Con- 
vention, he described himself as " the orator of the human 
race." Being suspected by Robespierre, he was, in 1794, con- 
demned to death. On the scaffold he begged to be decap- 
itated the last, as he wished to make some observations 
essential to the establishment of certain principles, while the 
heads of the others were falling ; a request obligingly com- 
pUed with.] 

' [Danton played a very important part during the first 
years of the French revolution. After the fall of the king, 
he was made Minister of Justice. His violent measures 
led to the bloody scenes of September, 1792. Being de- 
nounced to the Committee of Safety, he ended his career 
on the guillotine, in 1794.] 

s [This wretch figured among the actors of the 10th 
August, and in the assassinations of September, 1792. In 
May, 1793, he was denounced, and delivered over to the 
rOTolutionary tribunal, which acquitted him ; but his 
bloody career was arrested bv the knife of an assassin, in 
the person of Charlotte Corde'.] 



76 



V. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon'* 
And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none ; 
But then they shone not on the poet's page. 

And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none, 
But can't find any in the present age 

Fit for my poem, (that is, for my new one ;) 

So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan." 

VI. 

Most epic poets plunge " in medias res," 

(Horace makes tiiis the heroic turnpike road,)'^ 

And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 
What went before — by way of episode, 

While seated after dinner at his ease. 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode, 

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

9 [Of all these " famous people," the General was the 
last survivor. He died m 1834.] 

JO [Joubert distinguished himself at the encragements of 
Laono, Montenotte, Millesimo, Cava, MontebeliC Rivoli, 
and especially in the Tyrol. He was afterwards opposed 
to Suwarrow, and was killed, in 1799, at Novi.] 

n [In 1796, Hoche was appointed to the command of the 
expedition against Ireland, and sailed in December frofn 
Brest; but, a storm dispersing the fleet, the plan failed. 
After his return, he received the command of the army of 
the Sambre and Meuse : but died suddenly, in September, 
1797, it was supposed of poison.] 

12 [General Marceau first distinguished himself in La 
Vendee. He was killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkerchen. 
See ante, p. 44.] 

" [Lannes, Duke of Montebello, distinguished himself at 
]\IilIesimo,. Lodi, Aboukir, Acre, Montebello, Austerlitz, 
Jena, Pultusk, Preuss Eylau,Fi-iedland, Tudela, Saragossa, 
Echmuhl, and, lastly, at E sling ; where, in May, 1609, ho 
was killed by a cannon-shot.] 

n [At the taking of Malta, and at the battles of Chebreiss 
and of the Pyramids, Desaix displayed the greatest bravery. 
He was mortally wounded by a cannon-ball at Marengo, 
just as victory declared for the French.] 

15 [One of the most distinguished of the republican gen- 
erals. In 1813, on hearing of Ihe reverses of Napoleon in 
Russia, he joined the allied armies. He was struck by a 
cannon-ball at the battle of Dresden, in 1813.] 

16 ["Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona," &c.— Hoe. 

"Before great Agamemnon reign'd, 

Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave. 
Whose huge ambition 's now contain'd 

In the small compass of a grave ; 
In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown. 
No bard had they to make all time their own." 

Fhancis, p. 223.] 
1' [Mr. Coleridge, speaking of the original " Atheista Ful- 
minate," says — " Rank, fortune, wit, talent, acquired know- 
ledge, and liberal accomplishments, with beauty of person, 
vigorous health, and constitutional hardihood— all these ad- 
vantages, elevated by the habits and sympathies of noble 
birth and national character, are supposed to have combined 
in ' Don Juan,' so as to give him the means of carrying into 
all its practical consequences the doctrine of a godless na- 
ture, as the sole, ground and efficient cause not only of all 
things, events, and appearances, but likewise of all our 
thoughts, sensations, impulses, and actions. Obedience to na- 
ture is the only virtue : the gratification of the passions and 
appetites her only dictate : each individual's self-will the 
sole organ through which nature utters her commands, and 
' Self-contradiction is the only wrong I 
For, by the laws of spirit, in the right 
Is every individual's character 
That acts in strict consistence with itself.' " 
See Schiller's Wallenstein.] 
18 [" Semper ad eventum festinat, et in medias res, 
Non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit." 
" But to the grand event he speeds his course, 
And bears his readers, with impetuous force, 
Into the midst of things, while every line 
Opens, by just degrees, his whole design." 

Fhancis.] 



602 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



VII. 

That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning ; 

The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning, 

And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning) 

Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 

VIII. 

In Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 
Famous for oranges and women' — he 

Who has not seen it will bo much to pity, 
So says the proverb" — and I quite agree ; 

Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may see ; — 

Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

■ His father's name was J6se — Don, of course, 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ; 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again. 

Than J6se, who begot our hero, who 

Begot — but that 's to come Well, to renew : 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 

In every Christian language ever named, 
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone 

She made the cleverest people quitg ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan. 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part 

She could have served him for the prompter's copy ; 

For her Feinagle's were a useless art,' 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez.* 



' f' The women of Seville are, in general, very handsome, 
with large black eyes, and forms more graceful in motion 
than can be conceived by an Englishman — added to the 
most becoming dress, and, at the same time, the most de- 
cent in the world. Certainly, they are fascinating ; but 
their minds have only one idea, and the business of their 
lives is intrigue." — Byron Letters, 1809. J 
2 [" Quien no ha visto Sevilla, no ha visto maravilla."] 
' [Professor Feinagle, of Baden, who, in 1812, under the 
especial patronage of the " Blues," delivered a course of 
lectures at the Royal Institution, on Mnemonics.] 

* ["Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express 
them : wrote poetry also, but it was only good by accident. 
Her letters were always enigmatical, often unintelligible. 
She was governed by what she called fixed rules and prin- 
cipl3s squared mathematically." — Byron Letters.] 

6 [" Little she spoke— but what she spoke was Attic all, 
With words and deeds in perfect unanimity." — MS.] 

8 [Sir Samuel RomiUy lost his lady on the 29th of Octo- 
ber, and committed suicide on the 2d of November, 1818. — 
" But there wih come a day of reckoning, even if I should 
not live to see it. I have at least seen Romilly shivered, who 
was one of my assassins. When that man was doing his 
worst to uproot my whole family, tree, branch, and blossoms 
—when, after taking my retainer, he went over to them — 
when he was bringing desolation on my household gods — did 
he thuik that, in less than three years, a natural event — 



XII. 

Her favorite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 

Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ;* 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin. 

And other stufis, with which I won't stay puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, " the Lord's prayer " 
And Greek — the alphabet — I'm nearly sure ; 

She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 

For native Spanish she had no great care. 
At leatst her conversation was obscur.o ; 
' Her thoughts were theorems, her words a problem, 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIV. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue. 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song. 

But I must leave the proofs to those who've seen 'em, 

But this I heard her say, and can\ be wrong. 

And all may think which way their judgments lean 
'em, [am,' 

" 'Tis strange — the Hebrew noun which means ' I 

The English always use to govern d — n." 

XV. 

Some women use their, tongues — she look\l a lecture, 
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 

An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Ron^illy,* 

The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector. 
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — * 

One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 

(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 

XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calpulation. 

Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their covers, 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,** 

Or " Coelebs' Wife"" set out in quest of lovers, 

Morality's prim personification. 

In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 

To others' share let " female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 



a severe, domestic, but an expected and common calamity- 
would lay his carcass in a cross-road, or stamp his name in 
a verdict of lunacy! Did he (who in his sexagenary * * *) 
reflect or consider what my feelings must have been, when 
wife, and child, and sister, and name, and fame, and country, 
were to be my sacrifice on his legal altar,— and this at a 
moment when my health was declining, my fortune embar- 
rassed, and my mind had been shaken by many kinds of dis- 
appointment — while I was yet young, and might have re- 
formed what might be wrong in my conduct, and retrieved 
what was perplexing in my aff'ciirs ! But he is in his 
grave," &C. — Byron Letters, June, 1819.] 

' [JIaria Edgeworth, author of " Treatise on Practical 
Education," " Castle Rackrent," &c., &c., i-.c— " In 1813," 
says Lord Byron, "I recollect to have met Miss Edgeworth 
in the fashionable world of London. She was a nice little 
unassuming ' Jeannie Deans-looking body,' as we Scotch 
say ; and if not handsome, certainly not ill-looking. Her 
conversation was as quiet as herself. One would never 
have guessed she could write her name ; whereas her 
father talked, not as if he could write nothing else, but as if 
not)2ing else was worth writing." — Byron Diary, 1821 ] 

s [" Comparative View of the New Plan of Education," 
" Teacher's Assistant," &c., &c.] 

8 [Hannah More's " Ccelebs in Search of a Wife " &c. - a 
sermon-like novel, wliich had great success at the time, 
and is now forgotten.] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



G03 



XVII. 

Oh . she was perfect past all parallel — 
Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers cf hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 

lu virtiiea nothing earthly could surpass her, 

Sa\e thino " incomparable oil," Macassar !^ 

XVIII. 

Perfect she was, but as perfection is 

Insipid in this naughty world of ours. 
Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 

Tyi they were exiled from their earlier bowers. 
Where all vs'as peace, and innocence, and bliss,'' 

(I wonder how they got through the twelve hours,) 
Don J(5se, like a lineal son of Eve, 
Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind. 

With no great love for learning, or the learn'd. 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was conceru'd ; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'djie had a mistress, some said tmo ; 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 

XX. 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Niglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities ;' 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matte.' with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can. 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ;"* 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed 
With persons of no sort of education, 



1 " Description des vcrtus incomparables de I'Huile de Jla- 
cassar." See the Advertisement. 

2 [" Where all was innocence and quiet bliss." — MS.] 

3 [" And so she seem'd, in all outside formalities." — JIS.] 

4 [" By this hand, if I were now by this rascal, I could 
brain him with his lady's ''an." — Shakspeare.] 

5 ["Wishing each other damn'd, divorced, or dead." — MS.] 

6 [Lady Byron had left London at the latter end of Janu- 
ary, on a visit to her father's house in Leicestershire, and 
Lord Byron was, in a short time after, to follow her. They 
had parted in the utmost kindness,— she wrote him a letter, 
full of playfulness and affection, on the road, and, immedi- 
ately on her arrival at ICirkby Mallory, her fatlier wrote to 
acquaint Lord Byron that she would return to hun no more. 
At the time when he had to stand this unexpected shock, 
his pecuniary embarrassments, which had been fast gather- 
ing around him, during the whole of the past year, had ar- 
r:v(!d at llieir utmost. — Moore. " The facts are :— I left 
London for Kirkby Mauory, the '.-esidence of my father and 
mother, on the 15th of January, 1816. Lord Byron had sig- 
nified to mo in writing (Jan. 6th) his absolute desire that I 
should leave London on the earliest day that I could con- 



Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversal'on: 
I don't choose to say much upon this head, 

I'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
But — Oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all? 

XXIII. 

Don J6se and his lady quarrell'd — why, 

Not any of the many could divine. 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'Twas surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
I loathe that low vice — curiosity ; 

But if there 's any thing in which I shine, 
'Tis in arranging all my friends' affairs. 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind ; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
For neither of them could I ever find. 

Although their porter afterwards confess'd — 
But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind, 

For little Juan o'er mo threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXV. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the mosfunquiet imp on earth ; 

Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
Their senses, they'd have sent young master forth 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don J6se and tho Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life. 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ;* 
They lived respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 

And put the business past all kind of doubt.* 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists, and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad,'' 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only had; 



veniently fix. It was not safe for me to undertake the fatigue 
of a journey sooner than the 15th. Previously to my de- 
parture, it had been strongly impressed on my mind, that 
Lord Byron was under the influence oiinsanity. This opin- 
ion was derived in a great measure from the communica- 
tions made to me by his nearest relatives and personal at- 
tendant, who had more opportunities than myself of ob- 
serving him during the latter part of my stay in town. It 
was even represented to me that he was in danger of de- 
stroying liimself With the concurrence of his familij, I had 
consulted Dr. Baillie as a friend (Jan. 6th) respecting this 
supposed malady. On acquainting him with the state of the 
case, and with Lord Byron's desire that I should leave Lon- 
don, Dr. Baillie thought that my absence might be advisable 
as an experiment, assuming \.\\e fact of mental derangement ; 
for Dr. Baillie, not having had access to Lord Bv'on, could 
not pronounce a positive opinion on that point. He enjoin- 
ed that in correspondence with Lord Byron I should avoid 
all but light and soothing topics. Under these imiirfssions 
I left London, determined to follow the advice given by Dr. 
Baillie."— Lady Byron.] 

' [" I was surprised one day by a Doctor (Dr. Baillie) and 
a Lawyer (Dr. Lushmgton) almost forcing themselves at tlie 
same time into my room. I did not know till afterwards the 



G04 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 

No sort of explanation could be had, 
' Save that her duty both to man and God 
Required this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where liis faults were noted. 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters, 

All \Aliich might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors. 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
The hearers of her case became );epeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly choso 

Never to say a word about tiiem more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What inagnaniniity I" 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world is damning us. 

Is philosophic in our former friends ; 
"^Tis also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a " malus (niiinus" 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. 
But then 'tis not 7111/ fault, if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
And help them with a lie or two addition^fl, 

/'m not to blame, as you well know — no more is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 

By contrast, which is what we just were wishing all : 



real object of their visit. I thought their questions singular, 
frivolous, and somewhat importunate, if not impertinent : 
hut what should 1 have thought, if I had known that they 
were sent to provide proofs of my insanity ? I have no doubt 
that my answers to these emissaries were not very rational 
or consistent, for my imagination was heated with other 
thingb. But Dr. BaiUie could not conscientiously make me 
out a certilicate for Bedlam ; and perhaps the Lawyer gave 
a more favorable report to his employers. I do not, how- 
ever, tax Lady Byron with this transaction ; probably she 
was not privy to it. She was the tool of others. Her mo- 
ther always detested me, and had not even the decency to 
conceal it in her house." — Lord Byron. " Jly mother al- 
ways treated Lord B. with an affectionate consideration and 
in''u!gence, whi h extended to every little peculiarity of his 
feeimgs. Neve/ did an irritating word escape her lips m 
her whole intercourse with him." — Ladi/ Byron.l 

1 [Mr. Rogers, I\Ir. Hobhouse, fcc. &c.] 

2 [" First their friends tried at reconciliation." — MS.] 

s [The Right Honorable R. Wilmot Horton, (fcc. The fol- 
lowing is from a fragment of a novel written by Lord Byron 
in 1817:— "A few hours afterwards we were very good 
friends ; and a few days after she set out for Aragon, with 
my son, on a visit to her father and mother. I did not ac- 
company her immediately, having been in Aragon before, 
but was to join the family in their IMoorish chateau within 
a few weeks. During her journey, I received a very affec- 
tionate letter from Donna Josepha, apprizing me of the 
welfare of herself and my son. On her arrival at the chateau, 
I received another, still move affectionate, pressing me, in 
very fond, and rather foolish terms, to join her immediately. 
As 1 was preparing to set out from Seville, I received a third 
— this was from her father, Don Jos6 di Cardozo, who re- 
guested me, in the politest manner, to dissolve my marriage. 
L answered him with equal politeness, that 1 would do no 
»iich thing. A fourth letter arrived— it was from Donna 
Josepha, in wMch she informed me that her father's letter 



And science profits by this resurrection — 
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends' had tried at reconciliation,'' 

Then their relations,' who made matters worse 

('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for friend or yet relation :J 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce,'' 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died:, and most unluckily, because. 
According to all hints I could collect 

From counsel learned in those kinds of laws, 

(Although their tally's obscure and circumspect,) 

His death contrived to spoil a charming cause ; 
A thousand pities also with respect 

To public feeling, which on this occasion 

Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
The public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other — at least so they say: 
I ask'd tlie doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian. 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet J(5se was an honorable man, 

That I must say, who Rnew him very well ; 
Therefore his frailties I'll no further scan. 

Indeed there were not many more to tell 
And if his passions now and then outran 

Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As Numa's, (who was also named Ponipilius,)^ 
He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious.* 



was written by her particular desire. I requested the reason 
by return of post : she replied, by expriss, that as reason 
had nothing to do with the matter, it was unnecessary to 
give any— but that she was an injured and excellent woman 
I then inquired why she had written to me the two prece 
ding affectionate letters, requesting me to come to Aragon. 
She answered, that was because she believed me out of my 
senses— that, being unfit to take care of myself, I had only 
to set out on this journey alone, and, mpking my wa • with- 
out difficulty to Don Jose di Cardozo's, I should there nave 
found the tenderest of wives and — a strait waistcoat. I had 
nothing to reply to this piece of affection, but a reiteration 
of my request for some lights upon the subject. I was F.31- 
swered, that they w.> jld only be related to the Inquisition. 
In the mean time, our ciomestic discrepancy had become a 
public topic of discussion ; and the world, which always 
decides justly, not only in Aragon but in Andalusia^ deter- 
mined that I was not only to blame, but that all Spain could 
produce nobody so blameable. Wy case was supposed to 
comprise all the crimes which could, and several which 
could not, be committed ; and little less than an auto-da-fe 
was anticipated as the result. But let no man say tliat we 
are abandoned by our friends in adversity— it was ;'_sl the 
reverse. Mine thronged round me to condemn, advise, and 
console me with their disapprobation. They told me all 
that was, would, or could be said on the subject. They 
shook their heads— they exhorted me— deplored me with 
tears in their eyes, and— went to dinner."] 

4 [" The lawyers recommended a divorce,"— MS. J 

£ " primus qui legibus urbem 

Fundabit, Curibus parvis et paupere teiva 
Slissvis in iniperium magnum." — Virg. 

6 [" He had been ill brought up, J l^^^l ^^^^^ \ biUous.'" 

Or, 
" The reason was, perhaps, that he was bilious "— MSJ 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



605 



XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth,' 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound him. 

Let 's own — since it can do no good on earth' — • 
It was a trying moment that which found him 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth, [him.^ 

Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died.^ 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, 
Which, with a long minofay and care, 

Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 
Iflez became sole guardian, which was fair, 

And auswer'd but to nature's just demands ; 
An only sou left with an only mother* 
Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 

Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree : 

(His sire was of Castile, his dame from Aragon.) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 

In case our lord the king should go to war again, 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery. 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
And saw into herself each day before all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral : 

Much into all his studies she inquired. 

And so they were submitted first to her, all, 

Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead, 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse. 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use. 



If" And we may own— since he is ?l^)f;„' j earth." 
MS.] ' ^^^'^ ^" ' 

a [" I could have forgiven the dagger or the bowl, any 
thing but tlie deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I 
stood alone upon my hearth, with my household gods shiv- 
ered around me. Do you suppose I have forgotten or for- 
given it ? It has, comparatively, swallowed up in me every 
other feeling, and I am only a spectator upon earth till a 
tenfold opportunity oilers." — Si/ron Letters, Sept. 10, 1818. 

" I had one only fount of quiet left, 
And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods 
Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 
Sate grinning ribaldry and sneering scorn." 

Marino Faliero.1 

3 [" Save death or j S{j°"-t_ [ so he died."-MS.] 

^["I have been thinking of an odd circumstance. — My 
daughter, my wife, my half-sister, my mother, my sister's 
mother, my natural daughter, and myself, are, or were, all 
onhy children. My sister's mother hao only one half-sister 
by that second marriage, (herself, too, an only child,) and my 
fatlier had only me (an only child) by his second marriage 
with my mother. Such a complication oi only children, all 
tending to one family, is singular, and looks like fatality al- 
most. But the fiercest animals have the rarest number in 
their litters,— as lions, tigers, and even elephants, which 
are mild in comparison."— %ron Diary, 1S21.] 
5 [" Defending still their Iliads and Odysseys."— MS.] 
" See Longinus, Section 10, "7va ^fi Iv n Trtpi ahriiv irdQoi. 
(pahrjTai, tzuG^v if aivoio;."— [The Ode alluded to is the 
famous (paivtrai fjiai kijvos iVoj ^eoiat, K. r. A. 



In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing that 's loose, 
Or hints continuation of the species. 
Was over sufTer'd, lest he should grow vicious 

XLI. 

His classic studies n.ade a iittle puzzle. 

Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 

Who in tbe earlier ages raised a bustle. 
But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 

His reverend tutors had at times a tussle, 
And for their ^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys,' 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

For Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 

Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 

Although Longinus" tells us there is no hymn 

Where the sublime soars fo'rth on wings more amjio ; 

But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid ono 

Beginning with " Formosum Pastor Corydon." 

XLIIL 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 

Although no doubt his real intent was good. 
For speaking out so plainly in his song. 

So much indeed as to bo downright rude ;' 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIV. 

Juan was taught from out the best edition. 
Expurgated by learned men, who place, 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission,® 
And pitying sore his mutilated case. 

They only add them all in an appendix,* 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 



' Blest as th' immortal gods is he, 
The youth that fondly sits by thee, 
And hears and sees thee all the while 
Softly speak and sweetly smile," &c ] 

' [" To hear the clamor raised against Juvenal, it might 
be supposed, by one unacquainted with the times, that he 
was the only indelicate writer of his age and country. Yes 
Horace and Persius wrote with equal grossness ; yet the 
rigid stoicism of Seneca did not deter him fi-om the use of 
expressions which Juvenal, perhaps, would have rejected ; 
yet the courtly Pliny poured out gratuitous indecencies in his 
frigid hendec'asyllables, which he attempts to justify by the 
example of a writer to whose freedom the licentiousness of 
Juvenal is purity ! It seems as if there was something of 
pique in the singular seventy with which he is censured. 
His pure and sublime morality operates as a tacit rcproacli 
on the generality of rhankind, who seek to indemnify them- 
selves by questioning the sanctity which they cannot but re- 
spect ; and find a secret pleasure in persuading one another 
that 'this dreaded satirist' was, at heart, no inveterate 
enemy to the licentiousness yvliich he so vehemently repre- 
hends. When I find that his views are to render depravity 
loathsome, that every thing which can alarm and disgust is 
directed at her in his terrible page, I forget the grossness of 
the execution in the excellence of the design." — Giffoed ] 

C antique ) ^ 

e ["Too much their < modest > bard by the • 
( downright ) ' 

—MS.] 

'Fact! There is, or was, such an edition, with all the 
obno-xious epigrams of Martial placed by themselves at the 
end. 



elision." 
omission.' 



006 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring all together. 

Like garden gods — and not so decent either 

XLVI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they. 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray, 
Is more than I know — But Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLVII. 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured. 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 

He did not take such studies for restraints ; 

But how faith is acquired, and then ensured. 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, ' 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions.' 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right. 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one. 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright. 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace ; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As ser to man's maturer growth was given : 
He studied steadily, and grew apace, 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven. 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild. 

They tamed him down amongst them: to destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 



1 See his Confessions, 1. i. c. ix. By the representation 
which Saint Augustine gives of liimself in his youth, it is easy 
to see that he was what we should call a rake. He avoided 
the school as tiie plague ; he loved nothing but gaming and 
public shows ; he robbed his father of every thing he could 
lind ; he invented a thousand lies to escape the rod, which 
they were obliged to make use of to punish his irregularities. 

2 [Foreigners often ask, "by what means an uninterrupted 
succession of men, qualified more or less eminently for the 
performance of united parliamentary and ofBcial duties, is 
secured!" First, I answer, {with the prejudices, perhaps, of 
Eton and Oxford,) that we owe it to our system of public 
schools and universities. From these institutions is derived 
(iu the language of the prayer of our collegiate churches) " a 



LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I havo them still, 
But what I say is neither hero nor there : 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill : 

He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 

Against b.1 evil speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put 

To school, (as God be praised that I have none,) 

'Tis not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alono. 

No — no — I'd send him out betimes to college. 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge.' 

LIII. 

For there one learns — 'tis not for me to boast, 
Though I acquired — but I pass over tha , 

As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 

I say that there 's the place — but " Verbum sat," 

I think I pick'd up too, as well as most. 

Knowledge of matters — but no matter what — 

I never married — but, I think, I know 

That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age. 

Tall, handsome, slender, but v/ell knit: ho seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
And everybody but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage 

And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 

Selected for discretion and devotion, 
There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 

Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 
Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 
Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cupid, 
(But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 

LVI. 

The darkness of her Oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
V/hen proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept,' of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 



due supply of men fitted to serve their country both in church 
and state." It is in her public schools and universities that 
the youth of England are, by a discipline which shallow 
judgments have sometimes attempted to undervalue, pre- 
pared for the duties of public life. There are rare and splen- 
did exceptions, to be sure ; but in my conscience I believe, 
that England would not be what she is, without her system 
of public education ; and that no other country can become 
what England is, without the advantages of such a system. 
— Canning. — I shall always be ready to join in the public 
opinion, that our public schools, which have produced so 
many eminent characters, are the best adapted to the genius 
and constitution of the English people. — Gibbon.] 
3 ["Having surrendered the last symboi of fewer, the un- 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



607 



LVII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be ; 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 

In tluit point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in, as might be shown, 

Marrj'ing their cousins — nay, their auntu, and nieces, 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LVIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain : 
But there 's a rumor which I fain would hush,* 

'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son. 

Who left an only daughter ; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia, (whom on this occasion 

I shall have much to speak about,) and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 

Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either ; and there would arise 

A something in them which was not desire. 
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
whole. 

LXI. 
Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow. 

Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 

As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
Poss3ss'd an air and grace by no means common : 
Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded sho was some years, and to a man 
Of fif*y, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one 

'Twere better to have two of five-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I ♦hirk on't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies even of tho most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty.'' 



fortunate Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras, that 
he might not behold tlie entrance of tiie Christian into his 
capital. His devoted band of cavaliers followed him in 
gloomy silence. Having ascended an eminence commanding 
the last view of Granada, they paused involuntarily to take 
a farewell gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more 
would shut from their sight forever. While they yet looked, 
H. light cloud of smoke broke forth from the citadel ; and 
presently a peal of artillery, faintly heard, told that the city 
was taken possessiori of, and the throne of the Moslem kings 
was lost forever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfor- 
tunes, ai-.d overcharged with grief, could no longer contain 



LXIII. 

'Tis a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
And all the fault of that indecent sun. 

Who cannot leave done our helpless clay, 
But will keep baking, broiling, burning on, 

That howsoever people fast and pray. 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone : 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, 

Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIV. 

Happy the nations of the moral North ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth, 

('Twas snow that brought St. Anthony^ to reason ;) 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice 

LXV. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
They lived together as most people do. 

Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 
And not exactly either one or two ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXVI. 

Julia was — yet I never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend ; 

Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
For not a line had Julia ever pcnn'd : 

Some people whisper .(but, no doubt, they lie, 
For malice still imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXVII. 

And that still keeping up the old connection. 

Which time had lately render'd much more chasto, 

Sho took his lady also in affection, 

And certainly this course was much the best : 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste ; 

And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 

At least she left it a more slender handle 

LXVIII. 

I can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other .people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care. 
Indifferent from the first, or callous growii : 

I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 



itself. ' Allah achbar ! God is great !' said he ; but the words 
of resignation died upon his lips, and he burst into a flood 
of tears." — Washington Irving.] 

! [" I'll tell you too i. secret- \ ^";f."°^ ' '*"* ' ^ ., 
■' ( which you'll hush." — 

MS.] 

2 [" Spouses from twenty years of age to thirty 

Are most admired by women of strict virtue."— MS ] 

3 For the particulars of St. Anthony's recipe for hot blood 
in cold weather, see Mr. Alban Butler's "Lives of the 
Saints." 



G08 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and,- as a pretty child, 

Caress'd hira often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled. 
When she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous alterations^ 

Particularly amongst sunburnt nations. 

LXX. 

Whate'er tnc cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew distant, thu youth shy. 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind. 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought cliange with all Armida's fairy art 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'da sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the whUo 

For that compression in its burning core ; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile. 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 

ut passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate. 

Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

LXXIV. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression. 
And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft. 

And burning blushes, though for no transgression. 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left ; 

All these are little preludes to por;Tssion, 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show how greatly lovo is 

Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state ; 

She felt it going, and resolved to make 
The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 

For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake 
Her resolutions were most truly great. 

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake : 
She'pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
As being the best judge of a lady's case. 



\ 



[ ..." Questo giorno 

Non piu egemmo avanti.' 



-Dante.] 



LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother. 

And look'd extremely at the opening door. 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

'Tis surely Juan now — No ! I'fn afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd.' 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation, 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion. 

For people who are pleasanter tlian others. 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well. 

And, if still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they're ovei ; 
And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial : 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 

.Such as the angels think so very fine. 

And matrons, who would bo no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine ;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure ; 

And so I'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger. 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd ; 
For my part, to such doings I'm a stranger, 

But hetir tliese freedoms fonii the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love Kiay be a ranger 

If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime. 

But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI 

Love, then, but love within its proper limitfe, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethereal lustre, with what sweet persuasion 
Ho might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia ehher. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 

In mail of proof — her purity of soul,^ 
She, for the future of her strength convinced. 

And that her honor was a rock, or mole, 
Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 

With any kind of troublesome control ; 
But whether Julia to tlie task was equal 
Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

- [ " Conscienza 1' assicura, 

La buoTia compagna che 1' uom francheggia 
Sotto 1' usbergo del esser pure ''— Dantb.] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



609 



LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible, 
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 

Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that's seizable, 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean [able — 

Nothing but what was good, her breast was peace- 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 

That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 

LXXXIV. 

And if in the mean time her husband died, 

But Heaven forbid that such a thought should cross 

Her brain, though in a dream ! (and then she si-gh'd) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide* 
I only say suppose it — inter nos. 

(This should be enfre nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for naught.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say, suppose this supposition : 

Juan being then grown up to man's estate 

Would fully suit a widow of condition, 

Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea,' 
He puzzled over what he found a new one, 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tonnented with a wound he could not know. 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude : 

I'm fond myself of solitude or so, 

But then, I beg it may be understood, 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot 

LXXXVIII. 

" Oh Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,' 
With the exception of the second line. 

For that same twining "transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind. 



1 See Ovid, de Art. Amand. 1. ii. 

2 Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming— (I think)— the open- 
ing of Canto Second — but quote from memory. 

3 [" I say this by the way — so don't look stern, 

But if you're angry, reader, pass it by."— MS.] 

« [Juan Boscan Alraogavbi, of Barcelona, died about the 



The very thing which everybody feels. 
As all have found on trial, or may find, 

That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 

Or love. — I won't say more about " entwined" 

Or " transport," as we knew all that before, 

But beg " Security" will bolt the door. 

XC. 

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 
Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 

Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 

There poets find materials for their books. 

And every now and then we read them through, 

So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 

Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth,) so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul. 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
Had mitigated part, though not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control, 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition. 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

xcn. 

He thought about himself, and the whole earth. 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars. 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, 

How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; — 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIIL 

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 

W^hich some are born with, but the most part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 
His brain about the action of the sky f 

If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted 

XCIV. 

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 

He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
And how the goddesses came down to men: 

He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
And when he look'd upon his watch again, 

He found how much old Time had been a winner — 

He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCV. 

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
Boscan,^ or Garcilsrsso f — by the wind 

Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
So by the poesy of his own mind 



year 1543. In concert with his friend Garcilasso, he intro- 
duced the Italian style into Castilian poetry, and commenced 
his labors by writing sonnets in the manner of Petrarch.] 

6 [Garcilasso dela Vega, of a noble family at Toledo, was 
a warrior as well as a poet. After servmg with distinction 
in Germany, Africa, and Provence, he was killed, in 15?6 
by a stone thrown from a tower, which fell upon his head 
as he was leading on his battalion.] 



77 



610 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 

As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 
According to some good old woman's tale. 

XCVI. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted : 

Nor glowing revery, nor poet's lay, 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted, 

A bosom whereon he his head might lay. 

And hear the heart beat with the love it granted, 

With several other things, which I forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCVII. 

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries. 
Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly maj^ and must surprise, 

Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 
Her only sou with question or surmise ; 

Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 

Or, like all very clever people, could not. 

XCVIII. 

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman. 

And break the Which commandment is 't they 

(I have forgot the number, and think no man [break ? 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous. 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious. 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place,' 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes. 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harboring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 
The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone ofF wholly. 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

C. 

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted : 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er discover, 

The while the wicked world beholds delighted, 
Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 

Till some confounded escapade has blighted 
The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 

And then the mother cries, the father swears. 

And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI 

But Inez was so anxious, ana so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, or this occasion, 

She had some other motive much more near 
For leaving Juan to this new temptation, 

But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here ; 
Perhaps to finish Juan's education. 

Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 

In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 



1 [" A real vs ittol always is suspicious, 

But always also hunts in the wrong place."— MS.] 

* V Change horses ever)- hour from night till noon."- 
MS.] 

s ['• Except the promises o: true theology."— MS.] 



CII. 

It was upon a day, a summer's day ; — 

Sununer 'b indeed a very dangerous season, 

And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 

But whatso'er the cause is, one may say. 

And stand convicted of more truth than treason, 

That there are months which nature grows more 
merry in, — 

March has its hares, and May must have its heroine 

cm. 

'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates. 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of post-house, where the Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune," 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology.^ 

CIV. 

'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 
Of half-past six — perhaps still nearer seven — 

When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 
As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 

Described by Mahomet, and Anacreou Mooro,^ 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 

With all the trophies of triumphant song — 

He won them well, and may he wear them long ! 

CV. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place. 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any case ; 

No matter how or why the thing befell. 

But there were she and Juan, face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 'twould be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CVI. 

How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 

Oh Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art, 

Strengthening the weak, and trampling on thestrong 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hatli led along — 

The precipice she stood on was immense. 

So was her creed in her own innocence.^ 

CVIL 

She thought of her own strength, and Juan's youth. 

And of the folly of all prudish fears, 
Victorious virtue, and domestic truth. 

And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years: 
I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth. 

Because that number rarely much endears. 
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny. 
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIIL 

When people say, " I've told you fifty times," 
They mean to scold, and very often do ; 

When poets say, " I've wi'Men fifty rhymes," 

They make you dread that they'll recite them too ; 



■1 [" Oh, Susan ! J've said, in the moments of mirth. 
What's devotion to thee Or to me? 
I devoutly believe there 's a heaven on earth, 
And believe that that heaven's in thee." — Moohe.] 
s [" She stood on guilt's steep brink, in all the sense 
And full security of innocence." — MS.] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



611 



In gangs ot fifty, .hieves commit their crimes ; 

At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true, 
But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 
A good deal may be bought (or fifty Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love 
For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 

By all the vows below to powers above, 

She never would disgrace the ring she wore. 

Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove ; 
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 

Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 

Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not smother 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair,^ 

She who for many years had watch'd her son so— 

I'm very certain mine would not have done so 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp. 

As if it said, " Detain me, if you please ;" 
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 

She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp. 

Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 

A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

CXII. 

I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 

But what he did, is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
And then, abash'd at its own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
Love is so very timid when 'tis new: 

She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to speak, 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

cxin. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
The devil 's in the moon for mischief ; they 

Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
Their nomenclature ; there is not a day, 

The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
Sees half the business in a wicked way. 

On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 

And then she looks so modest all the while ! 

CXIV. 

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 

A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 

The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower, 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole, 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose.'* 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 
And half retiring from the glowing arm, 



1 [" To leave these two young people then and there." — 
MS.] 

» r" I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day; as 
If there was some association between an internal approach 
to greater light and purity, and the kindler of this dark 



Which trembled like the bosom where 'twas placed ; 

Yet still she must have thought there was no harm, 
Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist ; 

But then the situation had its charm, ^ 

And then God knows what next — I can't go ou ; 

I'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXVI. 

Oh Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way. 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 

Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been. 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVIL 

And Julia's voice was lost, except m sighs, 

Until too late for useful conversation ; 
The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 

I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 
But who, alas! can love, and then be wise? 

Not that remorse did not oppose temptation ; 
A little still she strove, and much repented. 
And whispering " I will ne'er consent" — consontod. 

CXVIII. 

'Tis said that Xerxes ofter'd a reward 

To those who could invent him a new pleasure 

Methinks, the requisition 's rather hard. 

And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 

For my part, I'm a moderate-minded bard. 
Fond of a little love, (which I call leisure ;) 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure . you are indeed a pleasant thing. 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt . 

I make a resolution every spring 

Of reformation, ere the year run out. 

But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 

Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 

Start not! still chaster reader — she'll be nicehenco- 

Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 
This liberty is a poetic hcense. 

Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high seiose 

Of Aristotle and the Rules, 'tis fit 

To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth, (the fatal day. 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill 

For want of facts would all be thrown away,) 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'd ; we'll say 

'Twas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era 's more obscure 

lantern of our external existence. The night is also a re- 
ligious concern ; and even hiore so— when I vicwctl the 
moon and stars through Herschel's telescope, and saw that 
they were worlds." — Byron Diary, 1621.] 



612 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



CXXII. 

We'll talk of that anon. — 'Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'Tis sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky 

CXXIII. 

'Tie sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 

Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come ;* 

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girlSj the song of birds, 

The lisp of children, and their earUest words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet^ 
The unexpected death of some old lady. 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete. 

Who 've made " us youth" wait too — too long 
already. 

For an estate, or cash, or country seat. 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Next owner for their doublo-damn'd post-obits.' 

CXXVI. 

'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 

To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend : 

Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend 

Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 

We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

CXXVII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 

Lilie Adam's recollection of his fall ; 

The tree of knowledge has been plnck'd — all's 
known — 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown. 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 



1 [" Our coming, nor look brightly till we come."— MS.] 
= [" Sweet is a lawsuit to the attorney— sweet," &c.— MS.] 
3 [" Wlio 've made iis wait— God knows how long already, 
For an entail'd estate, or country-seat, 

Wisliing them not exactly damn'd, but dead— he 
Knows naught of grief, who has not so been worried— 
'Tis strange old people don't like to be buried."— MS.] 
« 'The " Safety Lamp," after long researches and innu- 
merable experiments, was at length invented by the late Sir 



CXXVIII. 

Man's a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature, and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 

Some new experiment to show his parts ; 

This is the age of oddities let loose. 

Where different talents find thoir different marts ; 

You'd best begin with truth, and when you've lost 
youi • 

Labor," theu 's a sure market for imposture 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen . 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, [sockets ; 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in tlioir 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets. 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

CXXX. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes ; 

And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
But has not answer'd like the ai)paratus 

Of the Humane Society's beginning. 
By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 

What wondrous new machines has e late been spin- 
ning ! 
I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 
Perhaps it may be follow'd by the great 

CXXXI. 

'Tis said the great came from America ; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
The population there so spreads, they say 

'Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilization they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? 

LXXXII. 

Tliis is the patent age of new inventions 
For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 

All propagated with the best intentions 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern,* by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles^ 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 

Perhaps, as shooting them at tV'ateilco. 

CXXXIII. 

Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 

'Tis pity though, in this sublime world, that 

Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleasure f 

Few mortals know what end they would be at. 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know — and then — — 



Humphry Davy, P. R. S., in 1815, and has, no doubt, al- 
ready preserved thousands of miners from the dangers of 
the lire-damp.] 

6 [Jackson's Account of Tombuctoo, the great Emporium 
of Central Africa. — Narrative of Robert Adams, a Sailor. — 
Dr. Leyden's Discoveries in Africa, &c. &c — Sir Eaward 
Parry's three expeditions. — Captain Ross's Voyage of Dis- 
covery, &c. &c.] 

6 [" Not only pleasure's sin, but sin 's a pleasure." — MS.] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



C13 



CXXXIV 

What then? — I do not know, no more do you— 
And so g^ood night. — Return we to our story : 

'Twas in November, when fine days are few, 
And the far mountains wax a httle hoary, 

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue :' 
And the sea dashes round the promontory, 

And tho loud breaker boils against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

cxxxv. 

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ;' 
No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 

By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 
With the piled wood, round which the family crowd ; 

There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 
Even as a summer sky's without a cloud : 

I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,' 

A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.'' 

CXXXVI. 

'Twas midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before, 
And that they have been so we all have read, 

And are to be so, at the leastj once more ; — ■ 
Tho door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Madam 
—hist ! 

CXXXVII. 
" For God's sake. Madam — Madam — here's my mas- 

With more than half the city at his back — [ter,* 
Was ever heard of such a cursed disaster ! 

'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — Alack ! 
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly — 
Surely the window 's not so very high !" 

CXXXVIII. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived, 

With torches, friends, and servants in great number ; 
Tho major part of them had long been wived. 

And therefore paused not to distiu-b the slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
Were one not punish'd, all would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't Iteil how, or why, or what suspicion 

Could enter into Don Alfonso's head ; 
But for a cavalier of his condition 

It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 
Without a word of previous admonition, 

To hold a levee round his lady's bed. 
And summon lackeys, arm'd with fire and sword, 
To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 



1 [And lose in shining snow their summits blue." — MS.] 

2 [" 'Twas midnight— dark and sombre was the night," 
\&c.— MS.] 

3 [" And supp""-, punch, ghost-stories, and such chat." — 
MS.] 

■• [" Lady Mary W. Montague was an extraordinary wo- 
man : she could translate Epictetus, and yet write a song 
worthy of Aristippus — the hnes, 

' And when the long hours of the public are past. 
And we meet, with champagne and a chicken, at last, 
May every fond pleasure that moment endear ! 
Be banish'd afar both discretion and fear '.' &c. &c. 
There, Mr. Bowles !— what say you to such a supper with 
Baca a woman 1 ^nd her own description too ? It appears 



CXL. 

Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep, 

(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept,) 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to fling the bedclothes in a heap, 
As if she had just now from out them crept : 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, 

Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two. 

And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
Until the hours of absence should run through. 

And traant husband should return, ajid say, 

" My dear, I was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 

Now Julia foimd at length a voice, and cried, 

" In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d' ye mean? 

Has madness seized you ? would that I had died 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been !' 

What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 

Dare you suspect me, whom the thought would kill? 

Search, then, the room !" — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, therj search'd, and rummaged everywhere, 
Closet and clothes' press, chest and window-seat. 

And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 

With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords, 

And wounded several shutters, and some boards. 

CXLIV. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found- 
No matter what — it was not that they sought ; 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 

Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said naught ; 

And then they stared each others' faces round : 
'Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought, 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition, Julia's tongue' [cried, 

Was not asleep — " Yes, search and search," she 

" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong ! 
It was for this that I became a bride ! 

For this in silence I have suffer'd long 
A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 

But now I'll bear no more, nor here remain. 

If there be law zx lawyers, in all Spain. 

to me that this stanza contains the puree of the whole phi- 
losophy of Epicurus." — Lord Byron to Mr. Bowles.'i 

6 [" To-night, as Countess Guiccioli observed me poring 
over Don Juan, she stumbled by mere chance on the 137th 
stanza of the First Canto, and asked me what it meant. I 
told her, ' Nothing,— but your husband is coming.' As I 
said this in Italian with some emphasis, she started up in a 
fright, and said, 'Oh, my God, is he coming?' thinking it 
was her own. You may suppose we laughed when she found 
out the mistake. You will be amused, as I was ;— it hap 
pened not three hours ago." — Byron Letters, Nov. 8, 1819.3 
6 [" Ere I the wife of such a man had been !"— MS.] 
1 [" But while this search was making, JuUa's tongue " 
MSt] 



614 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto r. 



CXLVI. 

"Yes, Don Alfonso ! husband now no more, 

If ever you indeed deserved the name, 
Ts't worthy of your years? — you have threescore — • 

Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same — 
Is't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ': 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so'; 

CXLVII. 

" Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 

The common privileges of my sex? 
That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it would vex, 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married — 
How sorry you will be when I've miscarried ! 

CXLVIII. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo' e'er 

I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ? 
Is it for this I scarce went anywhere, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and revel? 
Is it for this, whate'er my suitors were, 

I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers,^ declares I used him vilely? 

CXLIX. 

" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 

Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 

Did not his countryman. Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 

Were there not also Russians, English, many? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain. 

And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 
" Have I not had two bishops at my feet? 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan Nunez ; 
And is it thus a faithful wife you treat ? 

I wonder in what quarter now the moon is: 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd trigger, 
Now, tell me, don't you cut a pretty figure ? 

CLI. 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
Under pretence of business indispensable 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney. 

Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible, 

Because, no doubi 'twas for his dirty fee, 

And not from any .ove to you nor me. 

CLII. 

*' If he comes here to take a deposition. 
By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 

You've made the apartment in a fit condition : — 
There's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 

Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd — 

But, as my maid 's undress'd, pray turn your spies out." 

" Oh !" sobb'd Antonia, " I could tear their eyes out." 



CLIII. 

" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber — search them under, over; 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 
The chimney — which would really hold a lover 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise, till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

And when 'tis found, let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIV. 

" And now, Hidalgo '. now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

Who is the man you search for? how d' ye call 
Him ? what's his lineage ? let him but be sliown — 

I hope he's young and handsome — is ho tall ? 
Tell me — and be assured, that since you stain 
My honor thus, it shall not be in vain 

CLV. 

" At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years. 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears. 
They are imworthy of my father's daughter ; 

]My mother dream'd not in my natal hour, 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 

" Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous. 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side. 

When you broke in upon us with your jpUows : 

Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, to hide ; 

Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Dress'd to receive so much good company. 

CLVIL 

" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

Tlio v/rongs to whose exposure it is slow : — 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'Twill one day ask you why you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Antonia ! where's my pocket-handkerchief" 

CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale 

She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, 

Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil. 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 

Her streaming hair ; the black curls strive, but fail, 
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears 

Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart. 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his myrmidons, of whom 
Not one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb. 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 



1 The Spanish " Cortejo" is much the same as the Italian 
" Cavalier Servente." 

a Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly did 
QOt take Algiers— but Algiers very nearly took him : h^and 



his army and fleet retreated with great loss, and not much 
credit, from before that city, in the year 1775. 
3 [" The chimney— fit retreat for any lover !" — MS ] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



615 



CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputations ho had little care ; 

So that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

Were proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI. 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in five hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much rigor, 

He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigor 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour, 

Quick, thick, and heavy— as a thunder-shower. 

cLxn. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 

To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs. 

And indications of hysterics, whose 

Prolocrue is always certain throes, and throbs. 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : 
Alfonso saw h\i wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw too, in perspective, her relations. 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer. 
But sage Antonia cut him short before 

The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 

With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, 

Or madam dies."— Alfonso mutter'd, " D— n her," 
But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 

He cast a rueiul look or two, and did. 

He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 

With him retired his " posse comitatus," 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him— not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus" 
In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 

An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 

The door was fasten'd in his legal face. 

CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than— Oh shame ! 

Oh sin ! Oh sorrow ! and Oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t'other too, be blind? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed— for there is more behind : 
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said. 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 

CLXVI. 

He had been hid— I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where — 

Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 
No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 

But pity him I neither must nor may 
His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 

'Twere better, sure, to dio so, than be shut 

With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt.' 



CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, 

At least 'twas rat'ner early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil." 

CLXVIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 

'Tis written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion. 

Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 
When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 

And that the medicine answer'd very well ; 
Perhaps 'twas in a diff'erent way applied. 
For David lived, but Juan nearly died 

CLXIX. 

What's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 

But no device could be brought into play — 

And how to parry the renew'd attack? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 

Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak. 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ^ 

Even then their love they could not all command, 
And half forgot their danger and despair : 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 

" Come, come, 'tis no time now for fooling there," 

She whisper'd, in great wrath — " I must deposite 

This pretty gentleman within the closet: 

CLXXI. 

" Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 
Who can have put my master in this mood ? 

What will become on't— I'm in such a fright. 
The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 

Is this a time for giggling? this a plight? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blood? 

You'll lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 

My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 

CLXXII. 

" Had it but been for a stout cavalier 

Of twenty -five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near : 
There, for the present, at the least, he's fast. 

And if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind, you must not sleep.)" 

CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she stay'd : 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 

She snuff'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew 



1 [ " than be put 

To dro-wE with Clarence in his Malmsey butt."— MS.] 



2 [" And reckon up our balance with the devil "—MS.) 



616 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



CLXXIV. 

Alfc:uoO paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding; 

H^i would not justify what he had done, 

To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding ; 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learu'd call " rigmarole." 

CLXXV. 

Julia said naught ; though all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows. 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose, — 
Even if it should comprise a pack of fables ; 

'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three 

CLXXVI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, — 

Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown, 

A lady with apologies abounds ; — 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear. 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear 

CLXXVII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes two ; 

Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, — 
Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd amongst his premises ; 'tis true, 

His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded : 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like th»-owing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact — 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff. 

But it will serve to keep my verse compact — ) 
Which keeps, vrhen push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady alway.^ distant from the fact : 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace, 
There's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
Have always done so ; 'lis of no great use, 

In any case, attempting a reply. 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they're out of breath, they sigh, 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 

A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 

And then — and then — and then — sit down and sup. 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon, 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 

And laid conditions he thought very hard on. 
Denying several little things he wanted: 



1 [" With base suspicion now no longer haunted."— MS.] 

» [For the incident of the shoes, Lord Byron was proba- 
bly indebted to the Scottish ballad,— 

" Our goodman came hame at e'en, and hame came he, 
He spy'd a pair of jack-boots where nae boots should be, 



He stood like Adam lingering near his garden. 

With useless penitence perplex'd and haunted,' 
Beseeching she no further would refuse, 
When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

-CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes !^ — what then? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve tc say) 
Were masculine ; to see them, and to seize, 

Was but a moment's act. Ah I well-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze ! 

Alfonso first examined wl.1 their fashion. 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish 'd sword. 

And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
" Fly, J uan, fly ! for heaven's sake — not a word — 

The door is open — you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. , 

None can say that this was not good advice. 
The only mischief was, it came too late ; 

Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfouso in his dressing-gown, 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him down. 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light ; 

Antonia cried out " Rape !" and Julia " Fire !" 
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night ; 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; 
His blood was up : though young, ho was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

CLXXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand. 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command. 

If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives ! 

And how ye may be doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe. 
And Juan throttled him to get away. 

And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow ; 
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 
And then his only garment quite gave way : 

He fled, like Joseph, leaving it ; but there, 

I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 



What's this now, goodw-ife ? What's this I see ? 
How came these boots there, without the leave o' D\e ! 
Boots ! quo' she : 
Ay, boots, quo' he. 
Shame fa' your cuckold face, and ill mat ye see, 
It's but a pair of wat er stoups the cooper sent to me," &c. 
— See Johnson's Musical Museum, vol. v. p 4t56 ] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



617 



CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who found 
An awlivvard spectacle their eyes before ; 

Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 

Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 
Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more : 

Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key aljout, 

And liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 

Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
How Juan, naked, favor'd by the night, 

Who favors what she should not, found his way,' 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day, 

The nine days' wonder which was brought to light, 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
The depositions, and the cause at full. 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, 

There's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull : 

The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney," 

Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

CXC. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals,' 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles: 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She had resolved that he should travel through 

All European climes, by land or sea. 
To mend his former morals, and get new, 

Especially in France and Italy, 
(At least this is the thing most people do.) 

Julia was sent into a convent : she 
Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 
Shown in the following copy of her Letter :— ^ 

CXCII. 

** They tell me 'tis decided ; you depart : 
'Tis wise — 'tis well, but not the less a pain ; 

I have no further claim on your young heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again ; 



1 [" Found— heaven knows how— his sohtary way," &,c. — 
MS.] 

2 [William Brodie Gumey, Esq., the eminent short-hand 
writer to the houses of parliament.] 

3 [" Since Rodericlc's Goths, or older Genseric's Vandals." 

—MS.] 

< [" Que les liommes sont heureiix d'aller a la guerre, 
d'exposer leur vie, de se livrer a Tenthousiasme de I'honneur 
et du danger ! Mais il n'y a rien au dehors qui soulage les 
femmes." — Corinne.'^ 

^ C" ' To mourn alone the love which has undone.' 
3r, 

' To lift our fatal 1 jve to God from man.' 

Take that whi"-h, d1 these three, seems the best prescrip- 
tion."— B.] 

« CWe have an indelicate, but very clever scene, of the 
young Juan s concealment in the bed of an amorous matron, 



78 



To love too much has been the only art 

I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears ; 
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIIL 

" I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem 

And yet can not regret what it hath cost. 
So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 

Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast. 

None can deem harshlicr of me than I deem: 

I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 

I've nothing to reproach or to request. 

CXCIV. 

" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,. 

'Tis woman's whole existence ; man may range 
The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. 

And few there are whom these cannot estrange ; 
Men have all these resources, we but one,* 
To love again,^ and be again undone.^ 

cxcv. 

" You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
For me on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core ! 
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion which still rages as before, — 
And so farewell — forgive me, love me — No, 
That word is idle now — but let it go.' 

CXGVL 

" My breast has been all weakness, is so yet ; 

But still I think I can collect my mind f 
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set. 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind ; 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
As vibrates my fond heart to my fi.x'd soul.^ 

CXCVIL 

" I have no more to say, but linger still, 
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 

And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 

My misery can scarce be more complete ; 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; [meet, 

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 

And I must even survive this last adieu. 

And bear with life, to love and pray for yqu !" 



and of the torrent of rattling and audacious eloquence with 
which she repels the too just suspicions of her jealous lord. 
All this is merely comic, and a little coarse :— but tlien the 
poet chooses to make this shameless and abandoned woman 
address to her young gallant an epistle breathing the very 
spirit of warm, devoted, pure, and unalterable love— thus 
profaning the holiest language of the heart, and indirectly 
associating it with the most hateful and degrading sensual- 
ism. Thus are our notions of right and wrong at once con- 
founded- -our confidence in virtue sliaken to the foundation 
— and our reliance on truth and fidelity at an end forever 
Of this it is that we complain.— Jeffbey.] 

( fatal r.rw 1 

7 [Or, " Thatwordis< lost for me >— Irutletitgo."- MSj 

( deadly now j 

8 [" I struggle, but can not collect my mind."— MS ] 
8 [" As turns the needle trembling to the pole 

It ne'er can reach— so turns ;o you my soul.' -^MS.l 



618 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto i. 



CXCVIII. 

This note was written upon gilt-edgea paper 
With a neat httle crow-quill, slight and new ;^ 

Her small white liand could hardly reach the taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do, 

And- yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 

The seal a sun-flower; " Elle votis suit partout,"'^ 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian ; 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 

I shall proceed with his adventures is 
Dependent on the public altogether ; 

We'll see, however, what they say to this, 
Their favor in an author's cap 's a feather, 

And no great mischief's done by their caprice ; 
And if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they'll have some more about a year hence. 

CC. 

My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing. 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,' 

A list of shipn, and captains, and kings reigning. 
New character!) ; the episodes are three :* 

A panoramic view of hell 's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 

CCI. 

All these things will be specified in time, 

With strict regard to Aristotle's rules. 
The Vadc Mecum of the true sublime, 

Which makes so many poets, and some fools : 
Prose poets like blank-verse, I'm fond of rhyme, 

Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 
I've got new mythological machinery. 
And very handsome supernatural scenery.' 



1 [" With a neat crow-quill, rather hard, but new." — MS.] 

2 [Lord Byron had himself a seal bearing this motto.] 

3 ["For your tempest, take Eurus, Zephyr, Anster, and 
Boreas, and cast them together in one verse : add to these, 
of rain, lightning, and thunder (the loudest you can,) quan- 
tum sufficit. Mix your clouds and billows well together till 
they foam, and thicken your description here and therewith 
a quicksand. Brew your tempest well in your head, before 
you set it a blowing. For a battle, pick a large quantity of 
images and descriptions from Homer's lUiad, with a spice 
or two of Virgil, and if there remain any overplus, you may 
lay them by for a skirmish. Season it well with similes, 
and it will make an excellent battle." — Swifi ; Recip:firan 
Epic.J 

4 [" And there are other incidents remaining 

Which shall be specified in fitting time, 

With good discretion, and in current rhyme." — MS] 

5 [Lord Byron can scarcely be said to have written an epic 
poem, if the definition of tlie Dictionnaire de Trevoux be 
right; — " Epique, qui appartient a la poesie h6roique, ou 
poeme qui decrit quelque action, signalee d'un heros. Le 
poeme (-pique est un discours invente avec art pour former 
les mcEurs par des instructions degnisi'es sous les allegories 
d'une actio'.'', importante, racontee d'une maniere vraiseni- 
blable et me -veilleuse. La difference qu'il y a entre le po- 
eme epique ec la tragi^die, c'est que dans le poeme epique 
les personnes n'y sent point introchiites aux yeux des spec- 
tateurs agissant par elles-memes, comme dans la trag6die ; 
mais faction est racontee par le poete." — Brydges.] 

6 [For your machineiy, take of deities, male and female, 
as many as you can use ; separate them into two equal parts, 
and keep Jupiter in the middle ; let Juno put him in a fer- 
ment, and Venus mollify him. Remember on all occasions 
to make use of volatile Mercury. If you have need of devils, 
draw them out ol Milton's Paradise, and extract your spirits 
from Tasso The use of these machines is evident ; and, 
since no epic poem can subsist without them, the wisest way 
IS to reserve them for your greatest necessities.— Swift.] 



ecu. 

There's only one slight diff'erence between 
Me and my epic brethren gone before. 

And here the advantage is my own, I ween ; 
(Not that I have not several merits more, 

But this will more peculiarly be seen ;} 
They so embellish, that 'tis quite a bore 

Their labyrint|;i of fables to thread through, 

Whereas this story 's actually true. 

CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts. 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel. 

To plays in five, and operas in three acts ;' 
All these confirm my statement a good deal. 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopeir.ent with the devil. 

CCIV. 

If ever I should condescend to prose, 

I'll write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things that no one knows, 
And carry precept to the highest pitch : 

I'll call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle,* 

Or, Every Poet his ow7i Aristotle." 

ccv. 

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope ; 

Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. 

The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy ;' 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy: 
Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 



' [" To newspapers, to sermons, which the zeal 

Of pious men have published on Iris acts." — MS.] 

8 [" I'll call the work ' Reflections o'er a Bottle.' "—MS.] 

s [" There are the Lakers, my lord ; ay, the whole school 
of Glaramara and Skiddaw and Dunmailraise, who have 
the vanity to be in the habit of undervaluing your poetical 
talents. Mr. Southey thinks you would never have thought 
of going over the sea had it not been for his Thalaba ; Mr. 
Wordsworth is humbly of opinion that no man in the world 
ever thought a tree beautiful, or a mountain grand, till he 
announced his own wonderful perceptions. Mr. Charles 
Lambe thinks you would never have written Beppo had he 
not joked, nor Lara had he not sighed. Mr. Lloyd half sus- 
pects your lordsliip has read his Nugas Canoras : now all 
these fancies are alike ridiculous, and you are well entitled 
t J laugh as much as you please at them. But there is one 
Laker who praises your lordship,— and why ? . Because your 
lordship praised him. This is Coleridge, who, on the 
strength of a little compliment in one of your notes, [see 
ante, p. 136,] ventured at last to open to the gaze of the day 
the long secluded loveliness of Christabel,— and with what 
effect his bookseller doth know. Poor Coleridge, Ijowever, 
although his pamphlet would not sell, still gloated over the 
puff; and he gave your lordship, in return, a great many rea- 
sonable good puffs in prose. You may do very well to quiz 
Wordsw^orth for his vanity, and Southey for his pompous- 
ness ; but what right have you to say any thing about Mr. 
Coleridge's drinking 7 Really, my lord, I have no scruple 
in saying, that I look upon that line of yours—' Coleridge is 
drunk,' &.c. as quite personal— shamefully personal. As 
Coleridge never saw Don Juan, or, if he did, forgot the 
whole affair next morning, it is nothing as regards him ; 
but what can be expected from his friends ? Has not auv 
one of them (if he has any) aperfect right, after reading that 
line, to print and publish, if he pleases, all tliat all the world 
has heard about your lordship's own life and conversation* 
And if any one of them should do so, w hat would you, my 
Lord Byron, think of it ?"— John Bull.] 



Canto i. 



DON JUAN. 



619 



CCVI. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his ; 

Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the Blues"— 
(There's one, at least, is very fond of this ;) 

Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
This is true criticism, and you may kiss — 

Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod ; 

But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G— d I 

CCVII. 

If any person should presume to assert 

This story is not moral, first, I pray. 
That they will not cry out before they'ra hurt, 

Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say, 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert,) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay : 
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go. 

CCVIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind. 

Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that ihey " the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies ; 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 
The public approbation I expect. 

And beg they'll take my word about the moral, 
Which I with their amusement will connect, 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) 
Meantime they'll doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, 
I've bribed my grandmother's review — the British.' 

ccx. 

I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 

I'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast. 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost. 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that'^vith this holy new alliance 

I may ensure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science. 

Daily, or monthly, or three monthly ; I 



1 [For the stricturesof " The British," on this and the fol- 
lowing stanza, see " Testimonies," No. XVI,, ante, p. 591. ; 
and compare Lord Byron's " Letter to the Editor of My 
Grandmother's Review," (post, Appendix.) — "I wrote to 
you by last post," says Lord B., Bologna, Aug. 24, 1819, 
" enclo.sing a biiltboning letter for publication, addressed to 
the butlbon Roberts, who has tho\ight proper tp tie a canis- 
ter to his own tail. It was written off-hand, and in the 
midst of circumstances not very favorable to facetiousness, 
so that there may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough 
for that sort of small acid punch."] 

2 [" Such treatment Horace would not bear, 

When warm with youth— when Tullus fiU'd the 
chair." — Francis.] 
' [" I thought of dyeing it the other day."— MS.] 
* " Me nee femina. nee puer 

Jam, nee spes animi credula mutui, 
• Nee certare juvat mero ; 

Nee vincire novis tenipora floribus." — Hon. 
["For me, alas ! these joys are o'er : 
For me the vernal garla.id blooms no more , 



Have not essay'd to multiply their clients. 

Because they tell me 'twere in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly 

CCXII. 

" Non ego Jwc ferttm calida juvenia 
Consule Planco,"'^ Horace said, and so 

Say I ; by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago 

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) 
I was most ready to return a blow, / 

And would not brook at all this sort of thing 

In my hot youth — when George the Third was King 

CCXIII. 

But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 

I thought of a peruke the other day' — ) 

My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 

Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 

Have spent my life, both interest and principal. 

And deem not, what I deem'd, my soid invincible. 

CCXIV. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more on me 
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 

Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee, 

Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew 1 

Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 

To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

ccxv. 

No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 

Thou canst aot be my blessing or my curse • 

The illusion 's gone forever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 

And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 

Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 

CCXVI. 

My days of love are over ; me no more'' 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow, 

Can make the fool of which they made before, — 
In short, I must not lead the life I did do ; 

The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, 
The copious use of claret is forbid too. 

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 

I think I must take up with avarice.^ 



No more the feats of wine I prove, 

Nor the delusive hopes of mutual love." — Francis.] 
s [His constant recurrence to the praise of avarice in Don 
Juan, and the humorous zest with which he delights to dwell 
on it, show how new-fangled, as well as how far from seri- 
ous, was his adoption of the " good old gentlemanly vice." 
That his parsimony, however, was very far from being of 
that kind which Bacon condemns as " wil bholdmg men from 
works of liberality," is apparent from all that is known of 
his munificence at this very period. — Mooke.] 

" Charity— purchased a shilling's worth of salvation. If 
that was to be bought, I have given more to my fellow- 
creatures in this life— sometimes for vice, but, if not more 
often, at least more considerably, for virtue — than I now 
possess. I never in my life gave a mistress so much as I 
have sometimes given a poor man in honest distress. But, 
no matter ! The scoundrels who have all along persecuted 
me will triumph — and when justice is done to me, it wulbe 
when this hand that writes is as cold as the hearts whit:Ii 
have stung it."— i?yron Diari/, 1821.] 



620 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto 



CCXVII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 

Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; 

And the two last have left me many a token. 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, liko Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
" Time is, Time was, Time 's past :'" — a chymic 
treasure 

Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes — 

My heart hi passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the fend of Fame ?^ 'tis but to fill 

A certain portion of micertain paper : 
Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor;' 
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, 

And bards burn what they call their " midnight 
To have, when the original is dust, [taper," 

A name, a wretched picture,* and worse bust.' 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King 

Cheops erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
But somebody or other rummaging 

Burglariously broke his coffin's lid : 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.® 

ccxx. 

But I being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
AJl things that have been born were born to die. 

And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass ; 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly, 

And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse, 
Aaid read your Bible, sir, and mind y«ur purse." 

ccxxi. 

But for the present, gentle reader ! and 

Still gentler purchaser I the bard — that's I — 

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,' 
And so your humble servant, and good-b'ye ! 

We meet again, if we should understand 
Each other ; and if not, I shall not try 

Yoiu: patience further than by this short sample — • 

'Twere well if others foUow'd my example. 



1 [The old legend of Friar Bacon says, that the brazen 
head which he formed capable of speech, after uttering suc- 
cessively, ■' Time is" — "Time was" — and " Time is past," 
the opportunity of catechizing it having been neglected, 
tumbled itself from tlie stand, and was shattered into ,a 
thousand pieces.] 

2 [.•' Out of spirits— read the papers— thought what Fame 
was, or reading, in a case of murder, ' that Mr. Wych, gro- 
cer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is 
believea, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused. He 
had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of 
Pamela, which he was tearing for wa.s/epflpfr, &c. &c. In the 
cheese was found, &c., and a leaf of Pamefa wrapped round 
ttie bacon I' What would Richardson, the vainest and luck- 
iest of Uvin<T authors (i. e. while alive)— he who, with Aaron 
Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall 
of Fielding, (the prose Homer of human nature,) and of Pope 
(the most beautiful of poets)— whatwould he liave said, could 
he have traced his pages from their place on the French prin- 
ces' toilets, (see Bosvvell's Johnson,) to the grocer's counter, 
and the gipsy-murderer's bacon ! ! V'—Bijron Diary, 1821.] 

3 [" Ah ! who can tell how hard it is to cRj/ib 

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar," 

&.C. — Beattie.] 

* [" It is impossible not to regret that Lord Byron, being 

the contemporary of Lawrence and Chantrey, never sat to 

either of those unrivalled artists, whose canvass and marble 

have fixed, \vth such magical felicity, the very air and ges- 



CCXXII. 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 

The world will find thee after many days."* 
When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help puttingf in my claim to praise — 
The four first rhymes are Southey's 'every line: 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Oh ye I who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spahi, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions. 

It mends their morals, never mind the pain : 

The best of mothers and of educations 

In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain. 

Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty." 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
In the third form, or even in the fourth, 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool. 

At least, had he been nurtured in the north ; 

Spain may prove an exception to the rule. 

But then exceptions always prove its worth — 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 

I can't say that it puzzles me at all, 

If all things be considered: first, there was 

His lady-mother, mathematic'al^ 

A never mind ; — his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman — (that's quite natural. 

Or else the thing had hardly come to pass ;) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

tares of the other illustrious men of this age — our Welling 
tons, our Cannings, our Scotts, and Southeys." — Quart. Rev. 
vol. xliv. p. 221.] 

6 [" A book — a damn'd bad picture— and worse bust." — 
MS.J 

6 [Tnis stanza appears to have been suggested by the fol- 
lowing passage in the Quarterly Review, vol. xix. p. 203 :— 
"It was the opinion of the Egyptians, that the soul never de- 
serted the body while the latter continued in a perfect state. 
To secure this opinion, King Cheops is said, by Herodotus, 
to have employed three hundred and sixty thousand of his 
subjects for twenty years in raising over the ' angusta do- 
mus' destined to hold his remains, a pile of stone equal m 
weight to six millions of tons, which is just three times that 
of the vast Breakwater thrown across Plymouth Sound ; 
and, to render this precious dust still more secure, the nar- 
row chamber was made accessible only by small, intricate 
passages, obstructed by stones of an enormous weight, and 
so carefully closed exteifnally asnot ^o be perceptible. Yet, 
how vain are all the precautions of man 1 Kot a bone 
was left of Cheops, either in the stoue coffin, or nthe vatlt, 
when Shaw entered the gloomy chamber."] 
' t" Must bid you both farewell in accents bla id." — MS.J 
8 [See Southey's Pilgrimage to Waterloo, subfine.'l * 
8 [" Begun at Venice, December 13, 1818,— finished Jan- 
uary 20, 1819."— ifyron.] 

11 [" Lost that most precious stone of stocc* — lis modes- 
ty."— MS.] 



Canto ii. 



DON JUAN. 



621 



IV. 

Well — wtill, the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 

And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 

The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame. 

Fighting, devotion, dust, — perhaps a name. 



I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz — 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is, 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel,) 
And such sweet girls — I mean, sucla graceful ladies. 

Their very walk would make your loosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much it strike. 
Nor liken it — I never saw the like :' 

VI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle, 
No — none of these will do ; — and then their garb ! 

Their veil and petticoat — Alas ! to dwell 
Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto — then their feet and ankles, — well, 
Thank Heaven I've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse — come, let's be steady — 

VII 

Chaste Muse ! — well, if you must, you must) — the veil 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, ^ 

While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale. 
Flashes into the heart : — All sunny land 

Of love ! when I forget you, may I fall 

To say my prayers — but never was there plann'd 

A dress througli which the eyes give such a volley, 

Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli.'' 

VIII 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not answer'd her intout, 

But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 
'Twas for a voyage that the young man was meant, 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark. 
To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 
And send him hke a dove of promise forth. 

IX, 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 

According to direction, then received 
A lee' 'ire and some money : for four springs 

lie v» as to travel ; and thrng-h Inez grieved, 
(As every kind of parting has its stings,) 

She hoped he would improve — perhaps believed : 
A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 
Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 



' [" But d n me if I ever saw the like."— MS.] 

» Fazzzo/j— literally, little handkerchiefs— the veils most 
availing of St. Mark. 

3 [" Their manners mending, and their morals curing, 
She taught them to suppress their vice — and urine." 
—MS.] 

* [" Hogg wmes me, that Scott is gone to the Orkneys in 
a gale of wind , — during which wind he affirms the said 
Siott ' he is surb is not at his ease, to say the best of it.' 
Lord, Lord ! if these home-keeping minstrels had tasted a 
atlle open boating in a white squall— or a gale in ' the Gat' 



X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 

For naughty children, who would rather play 
(Like truaiit rogues) the devil, or the fool : 

Infants of tlireo years old were taught that duy, 
Dances were whipp'd, or set upon a stool: 

The great success of Juan's education, 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation.^ 

XI. 

Juan em- srk'd — the ship got under way, 

The v^ind was fair, the water passing rough : 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay,^ 

As I, who've cross'd it oft, know well enough ; 

And standing upon the deck, the dashing spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough 

And there he stood to take, and take again, 

His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII 

I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters ; it unmans one quite. 
Especially when life is rather new : 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white, 
But almost every other country 's blue. 

When gazing on them, mystified by distance, 

We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 

So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailors swore. 
And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 

From which away so fair and fast they bore. 
The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness :^ try it, sir, before 
You sneer, and I assure you this is true. 
For I have found it answer — so may you. 

XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stem, 

Beheld his native Spain receding far : 
First partings form a lesson hard to learn. 

Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 
There is a sort of une.xpress'd concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 
At leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave. 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife, 

So that he had much better cause to grieve. 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

No dcubt we weep for those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 



—how it would enliven and introduce them to a few of the 
sensations."— i?yro» Letters, 1814.] 

6 [Aly friend, Dr Granville, in his Travels to St. Peters- 
burg, 1829, says th.at "sea-sickness consists of vomiting — 
or somethmg like it," and that the true way to e.scape the 
malady, is to take 45 drops of laudanum at .starting, and as 
often afterwards as uneasiness recurs. Dr. Kitchener ob- 
serves, that the beef-sleak, recommended by Lord Byron, 
can suit only a very young and vigorous stomach on such 
occasions, and advises his pupil to adhere to salted fish and 
devils, with quant, suff. of hock or brandy in soda water. — 
Hill.] 



622 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



XVI. 

So .T'v.n wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I'd wjcp,— but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 

Themselves ; and the next time their servants tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Tua'j wept, and much he sigh'd and thought, 

VVhil'j his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 

' Sweetd to the sweet ;" (I like so much to quote ; 

You must excuse this extract, — 'tis where she. 

The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave ;) and, sobbing often, he 

Reflected on his present situation. 

And seriously resolved on reformation 

XVIII. 

" Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !" he cried, 

" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 

Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 
Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 

Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er, 
Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he drew 
Her letter out again, and read it through.) 

XIX. 

" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 

Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair I 
Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick.) 

XX. 

" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (here he fell sicker) 
Oh, Julia ! what is every other wo? — 

(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor ; 
Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) 



1 fin 1799, while Lord Byron was the pupil of Dr. Glennie, 
at Dulwitb, ^inong the books that lay accessible to the boys 
was a pamphlet, entitled " Narrative of the Shipwreck of the 
Juno on the Coast of Arracan, in the Year 1795." The 
pamphlet attracted but little public attention ; but, among 
the young students of Dulwich Grove it was a favorite 
study : and the impression which it left on the retentive 
mind of Byron rnay have had some share, perhaps, in suggest- 
ing that curious research through all the various accounts of 
shipwrecks upon record, by which he prepared himself to 
depict, with such power, a scene of the same description in 
Don Juan. ... As to the charge of plagiarism brought against 
him by some scribblers of the day, for so doing,— with as 
muchjustice might the Italian author, who wrote a Discourse 
on the Military Science displayed by Tasso in his battles, 
have reproached that poet with the sources from which he 
drew his knowledge ;— with as much justice might Puysegur 
and Segrais, who have pointed out the same merit in Homer 
and Virgil, have withheld their praise, because the science on 
which this merit was founded, must have been derived by the 
skill and industry of these poets from others. So little v.-as 
Tasso ashamed of those casual imitations of other poets 
which are so often branded as plagiarisms, that, in his Com- 
mentary on his Rime, ho takes pains to point out whatever 
coincidences of this kind occur in his own verses.— Moore. 

" With regard to the charges about the Shipwreck, I think 
that I told you and Mr. Hobhouse, years ago, that there 
was notas-ngle circumstance of it not taken from fact ; 
not, indeed, from any single shipwreck, but all from actual 
facts of different wrecks." — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray. 

" Of late, some persons have been nibbling at the reputa- 
tion of Lord Fiyron. by charging him with plagiarism. There 
js u cunous cliaige of this idnd lately published, w hich re- 



Julia, my love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 

Oh Julia I — (this cursed vessel pitches so) — 
Belovet lul'a, hear me still beseeching I" 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching) 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art. 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends. 

Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
Of us dies with them as each fond hope ends : 

No doubt he would have been much more pathetic. 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power : I've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold. 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 

Against all noble maladies he's bold. 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet. 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower region of the bowels ; 

Love, who heroically breathes a vein. 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign. 

Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar. 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

XXIV. 

The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada,'" 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moucada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had beer< sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 



dounds, m reality, to the noble author's credit. Every one 
who has looked into the sources from which Shakspeare 
took the stories of his plays, must know that in ' Julius Cae- 
sar' and ' Coriolanus,' he has taken whole dialogues, with 
remarkable exactness, from North's translation of Plutarch. 
Now, it IS that very circumstance which impresses those 
plays with the stamp of antique reality, which the general 
knowledge of the poet could not have enabled him to com- 
municate to them." — Times. 

PLnTAEOH. — " I am Caius Martius, who hafh done to thy 
sclfe particularly, and to all the Volsccs generally, great hurt 
end mi'scAie/e. which I cannot denie for my surname of Corio- 
lanus that I beare. For I never had other benefit nor rec- 
ompense of the true and painefull service I have done, and 
the extreme dangers I have bene in, but this onely surname ; 
a good memorie and witnesse of the malice and displeasure thou 
shouldcst bear me. Indeed, the name only rcmaineth with mo : 
for the rest, the envie and crueltie of the people of Rome have 
taken from me, by the sufferance of the dastardly nobtlitie 
and magistrates, who have forsaken me, and let me be banished 
by the people. That extremitie hath now driven me to come 
as a poor suter, to take thy chimnie harth, not of any hope T 
have to save my life thereby. For if I had feared deat.'i, i 
would not come hither to put myself in hazard." 

Shakspeare — 

" My name is Caius Martius u'ho hath done 
To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, 
Great hurl and mischief ; thereto witness may 
My surname, Coriolanus : The painful service. 
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood 
Shed for my thankless country, are requited 
But with that rvrname : a good memory, 



Canto ii. 



DON JUAN. 



623 



XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, tliB licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who seversil languages did understand, 

But now ky sick and speechless on his pillow, 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His hoadacho being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'Twas not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

And though 'twas not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a diiFerent kind: 
At sunset they began to take in sail. 

For the sky show'd it would come on to blow, 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 

Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift, 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out her present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found.' 

XXVIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; 

Bat they could not come at the leak as yet ; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet : 
The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
While the)' thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
muslin,^ 

XXIX. 
Into the opening ; but all such ingredients [down. 

Would have been vain, and they must have gone 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 

But for tlie pumps ; I'm glad to make them known 
To all the orother tars who may haye need heuce, 

For fifty tons of water were upthrowu 
By them per hour, and they had all been undone. 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London.^ 



Avd witness of the malice and displeasure 

Which thou skouldst bear me : only that rtame remains ; 

The cruelly and envy of the people, 

Permitted by our dastard nobles, who 

Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the res 

And sulfer'd me by the voice of slaves to bt 

AVhoop'd out of Rome. Now, this extremity . 

Hath brought me to thy hearth ; Not out of hope, 

Mistake me not, to save my life ; for if 

/ had fear' d death, of ail men i' the world 

I would have 'voided thee." 

Coriolanus, Act 4th, Scene 5th.] 

1 [" Nigfit came on worse than the day had been ; and a 
sudden shift of wind, about midnight, threw the ship into the 
trough of the sea, which struck her aft, tore away the rudder, 
started the stern-post, and shattered the whole of her stern frame. 
The pumps were immediately sounded, and in the course of a 
few minutes the water had increased to four feet." — Loss of 
the H<j7cules ] 

5 [" One gang was instantly put on them, and the remainder of 
the people employed in gelling vp rico from the run of the ship, 
nnd heaving it over, to come at the leak, if possible. After 
three or four hundred bags were thrown into the sea, we did 
get at it, and found the water rushing into the ship with as- 
tonishing rapidity ; therefore we thrust sheets, shirts, jackets. 



XXX. 

As day advanced the weather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 

A squall came on, and while some guns broke loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends.'' 

XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; 

The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks,* 
And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
Or any other thiug that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks . 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers. 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 

Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went, 

The mainmast follow'd : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bcWr-sprit were cut down, and they 
Eased her at last, (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope wSs blighted,) 

And then with violence the old ship righted.^ 

XXXIIL 

It may be easily supposed, Mdiile this 

Was going on, some people were unquiet, 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXIV. 

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
As rum and true religion : thus it was, 

Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass [qualms 

The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured the 
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 

Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 

Clamor'd m chorus to the roaring ocean. 

bales of muslin, and every thing of the like description that 
could be got, into the opening." — Loss of the Hercules.] 

3 [" Notwithstanding the pumps discharged fifty tons of wa- 
ter an hour, the ship certainly /nust have gone down, had not 
our expedients been attended with some success. The pumps, 
to the excellent construction of which I owe the preserva- 
tion of my life, were made by Mr. ilann of London.'^ — Ibid.'\ 

* [" As the next day advanced, the weather appeared to moder- 
ate, the men continued incessantly at the pumps, and every 
exertion was made to keep the ship afloat. Scarce was this 
done, when a gust, exceeding in violence every thing of the kind 
I had ever seen, or could conceive, laid the ship on her beam ends." 
— Loss of the Centaur.'i 

6 [" The ship lay motionless, and to all appearance, irrevo- 
cably overset. The joaler forsook the hold, and a.p'pea.red be- 
tween decks." — Ibid.2 

6 [" Immediate directions were given to cut away the main 
and mizenmasts, trusting, when the ship righted, to be able 
to wear her. On cutting one or two lanyards, the mizen-mast 
toent first oner, but without producing the smallest effect on 
the ship, and, on cutting the lanyard of one shroud, the main- 
mast followed. 1 had the mortification to see the foremast 
and bowsprit also go over. On this, the ship immediately righted 
with great violence." — Ibid.] 



624 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



XXXV. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for' 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his yeeirs, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It witli a pair of pistols ; and their fears. 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door ' 
Of fire than water, spile of oaths and tears. 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk. 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk.'' 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd, " No ! 

'Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes :" — and thus his dangerous post kept he,^ 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

Nothing should tempt him more (this peril pass'd) 
To quit his academic occupation, • 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gone, 
The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shore. 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate eflbrts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail.* 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd. 
And for the moment it had some effect f 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast. 
Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 

But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, 
'Tis never too late to bo wholly wreck'd : 



1 [" Perhaps the whole would have got drunk, but for." 
—MS.] 

2 [" A midshipman was appointed to guard the spirit-room, 
to repress that unhappy desire of a devoted crew to die in a 
state of intoxication. The sailors, though in other respects 
orderly in conduct, here pressed eagerly upon him." — Loss 
of the Abergavenny.] 

3 [" ' Give us some grog,^ they exclaimed, ' it viill be all one 
an hour hence.' — J know loe must die,' replied the gallant offi- 
cer, coolly, ' hut let us die like men ." — armed with a brace of 
pistols, he kept his post, even while the ship was sinking.'", 
—Ibid.2 

* [" However, by great exertion of the chain-pump, we 
held our ov-n. All who were not seamen by profession, had 
been employed in thrumming a sail." — Ibid.} 

° [ '^ which was passedunder the ship's bottom, and I though^ 

had some eSecV'—IOid.] 

« f " 'Tis ugly dying in the Gulf of Lyons."— MS.] 

' [" The ship labored so much, that I could scarce hope she 
would swim till morning : our sufferings were very great for 
want of water." — Loss of the Abergavenny.} 

6 [" The loeather again threatened, Kndby noon it blew a storm. 
The ship labored greatly ; the water appeared in the fore and 
after hold. The leathers were nearly consumed, and the chains 
of the pumps, by constant exertion, and friction of the coils, 
were rendered almost useless."— Ibid.} 

["At length, the carpenter came up from below, and told 
the crew, who were working at the pumps, he could do no 



And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons ® 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from 
_ thence, 

Without their will, they carried them away j 
For they were forced with steering to dispense. 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
Still s^am — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
But the ship labor'd so, they scarce could hope 

To V eather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess^ 
Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight. 

Naught but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLIL 

Again the weather threaten'd, — again blew' 

A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 

All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
Until the chains and leathers were worn through 

Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd. 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIIL 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 

Could do no more : he was a man in years. 

And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea, 

And if he wept at length,^ they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, — 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now'° 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone. 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints" — but there were none 



more for them. Seeing their efforts useless, many of them 
burst into tears, and wept hke children." — Loss of the Aber- 
gavenny.} 

1" [" I perceived the ship settling by the head." — Ibid.^ 
11 [The following extract is taken from Lord Byron's own 
copy of Erasmus's Dialogues. The delightful colloquy en- 
titled " Naufragium" must, as it is obvious from his lordship's 
pencil-marks, have been much in his hands :— " Aderat An- 
glus quidam, qui promittebat monies aureos Virgini Wal- 
samgamicaj, si vivus attigisset terram : alii multa promit- 
tebant ligno crucis, quod asset in tali loco. Unum audivi, 
non sine risu, qui clara voce, ne non exaudiretur, poUice- 
retur Christophoro, qui est Lutetiae in summo templo, mons 
verius quam statua, cereum tantum quantus esset ipse. Hoec 
cum vociferans quantum poterat identidem inculcaret, qui 
forte proximus assistebat illi notus, cubito ilium tetigit, ac 
submonuit : Vide quid pollicearis : etiamsi rerum omnium 
tuarum auctionem facias, non fueris solvendo. Turn ille, 
voce jam pressiore, ne videlicet exaudiret Christophorus : 
Tace, inquit, fatue ! An credis me ex annno loqui ? .Si semel 
contigero terram, non daturus sum illi candelam sebacc- 
am '." " There was there a certain Englishman, who prom- 
ised golden mountains to Our Lady of Walsingham, if he 
touched land again. Others promised many tilings to the 
Wood of the Cross, which was in such a place. I he~ardcne, 
not without laughter, who, with a clear voice, lest he should 
not be heard, promised Christopher, who is at Paris, on the 
top of a church, — a mountain more truly than a statue,— a 
wax candle as big as he was himself. When, bawling out as 



Canto ii. 



DON JUAN. 



625 



To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 

Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was one 
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
Who told him to be damu'd — in his confusion.' 

XLV. 
Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on 

Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; 
And others went on as they had begun. 

Getting the boats out, being well aware, 
That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee? 

XLVI. 

The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'Twas difficult to get out such provision 

As now might render their long suffering less: 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ;^ 

Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter. 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 

Water, a twenty -gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 

A portion of their beef up from below,^ 
And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 

But scarce euougli to serve them for a luncheon — 

Then there was rum, eight gallons m a puncheon. 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pmnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale f 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad. 
As there were but two blankets for a sail,' 

And one oar for a mast, which a- young lad 
Threv/ in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters : like a veil, 



hard as he could, the man reiterated this offer, an acquaint- 
ance tliat by chance stood next; known to him, touched him 
with his elbow, and said — ' Have a care wliat you promise ; 
though you make an auction of all your goods, you'll not be 
able to pay.' Then he says, with a voice now lower, to wit, 
lest Christopher should hear,—' Hold your tongue, you fool ; 
do you tliink I speak from my heart ? If once I touch land, 
I'll not give him a tallow candle.' "—Clarke's Translation.'^ 

J [" You cannot imagine," says Cardinal de Retz, {who 
narrowly escaped shipwreck in the Gulf of Lyons)—" the 
horror of a great storm : you can as little imagine the ridicule 
of it. Everybody were at their prayers, or were confessing 
themselves. The private captain of the galley caused, in 
the greatest height of the danger, his embroidered coat and his 
red scarf to be brought to him, saying, that a true Spaniard 
ought to die bearing his king's marks of distinction. He sat 
himself down in hfs great elbow-cha§, and with his foot 
struck a poor Neapolitan in the chops, who not being able 
to stand, was crawling along, crying out aloud, ' SenhorDon 
Fernando, por I'amor de Dies, confession.' Tlie captain, 
when he struck him, said to him, 'Inimigo de Dios piedes 
confession 1' and on my representing to him, that his inter- 
ference was not right, he said that that old man gave offence 
to the whole galley. A Sicilian Observancine monk was 
preaching at the fool of the great mast, that St. Francis had 
appealed to him, and had assured him that we should not 
pensn. I should never have done, were I to describe all 
the ridiculous sights that are seen on these occasions."] 

s [" Some appeared perfectly resigned, went to their ham- 
rr.ocks, and desired their messmates to lash them in ; others 
were for securing themselves to gratings and small rafts ; 



79 



Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
Of one whose fate is mask'd but to assail.' 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shovsT), 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 

And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here, 



Some trial had been making at a raft. 

With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd,' 

If any laughter at such times could be, 
Unless with people who too much have quaff'd, 

And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 
Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 
Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cas' /oose, 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars,' 
For yet they strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their crews ; 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short." 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 

Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, 

Then some leap'd overboaid with dreadful yell," 
As eager to. anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell. 

And down she suck'd with her the whirhng wavej 

Like one who grapples with his enemy. 

And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIIL 

And first one miiversal shriek there nish'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd. 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. '^ 



but the most predominant idea was that of putting on their 
best and cleanest clothes. The boats were got over the side." 
— Abergavenny.'] 

3 [" Men will prove hungry, even when next perdition." 
-MS.] 

* [" Eight bags of rice, six flasks of wine, and a small quan- 
tity of salted beef and pork, were put into the long-boat, as 
provisions for tlie whole."— Wreck of the Sydney.] 

5 [" The yawl was stove alongside and sunk."— Centaur.'] 

6 [" One oar was erected for a main-mast, and the other 
bent to the breadth of the blankets for a sail."— Loss of the 
Wellington Transport.'} 

' [" Which being withdrawn, discloses but the frown 
Of one who hates us, so the night was shown," &;c —MS.] 

8 [" As rafts had been mentioned by the carpenter, I 
thought it right to make the attempt. It was impossible for 
any man to deceive himself with the hopes of being saved 
on a raft in such a sea as this."— Centaur.} 

^ [" Spars, booms, hencoops, and every thing buoyant, were 
therefore cast loose, that the men might have some chance 
to save themselves."— Loss of the Pandora.] 

10 [" We had scarcely quitted the ship, when she gave a 
heavy lurch to port, and then went down, head foremost."~Lady 
Hobart.'i 

11 [" At this instant, one of the ofBcers told the captain she 
was going down, and bidding him farewell, leapt overboard : 
the crew had just time to leap overboard, which they did, ut- 
tering a most dreadful yell." — Pandora.] 

" [How accurately has Byron described the whole pro- 



62G 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



LIV. 

The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 
And then they were too many, though so few — 

Nine ill the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LV. 

All the rest perish'd : near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies ; and what 's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 

They must wait several weeks before a mass. 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what 's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care. 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case : 

Battista, though, (a name call'd shortly Tita,) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LVII. 

Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss. 

Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave. 
As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 

And so he found a winie -and- watery grave ; 
They could not rescue him although so close. 

Because the sea ran higher every minute. 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jdse's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 

For on such things tlie memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !) 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 

Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd.^ 

LIX. 

He also stuff'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too. 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would. 
Not knowing what h mself to say, or do. 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 

But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill. 

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 



gress of a shipwreck, to the final catastrophe .'—Sir John Bar- 
row : Histor,y of the Bounty.'\ 

1 r" The boat, being fastened to the rigging, was no sooner 
cleared of the greatest part of the water, than a dog of mine 
came to me running along the gunwale. / took him in."— 
Shipwreck of the Betset/.] 

2 [" It blew a violent storm, so that between the seas the 
sail was becalmed ; and when on the top of the louve, it loas 
too much to he set, but we could not venture to take it in, for 
we were in very imminent danger and distress ; the sea curl- 
ing over the stern of the boat, which obUgcd us to bale with all 
our mi^ht." — Bligh's Open Boat Navigation. See BarroAWS 
Eventful History, p. 99.] 



I.X. 

'Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the v/ave's high top too much to set, 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease," 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 

Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; 

Though every wave roU'd menacing to fill. 
And present peril all before surpass'd,^ 

They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 

The sun n^se red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run 

Before the sea until it should grow fine; 

Was all that for the present could be dcjie : 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Were served out to the people, who begim* 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 

Which left scarce room for motion or exertion ; 

They did their best to modify their case. 

One half sate up, though iiumb'd with the immersion, 

While t'other half were laid down in their place. 
At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat. 

With nothing but th*e sky for a great coat* 

LXIV. 

'Tis veiy certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it : this is obvious to physicians. 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions. 

Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

'Tis said that persons living on annuities 

Are longer lived than others, — God knows why. 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is. 
That some, I really think, do never die : 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is. 

And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my young days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

1 

s [" Before It was dark, a blanket was discovered in the 
boat. This was immediately bent to one of the stretchers, 
and under it, as a sail, we scudded all night, in expectation 
of being swallowed by every leavc.'' — Centam.] 

* C" The sun rose red and fiery, a sure indication of a severe 
gale of wind. — We could do nothing more than run before 
the sea.— 7 served a tea-spoonful of rum to every person. The 
bread we found was damaged and rotten." — Blioh.] 

6 [" As our lodging was very wretched and confined for 
want of room, I endeavored to remedy this defect, by putting 
ourselves at watch and watch ; SO that one half always sat up, 
while the other lm\( lay down in the bottom of the boat, with 
nothing to cover us but the heavens." — /Atd.] 



Canto n. 



DON JUAN. 



G27 



LXVI. 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be beheved, or even thought, 

And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear ; 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 

Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo. 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production. 

And must have meals, at least one meal a day 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey: 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way. 

Your laboring people think beyond all question, 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVII I. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm. 
And though at first their strength it might renew, 

And lying on their weariness like bahn, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision. 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 

LXIX 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 

They ato up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

They jioped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine. 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle. 

It would have beeii more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth dnj came, but not a breath of air,' 
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child: 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there. 

The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do? and hunger's rage grew 
wild : 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating." 



1 [" The iburth day came, and not a breath of air, &c."— 
Bligh.] " 

2 [" The fourth day we began to suffer exceedingly from 
aunger and thirst. I then seized my dog, and phniged my 
snife into his throat. We cauglit his blood in the hat, re- 
ceiving in our hands and drinking what ran oxer; we after- 
wards drank in turn out of the iiat, and felt ourselves re- 
freshed." — Shipwreck of the Betsey.] 

3 [" Now, however, when Mr. Byron was at home w'ith 
his dog, a party came to tell him their necessities were such, 
that they must eat the dog or starve. In spite of Mr. B.'s 
desire to preserve the faithful animal, they took him by force 
and killed him. Thinking he was entitled to a share, he 
partook of their repast. Three weeks afterwards, recollect- 
ing tlie spot where the dog was killed, he went to it, aad was 
glad to make a nrieal of the paws and sA:in."— Commodoke By- 
son's t\ai ralive.'\ 

< [Tlie fact of men, m extreme cases, destroying each 
other loi the sake of appeasing hunger, is but too well es- 
Ui": Ushcl— and to a great extent, onlhe raft of the French 



LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
And Juan, who had still refused, becauG6 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all tlie vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received (though first denied) 
As a great favor one of the fore-paws,^ 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea, 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 

They glared upon each other — all was done. 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knew, 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found: 

And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood. 

And who should die to be his fellow's food.* 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day sliared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain'd of shoes; 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 

At length the lots were torn up,^ and prepared. 
But of materials that much shock the Muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better. 

They took hy force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
handed. 

In silent horror," and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'Twas nature gnaw'd them to this resolution. 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 



frigate Meduse, when wrecked on the coast of Africa, and 
also on the rock in the Mediterranean, when the Nautilus 
frigate was lost.— Sir John Barrow.] 

6 [" Being driven to distress for want of food, they soaked 
their shoes, and two hairy caps which were among them, in 
the water ; which being rendered soft, each partook of them. 
But day after day having passed, and the cravings of hunger 
pressing hard upon them, they fell upon the horrible and 
dreadful expedient of eating each other ; and m order to 
prevent any contention aboul^who should become the food 
of the others, they cast lots to determine the sufferer." — 
Sufferings of the Crew of the Thomas.] 

6 [" The lots were drawn : the captain, summoning all his 
strength, wrote upon slips of paper the name of each man, 
folded them up, put them into a hat, and shook them to- 
gether. The crew, meanwhile, preserved on auful silence; 
each eye was fixed and each mouth open, while terror was 
strongly impressed upon every countenance. The unhappy 
person, with manly fortitude resigned himself to his miser- 
able associates." — Famine in the American Ship Peggy.l 



628 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



LXXVI. 

■He but requested to be bled to death : 

The surgeon had his instruments, and bled' 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath, 

You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most in the belief in which they're bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

Aui then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee. 

Had his first choice of morsels for his pains ; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 

Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins :" 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea. 

And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who followed o'er the billow — 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

Lxxvin. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
W^o were not quite so fond of animal food ; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 
'Twas not to be expected that he should, 

Even in extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX 

'Twas better that he did not ; for, in fact, 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act. 

Went raging mad' — Lord ! how they did blaspheme ! 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions rack'd. 
Drinking salt-water like a mountain-stream. 

Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, swearing. 

And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this infliction, 
And all the rest were thin enough. Heaven knows ; 

And some of them had lost their recollection. 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 

But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 
As if not wam'd sufficiently by those 

Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 

For having used their appetites so sadly. 



1 [" He requested to be bhd to death, the surgeon being with 
them, and having his case of instruments in his pocket when 
he quitted the ship."— TAoma^.] 

2 [" No sooner had the fatal instrument touched the vein, 
than the operator applied his parched lips, and drank the 
blood as it flowed, while the rest anxiously watched the vic- 
tim's departing breath, that they might proceed to satisfy 
ths hunger which preyed upon them to so frightful a &e- 
gree."— /6i(J.] 

3 [" Those who glutted themselves with human flesh and 
gore, and whose stomachs retained the unnatural food, soon 
perished with raging insanity," &.c.—Ibid.:\ 

* [" Another expedient we had frequent recourse to, find- 
ing it supplied our mouths with temporary moisture, was 
chewing any substance we could find, generally a bit of can- 
vass, or even lead." — Juno.'i 

5 [" On the 25th, at noon, we caught a noddy. I divided it 
into eighteen portions. In the evening we caught two boo- 
bies." — Bligh.] 

" Quandb ebbe detto cib, con gli occhi torti 
Riprese il teschio misero co' denti, 
Che furo all' osso, come I'un can forti." 

The passage is thus powerfully rendered by Dante's last 
tratislatof; Mr. Ichabod Wright — 



LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because. 

Besides being much averse from such a fate. 
There were some other reasons : the first was, 

He had been rather indisposed of late ; 

And that whiclj chiefly proved his saving clatiaej 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd, 
But was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd. 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead . 

At length they caug'.... iwo boobies, and a noddy,' 

And then they left off" eating the dead body. 

Lxxxni. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino^ condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale : if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'Tis surely fair to dine upon our friends. 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too scanty, 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIV. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rain, 
For wh ich their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water's worth ; 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 

Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 

You'd wish yourself where Truth is — hi a well 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher. 
And when they deem'd its moisture was complete, 

They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher' 
Might not have thought the scanty draughts© sweet 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 

They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 



" Then both my hands through anguish I did bite ; 
And they, supposing that from want of food 
I did so, sudden raised themseives upright, 
And said—' O father, less will be our pain. 
If thou wilt feed on' us : thou didst bestow 
This wretched flesh— 'tis thine to take again : 
Then was I calm, lest they the mcfre should gneve. 
Two days all silent we remain'd. O thou 
Hard Earth ! why didst tliou not beneath us cleave? 
Four days our agonies had been delay'd 
When Gaddo at my feet his body threw, 
Exclainyng, ' Father, why not give us aid V 
He died— and as distinct as here I stand 
I saw the three fall one by one, before 
The sixth day closed : then, groping with my hand, 
I felt each wretched corpse, for sight had fail'd : 
Two days I call'd on those who were no more — 
Then hunger, stronger even than grief, prevail'd." 
This said— aside his vengeful eyes loere thrown, 
And with his teeth again the skull he tore, 
Fierce as a dog to gnaw the very bone. 

Jnfi-rno, c. xxx. v. 90.] 
•7 [" In the evening there came on a squall, which brought 
the most seasonable relief, as it was accompanied with 
heavy rain : we had no means of catching it, but by spread- 
ing out our clothes : catching the drops "as they fdll, or 
squeezing them out of our clothes." — Centaur.1 



Canto n. 



DON JUAN. 



029 



LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Sut'k'd iu the nioisture, which Uke nectar stream'd ; 

Their throats were ovens, their swohi tongues were 
black, 
As the rich man's hi hell, who vainly scream'd 

To be<r tlie beggar, who could not ^-ain back 
A dro^ of dew, when every drop nad seem'd 

To taste of heaven — If this be true, indeed, 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXVII. 

There v^ere two fathers in this ghastly crew. 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was moro robust and hardy to the view. 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 

One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will be 

I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown fdoue 1 

Into the decD without a tear or groau ' 

LXS^XVIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 

Of a Sdit cheek, and aspect delicate ;^ 
But the ])oy bore up long, and with a mild 

And pitijut spirit held aloof his fate ; 
Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from ofFthe weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from otT his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed. 

And when the wish'd-for shower at length was come, 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 

Ho squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth — but iu vain.^ 

XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 



1 [" Mr. Wade's boy, a stout healthy lad, died early, and 
almost without a groan ; while another, of the same age, 
but of a less promising appearance, held out much longer. 
Their fathers were both in the fore-top, when the boys were 
taken ill. Wade, hearing of his son's illness, answered, 
with indifference, that he could do nothing for him, and left 
hi'n to his fate." — Juno.] 

2 [" The other father hurried down. By that time only 
three or four planks of the quarter-deck remained, just over 
the weather-quarter gallery. To this spot the unhappy man 
led his son, making him fast to the rail, to prevent Ins being 
washed away." — Ibid ] 

3 [" Whenever the boy was seized with a fit of retching, the 
father lifted him up and wiped away the foam from his lips ; 
and if a shower came, he made him open his mouth to re- 
ceive the drops, or gently squeezed them into it from a rag." — 
Ibid.] 

•• [" In this affecting situation both remained four or five 
days, till the boy expired. The unfortunate parent, as if un- 
willing to believe the fact, raised the body, looked wistfully 
at it, and when he could no longer entertain any doubt, watched 
it in silence until it was carried off by sea ; then wrapping 
himself in a piece of canvass, sunk down, and rose no more ; 
though he must have lived two days longer, as we judged 
from the quivering of his limbs, when a wave broke over 
Ixim. '—Ibid. ] 

6 [This 6i-blime and terrific description of a shipwreck is 
strangely and disgustingly broken by traits of low humor 
and buftbonery ; — and we pass immediately from the moans 
of an agonizing father fainting over his famished son, to 
fai'.etiwis stories of Juan's begging the paw of his father's 
doj;, ana refusing a slice of lus tutor !--as if it were a fine 



He watch'd it wistfully, until away 

'Twas borne by the rude wave wheieiu 'twas cast ;* 
Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, 
And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.^ 

XCI. 

Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 

The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sea, 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue ; 
And all within its arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, 

Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd mea. 

XCII. 

It changed, of course ; a heavenly cameleon, 

The aiiy child of vapor and the sun, 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion. 

Baptized iu molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 

And blending every color into one,° 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle, 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle.) 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 
It is as well to think so, now and then ; 

'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
And may become of great advantage when 

Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
Had greater need to nerve themselves again 

Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope — 

Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.' 

XCIV. 

About this time a beautiful white bird, 

Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
And plumage, (probably it might have err'd 

Upon its course,) pass'd oft before their eyes, 
And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 

The men within the boat, and in this guise 
It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 
Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still.* 



thing to be hard-hearted, and pity and compassion were fit 
only to be laughed at.— Jeffrey.] 

" I will answer your friend, who objects to the quick suc- 
cession of fun and gravity, as if in that case the gravity did 
not (in intention, at least) heighten the fun. His metaphor 
is, that ' we are never scorched and drenched at the same 
time.' Blessings on his experience 1 Ask him these questions 
about ' scorching and drenching.' Did he never play at 
cricket, or walk a mile in hot weather 1 Did he never spill a 
dish of tea over himself in handing the cup to his charmer, 
to the great shame of his nankeen breeches '> Did he never 
swim in the sea at noonday with the sun in his eyes and on 
hishead, which all the foam of ocean could not cool? Did he 
never draw his foot out of too hot water, d— ning his eyes 
and his valet's ? Did he never tumble into a river or lake, 
fishing, and sit in his wet clothes in the boat, or on the bank, 
afterwards, ' scorched and drenched,' like a true sportsman .' 
' Oh for breath to utter :— but make him my compliments ; 
he is a clever fellow for all that — a very clever fellow." — 
Lord Byron to Mr. Murray. Aug. 12, 1819.] 

6 [" Look upon the rainbow, and praise him that made it ; 
very beautiful it is in its brightness ; it encompasses the 
heavens with a glorious circle, and the hands of the Most 
High have bended it.'' — Son of Sirach.} 

' [An instrument, invented by Sir David Brewster, which 
pleases the eye by an ever-varying succession of splendid 
tints and symmetrical forms, and has been of great service 
in suggesting patterns to our manufacturers.] 

8 [" About this time a beautiful white bird, web-footed, and not 
unlike a dove in size and plumage, hovered over the mast-head 
of the cutter, and, notwithstanding the pitching of the boat, 
frequently attempted to perch on it, and continued to Jiutttr 



030 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAnto II. 



xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 

'Tvvas well this hird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Returning there from her successful search, 

Whiqh in their way that moment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

XCV I' 

With twilight it again came on to blow, 

But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 

The boat made way ; yet now they were so low. 
They knew not where nor what they were about ; 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No !" 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubt — 

Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns,' 

And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCVII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died aAvay, 

When he who had the watch sung out and swore. 

If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's raj'. 
He wish'd that land he never might see more ■? 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a hay, 

Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 

For shore it was, and gradually grew [shore ; 

Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 

XCVIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears. 
And others, looking with a stupid stare,^ 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 
And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 

While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep: they shook them by the hand and head, 

Arid tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 

XCIX. 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water. 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her,* 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter. 
Because it left encouragement behind : 

They thought that in such perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 



The land appear'd a high and rocky coast. 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew. 

Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 



there till dark. Trifling as this circumstance may appear, it 
was considered by us all as a propitious omen."— Loss of the 

Lady Hobart.} 

1 [" I found it necessary to caution the people against 
being deceived by the appearance of land, or calling out till 
they were convinced of tlie reality, more especially as fog- 
banks are often mistaken for land : several of the poor fel- 
lows nevertheless repeatedly exclaimed they heard breakers, 
and some ihe firing of guns."— Ibid.] 

2 [' At length one of them broke into a most immoderate 
swearing fit of joy, which I could not restrain, and declared, 
that he had never seen land in his life, if what he now saw was not 
land." — Centaur.'} 

3 [" The joy at a speedy relief aflJected us all in a most 
remarkable way. IMany burst into tears ; some looked at each 
other with a stupid stare, as if doubtful of the reality of what 

, they saw ; while several were in such a lethargic condition, 

( that no animating words could rouse them to exertion. At 

thLs affecting period, 1 proposed offermg up our solemn 



To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 
So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 
Some thought it was Mount JEtna, some the high!ards 
Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands 

CI. 

Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 

Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
Their living freight was now reduced to four. 

And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
To heave into the deep with those before. 

Though the two sharlvs still foliow'd them, and dash'd 

The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 

Such things a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew f 

By night chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by one 
They perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 

But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 

Unequal in its aspect here and there. 
They felt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd the air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare — 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIV. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man. 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they rau, 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 

But finding no place for their landing better. 

They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her.® 

CV. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And having learn'd to swim in that sweet river. 
Had often turn'd the art to some account : 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 

Leander, Mr. Ekenhead, and I did.' 



thanks to Heaven for the miraculous deliverance."— iaiy 
Hobart.] 

"1 [" After having suffered the horrors of hunger and thirst 
for many days, they providentially took a smcH turtle whilst 
floating asleep or, ihe surface of the water." — Thomas.} 

5 [" Our bodies were nothing but skin and bones, our 
limbs were full of sores and we were clothed in rags. An in- 
different spectator wouil. have been at a loss which most to 
admire, the eyes of famine sparkling at immediate relief, or 
the horror of their preservers at the sight of so many spectres, 
whose ghastly countenances, if the cause had been unknown, 
would rather have excited terror than pity." — Bligh.] 

6 [" They discovered land right ahead, and steered for it. 
There being a very heavy surf, they endeavored to turn the 
boat's head to it, which, from weakness, they were unable 
to complete, and soon afterwards the boat upset." — Escape 
of Deserters from St. Helena-^ 

1 [See ante, p. 555.] 



Canto ii. 



DON JUAN. 



631 



CVI. 

So here, '.hough faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish hmbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 

The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived ou shore but him. 

CVII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 

Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 

And the hard wave o'erwhehn'd him as 'twas dash'd 

Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 

The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Roll'd on the beach, half-seuseless, from the sea : 

CVIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 

From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung. 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full length, where he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 

With just enough of life to feel its pain. 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 

CIX. 

Witli slow and staggering effort he arose, 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 

And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three, 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach, for burial ground. 

ex. 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hand 

Droop'd dripping on the oar, (their jury-mast,) 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for him. 

And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 

And how this heavy faintuess pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. 

And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life. 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired with strife. 

cxn. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought 

He s'ill was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposed, 

And then once more his feelings back were brought. 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely foma.e face of seventeen. 



cxni. 

'Twas bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
Recall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair ann 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death -like forehead ; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm : 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave, 
The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 

Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of figure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 

Light to the rocks that roof'd them, which the sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair. 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind ; and though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould, 

They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

CXVII. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew ; 

'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

CXVIII. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun j 

Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 

I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal Y 

CXIX. 

I'll tell you why I say so, for 'tis just 

One should not rail without a decent cause : 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 

Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws. 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

No'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

1 [" A set of humbug rascals, when all 's done — 
I've seen much fij;er women, ripe and real, 
Than all the nonsense of their d d ideal." — MS.] 



632 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



CXX. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

Bat with our damsel this was not the case: 
Her dress was many-color'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks curi'd negligently round iier face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shono 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking. 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXII. 

The other female's dress was not unlike 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

cxxni. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft attentions. 

Which are — (as I must own) — of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 4 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 

But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homer's 

Achilles order'd dinner for new-comers. 

CXXIV. 

I'll tell you who they were, this female pair, 
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise ; 

Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 
Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize : 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes. 

Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 

Of an old man, who lived upon the water. 

cxxv. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth. 

And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 
But other speculations were, in sooth. 

Added to his connection with the sea, 
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 

A little smuggling, and some piracy. 
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVL 

A fisher, therefore, was he, — though of men. 
Like Peter the Apostle,— and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then. 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkisli trade, 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 



cxxvn. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got or blood ho spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; 

But this I know, it was a spacious building. 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIIL 

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 

Besides, so very beautiful was she. 

Her dowiy was as nothing to her smiles : 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree. 

She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a bettei ?n his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach, below 

The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 

Don Juan, almost famish'd, and half drown'd ;« 

But being naked, she was shock'd, you know, 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 

As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 

A stranger" dying, with so white a skin. 

cxxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save. 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse. 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much " vowj," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 

He would have hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when Jut of danger. 

CXXXL 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest : 

And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest ; 

And their compassion grew to such a size. 
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 
(St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be given.) 

CXXXIL 

They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay, — 

Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in such plenty, 

That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 

CXXXIIL 

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 

His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease. 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 

They also gave a petticoat apiece,' 

She and her maid, — and promised by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 



1 [" And such a bed of furs, and a pelisse." — MS.] 



Canto ii. 



DON JUAN. 



633 



CXXXIV. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like !i top, or like the dead, 

Who sleep at last, perhaps, (God only knows,) 
Just for the present ; and in his luU'd head 

Not even a vision of his former woes [spread' 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, which sometimes 

Unwelcome visions of our former years, 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears. 

cxxxv. 

Youngr Juan slept all dreamless : — but the maid, 
Who smooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd. 
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she said, 
. (The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen,) 

He had pronounced her name — but sjie forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better thau her knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 

And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, 
In gaining all that useful sort of knowledge 
Which is acquired in Nature's good old college 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon 

His rest ; the rushing of the neighboring rill. 
And the young beams of the excluded sun. 

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
And need ho had of slumber yet, for none 

Had sufFer'd more — his hardships were comparative" 

To those related in my graud-dad's " Narrative."^ 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haid^e : she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 

And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, [bled, 

Droam'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she stum- 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek — 

Tb'jy knew not what to think of such a freak. 

CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get. 
With some pretence about the sun, that makes 

Sweet skies, just when he rises, or is set ; 

And 'tis, no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 



1 [ " which often spread, 

And come like opening hell upon the mind, 

No 'baseless fabric,' but ' a wreck behind.' " — MS.] 

2 [" Had e'er escaped more dangers on the deep ; — 

And those who are not drown'd, at least may sleep." — 
MS.l 

s [Entitled " A Narrative of the Honorable John Byron, 
(Commodore in a late e.xpedition round the world,) contain- 
ing an account of the great distresses suffered by himself 
and his companions on the coast of Patagonia, from the 
year 1740, till their arrival in England, 174f) ; written by 
Himself." This narrative, one of the most interesting that 
tvcr appeared, was published in 1768.] 

* ;■• Wore for a husband— or some such like brute."— MS.] 

' [ " although of late 

'vo changed, for some few years, the day to night." — MS.] 
Cin the year 1784, Dr. Franklin published a most inge- 
nious essay on the advantages of early rising, as a mere 



80 



Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
And night is flung oft' like a mourning suit 
Worn for a husband, — or some other brute.* 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 

I have sat up on purpose all the night,* 

Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fate ; 

And so all ye, who would be in the right 

In health and purse,^ begin your day to date 

From daybreak, and when colKn'd at fourscore, 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four ' 

CXLI 

And Haidee met the morning face to lace ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush. 
Like to a torrent wliich a mountain's base. 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush. 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in ciic'e.'s spread ; 
Or the Red Sea — but the sea is not red.* 

CXLII. 

And down the cliff the island virgin came, 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flatne, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair. 

Had all the advantage, too, of not being air.^ 

CXLIII. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
(For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIV. 
And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 

Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 

As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 
But Zoe the mean time some eggs was frying. 

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should ask it, 
She drew out her provision from the basket. 



piece of economy. He estimates the saving that might be 
made in Paris alone, by using sunshine instead of candles, at 
ninety-six millions of French livres, or four milUons ster- 
ling per annum. — HiLL.] 

' [The plan of going to bed early, and rising betimes, has 
been called the golden rule for the attainment of health and 
long life. It is sanctioned by various proverbial e.xpressions ; 
and when old people have been examined, regaiding the 
causes of their long life, they uniformly agreed in one par- 
ticular,— that they went to bed early, and rose early. — Sib 
John Sinclair.] 

8 [" My opinion is, that it is from the large trees or f hnts 
of coral, spread everywhere over the bottom of the Red 
Sea, perfectly in imitation of plants on land, that it has ob- 
tained this name."— Bruce.] 

" [ "just the same 

As at this moment I should like ti do ;— 

But I have done with kisses— having kiss'd 

All those that would— regretting those 1 miss'd."— MS.] 



C34 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual, 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawu'd a little, 
And felt her veins chiJI'diby the neighboring sea ; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea. 

But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 

The coffee made, would fain have waken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 

And, the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a new one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

CXLVII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 

A purple hectic play'd like dying day 
On the snow-tops of distant hills ; the streak 

Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, [weak ; 
Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and 

And his black curls were dewy with the spray. 
Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 
Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault. 

CXLVIII. « 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lulfd like the depth of ocean when at rest.' 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 

He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 

To the sweet portraits of the Virgin ]Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow ho arose, 

And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 

That ho was faint, and must not talk, but oat 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an car, 

And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard 5" 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone. 

Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 



1 [" Fair as the rose just nluck'd to crown the wreath, 
Soft as tne unfledged birdling when at rest."— MS.] 



CLII. 

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 

By a distant organ, doubting if he be 
Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 

By the watchman, or some such reality. 
Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 

At least it is a heavy sound to me. 
Who like a morning slumber — for the night 
Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses and the kindling beam 

Of the new fire, which Zoe kept. up, kneeluig 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beefsteak. 

CLIV 

But beef is rare within these ox.ess isles ; 

Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton ; 
And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbaious spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles. 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut on. 
Others are fair and fertile, among which 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLV. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 

That the old fable of the Minotaur — 
From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking, 

Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
A cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 

The allegory) a mere type, no more. 
That Pasiphae prornoted breeding cattle. 
To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer. 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here ; 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures — rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans — from which I infer, 

That^eef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLVII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 

His head upon his elbow, and he saw 
A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 

As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 
Three or four things, for which the Lord be praised. 

And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 
He fell upon whate'er was offer'd, like 
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied: and she. 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would have fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nursed. 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

a [" That finer melody was never heard. 
The kind of sound whose echo is a tear, 
Whose accents are the steps of Music's throne."— -MS ] 



Canto n. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



CLIX. 

And ao she took the liberty to state, 

Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ilL 

CLX. 

Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 

And in the fire his recent rags they scatter'd. 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek — that is, although it not much matter'd, 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish'd him, entire, except some stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haid^e tried her tongue at speaking. 
But not a word could Juan comprehend. 

Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end ; 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend. 

Till pausing at the last her breath to take. 

She saw he did not understand Romaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of tiie speaking eye. 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw express'd 

A world of words, and things at which she guess'd 

CLXIII 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes. 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue ; but by sunnise. 

No doubt, less of her language than her look : 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 

Thus Juan learu'd his alpha beta better 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 
'Tis pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 

By female lips and eyes — that is, I mean. 
When both the teacher and the taught are young, 

As was the case, at least, where I have been :' 



1 [When at Seville in 1809, Lord Byron lodged in the 
house of two unmarried ladies ; and in his diary he de- 
scribes himself as having made earnest love to the younger 
of them, with the help ot' a dictionary. " For some time," 
he says, " I went on prosperously, both as a linguist and a 
lover, till, at length, the lady took a fancy to a rmg which I 
wore, and set her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge 
of my sincerity. This, however, could not be ; — any thing 
but the ring, I declared, was at her service, and much more 
than its value. — but the ring itself I had made a vow never 
to give away."] 

2 ["In 1813, 1 formed, in the fashionable world of London, 
an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a mil- 
lior, the nothing of something. 1 had been the lion of 1812." 
— Byron Viary, 182L] 

s I" Foes, friends, sex, kind, are nothmg more to me 

Than a mere dream of something o'er the sea." — MS.] 
4 [" Holding her sweet breath o'er his cheek and mouth, 
As o'er a bed of roses," &c.— MS./ 



They smile so when one 's right, and ivhen one 's wrong 

They smile still more, and then there intervene 
Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss ; — 
I learu'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
Much English I can not pretend to speak. 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I hato your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXVI. 

As for the ladies, I have naught to say, 

A wanderer from the Ltitish world of fashion," 

Where I, like other " dogs, have iiad my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my passion — 

But that, like other things, has pass'd away. 

And all her fools whom I could lay the lash on : 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are naught to me, 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be.^ 

CLXVIL 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love, — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she, 

Just in the way we very often see. 

GLXVnL 

And every day by daybreak — rather early 
For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

She came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth,* 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his color freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence ; 

'Twas well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 

Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learn'd from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us.^ 

6 [Doctors are not unanimous as to this conclusion. Ovi . 
indeed, who is good authority here, has said — 

" Et Venus in vinis, ignis in igr.e fuit ;" 

but he qualifies this presumption in another place, by recom- 
mending moderation in our cups ; for wme, saith he, is to 
love, w hat wind is to flame ; 

" Nascitur in vento, vento restringuitur ignis, 
Lenis alit flammam, grandior aura necat :" 

but Aristophanes also, before Ovid, had christened vrine, 
" the milk of Venus." But Athena^us ascribes the chastity 
of Alexa ider to his excessive compotations ; and Montaigne 
supports the argument of Athengeus, by the converse of the 
same proposition, when he attributes the successful gal- 
lantries of his cotemporaries to their temperance in iha 
use of wine.— Rev. C. Colton.] 



636 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ii. 



CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart, (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good,) 

Ceres j>re»euts a plate of vermicelli, — 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood, — - 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
}"ggs, oysters, too, are amatory food ;' 

But who is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 

When Juan woke he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size : 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repeiiiiort s tiresome and unwise, — 

Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haid^e. 

CLXXI I. 

Both were so young, t^nd one so innocent . 

That bathing pasa'd for nothing; Juan seem'd 
lo her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent. 

Of whom these two years she had nightly dream'd, 
A something to be loved, a creature meant 

To be her happiuess, and whom she deem'd 
To render happy ; all who joy would win 
Must share it, — Happiness was born a twin.^ 

CLXXHL 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch, 

To watch him slumbering, and to see him wake: 
To live with him forever were too much ; 

But then the thought of parting made her quake: 
Ho was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
Like a ricii wreck — her first love, and her last.^ 

CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haid^e 

Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 
Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remaiu'd unknown within his craggy nook ; 
At last hc'T father's prows put out to sea, 

For certain merchantmen upon the look, 
Not as of yore to carry otF an lo, 
But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXV. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 

Witliout even the incumbrance of a brother. 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass ; 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison, 

Where wives, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong'd her visits and her talk 

(For they must talk,) and he had learn'd to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wauder'd since the day 



1 1" For without heart love is not quite so good ; 
Ceres is commissary to our bellies, 

And love, which also much depends on food, 
While Bacchus will provide v/ith wine and jellies. 

Oysters and eggs are also living food." — MS.] 

« [Lord Byron appears to have worked up no part of his 
poe:n with so much beauty and life of description, as that 
WiUch narrates the loves of Juan and Ilaid^e. Whether it 



On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the stalk, 

Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 
And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon. 
And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast. 
With clifls above, and a broad sandy sh6re, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host. 

With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-toss'd ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar. 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXVIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 

Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne. 

When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach, 
That sp.ng-dew of the spirit! the hbart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
\Vho please, — the more because they preach in 
vain, — 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter. 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ; 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 
Withont their sap, how branchless were the trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 
But to return, — Get very drunk ; and when 
You wake with headache, you shall see what then 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you'll know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 

For not the bless'd sherbet, sublimed with snow. 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring. 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow,* 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter. 

Vie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 

Was just describing — Yes, it was the coast- 
Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untoss'd; 
And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow cross'd 
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none. 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun. 

Thought daily service was her only mission, 
Bringing warm water, wreathing her long tressoB, 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 



be an episode, or an integral part of his epic, it is well 
worth all the rest.— Brydges.] 
3 [" He was her own, her ocean-lover, cast 

To be her soul's first idol, and its last."— MS.] 
< [" A pleasure naught but drunkenness can bring , 
For not the blest sherbet all chill'd with snow. 
Nor the full sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor wine in all the purj le of its glow."— MS.] 



Cawto II. 



DON JUAN. 



637 



CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded, 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
On on3 side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells, 

Glided along the smooth and harden d sand, 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

^Vork'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were planu'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, 

They turu'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

Tliey loqk'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low. 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew ne'ar, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXVI. 

A long, long k.iss, a kiss of youth, and love. 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days. 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move. 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Rach kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think, it must be reckon'd by its length 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration ; theirs endured [reckon'd ; 

Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second : 
They had not spoken ; but they felt allured. 

As if tl'sir souls and lips each other beckon'd. 
Which, being join'd, like swarming beestn^y clung — 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.' 

CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, but not alone as they 
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness , 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less. 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press. 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach. 
They felt no terrors from the night, they were 

All in all to each other: though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language there, — 



[ " I'm sure they never reckon'd ; 

And being joirv'd—hkc swarming bees they clung. 
And mix'd until the very pleasure stung." — Or, 



And all the burning tongues the passions teach 

Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall 

CXC. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows. 
Nor ofFer'd any ; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows. 

And flew to her young mate like a young bitd ; 

And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored. 

And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 

If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion, — 

But by degrees theii senses were lostoied. 
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII 

AlaG ! they were so young, so beautiful. 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full, 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity can not annul. 

But pays off moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 

Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
So loving and so lovely — till then never, 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damn'd forever: 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 

Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 

And hell and purgatory — but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 

She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs. 
He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 

And thus they form a group that 's quite antique. 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

cxcv. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd, 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms. 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 
Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast. 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms, 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 

With all it granted, and with all it grants." 



" And one was innocent, but both too young. 
Their heart the flowers," &c. — MS.] 
2 [" Pillow'd upon her beating heart— which panted 
With the sweet memory of all it granted."— MS } 



638 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ir 



CXCVI 

Au mfant when it gazes oa a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee wlien soars the Host in sight, 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor when the piize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who w atch o'er what they love while sleeping 

CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living ; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving ; 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Ilush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving ; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wa\c-'vorn love had made their bower, 
Where naught upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! ihe love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if tis lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone. 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, as real 
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 

They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust. 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 

Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests beyond? 

A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 

Then dressing, nursing, pra3'ing, and all 's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipation, 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their aff"airs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel :^ ' 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel.'' 



1 [Perhaps there are not a few women who may profit 
from seemg in wha a style of contemptuous coldnes;, the 
sutTermgs to which licentious love exposes them are talked 
ot by 6;;3h people as the author of Don Juan. The many 
fine eyes that have wept dangerous tears over the descrip- 
tions of the Guliiares and Medoras, cannot be the worse for 
seeing 'he true side of his picture.— Blackwood.] 

i [Lady Caroline Lamb was supposed by Lord Byron to 
have alluded to him in her novel of " Glenarvon," published 
in 1816.— "Madame de Stael once asked me," said Lord By- 
ron, "if my real character was well drawn in that novel. 
She was only singular in putting the question in the dry 
way slie did. Tlicre are many who pm their faith on that 
nisir.cere production. I am made out a very amiable person 
in that work : • The only thing belonging to me in it is part 
Of a letter."— Medwin.] 



CCIL 

Haidde was Nature's bride, and knew not this; 

Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun 
Showers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 

Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 
Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen ; what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing. — She had naught to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart heat ?iere. 

ccin. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 
Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim. 
So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'ern. 

CCIV. 

And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were plighted 
Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, shed 

Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 
Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed 

By their own feelings hallow'd and united. 

Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed :* 

And they were happy, for to their young eyes 

Each was an angel, and earth paradise.* 

ccv. 

Oh, Love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 
All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 

(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 
Oh, Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

CCVL 

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, 
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : 

CoBsar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisaritis, 

Have much employ'd the muse of history's pen . 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely various, 
Such worthies Time will never see again ; 

Yet to these four in three things the same luck holds, 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCVIL 

Thou mak'st philosophers ; there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew ! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us, 
' How pleasant were the maxim, (not quite new,) 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?" 
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus.' 

3 [" In their sweet feelings holily united, 

By Sohlude (soft parson) t:-ey were wed." — MS.] 

■• [Don Juan is dashed on the shore of the Cyclades, where 
he is-found by a beautiful and innocent girl, the daughter of 
an old Greek pirate, — with whom, as might be sup;x)sed, 
the same game of guilt and abandonment is played ovei 
again. There is, however, a very superior kind of poeiry 
in the conception of this amour ;— the desolate isle— the ni- 
ter loneliness of the maiden, who is as ignorant is f Iio is 
innocent — the helpless condition of the youlli— (very thing 
conspires to render it a true romance. How ch.'t for lont 
Byron to have kept it free from any stain of pollution ! 
What cruel barbarity, in creating so much of beauty only to 
mar and ruin it ! Ttiis is really the very suioide Ji genius. 
— Blackwood.] 

6 [See ante, p. 259.] 



Canto hi. 



DON JUAN. 



639 



CCVIII. 

But Juan . had he quite forgotten Julia? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, ai.d whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Hava such a charm for us poor human creatures? 

CCIX. 

I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest. 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 

Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 

No permanent foundation can be laid ; i 

Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 

I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 

Which gave mo some sensations like a villain. 

ccx. 

But soon Philosophy came to my aid. 

And whisper'd, " Think of every sacred tie !" 

" I will, my dear Philosophy !" I said, 

" But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven ! her eye ! 

I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid. 
Or neither — out of curiosity." 

" Stop !" cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian, 

(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian ;) 

CCXI. 

" Stop !" so I stopp'd.— But to return : that which 

Men call inconstancy is notliing more 
Than admiration due where nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favor'd object ; and as in the nicho 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of adoration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCXII. 

'Tis the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful. 

Drawn from tlie stars, and filter'd through the skies, 
Without which life would be extremely dull ; 

In snort, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 
Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling. 

For surely if we always could perceive 
la the same object graces quite as killing 

As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 
'Twould save u> many a heartache, many a shilling, 

(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve,) 
Whereas if one sole lady pleased forever. 
How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 



CCXIV. 

The heart is like the sky, a part cf heaven. 
But changes night and day, too, like the sky ; 

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven. 
And darkness and destruction as on high: 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riveai 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

ccxv. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile. 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a wrhile. 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil. 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction, 
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail. 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " central.' 

CCXVL 
In the mean time, witlioui proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I've fiuish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before. 

That being about the number I'll allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow. 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read.* 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



I. 



1 [ 'You say that one-half is very good : you are wrong ; 
for, if It were, it would be the finest poem in existence. 
Where is the poetry of whieh one-half is good ? Is it the 
^neid' is it Milton's' is it Dryden's? is it any one's except 
Pope's and Goldsmith's, of w^hich all is good? and yet these 
two last are ttie poets your pond poets would explode. But 
if ope-half of these two Cantos be good in your opinion, what 
the devil would you have more ? No— no ; no poetry is 
generalbj good— only by fits and starts— and you are lucky to 
get a sparkle here and there. You might as well want a 
jnidnight all stars, as rhyme all perfect."— iord Byron to Mr. 
Murrai/.'i 

a [Lord Eyron began to compose Canto III. in October, 
1819 , but the outcry raised by the publication of Cantos 1. 
and II. annoyed him so much, that he for a time .aid the 
work aside, and afterwards proceeded in it only by fits and 
starts. Mr M 3ore, who visited him while Canto III. was m 



Hail, Muse ! et cetera.— We left Juan sleeping, 

Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast. 
And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 

And loved by a young heart, too deeply bless'd 
To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 

Or know who rested there, a foe to rest. 
Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 
And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears ! 

II. 
Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved? An why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, 

And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 

And place them on their breast— but place to die — 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.' 



progress says-" So sensitive, indeed,— in addition to his 
usual abundance of this quality,-did he, at length, grow on 
the subject, that when Mr. \V. Bankes, who succeeded me 
as his visiter, happened to tell lnm, one day, that he had 
heard a Mr. Saunders, (or some such name,) then resident at 
Venice, declare that, m his opinion, 'Don Juan was all 
Grub-street,' such an effect had this disparaging speech upon 
his mind, (though coming from a person who, as he himsell 
would have it, \vas ' nothing but a d-d salt-fish seller, ) tnai 
for some time after, by his own confession to Mr. Bankes, 
he could not bring himself to write another line ol tne 
Poem; and one morning, opening a <-uawer wnere ine 
neglected manuscript lay, he said to his friend, Look nere 
-this IS all Mr. Saunders's Grub-street.'" Cantos 111. iv 
and V. were published together in Augu.st, 1821,— stu. win- 
out the name either of author or bookseller.] 
3 [This, we must allow, is pretty enough, and not at aU 



640 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto in. 



III. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 

In ail the others ail she loves is love, 
Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 

AnJ fits her loosely — like an easy glove. 
As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her : 

One man alone at first her heart can move ; 
She then prefers him in the plural number. 
Not finding that tlie additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure ; a woman planted 
(Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love afiiurs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none, 
But those who have ne'er end with only one} 

V. 

'Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime. 
That love and marriage rarely can combine. 

Although they both are born in the same clime , 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wino — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage — by time 
Is sharpeu'd from its high celestial flavor 
Down to a very homely household savor. 

VI 

There 's something of antipathy, as 'twere. 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 

Is used until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet wiiat can people do, except despair? 

The same things change their names at such a rate ; 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But in a husband is jwonounced uxorious. 

VII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

They sometimes also get a little tired, 
(But tliat, of course., is rare,) and then despond : 

The Samp things cannot always bo admLrod, 
Yet 'tis " so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought ! to lose the spouse that was adorning 
Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis ; 

Romances paint at full length people's wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages ; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 

He would have written sonnets all his life 1" 



objectionable in a moral point of view We fear, however, 
that we cannot say as mucli for what follows : marrying is 
no joke, and therefore not a fit subject to joke about ; besides, 
for a married man to be merry on that score, is very like 
trying to overcome the toothache by a laugh. — Hogg.] 

1 [These two lines are a versification of a saying of Mon- 
taigne.] 

2 [" Had Petrarch's passion led to Petrarch's wedding, 

How many sonnets had ensued the bedding?"— MS.] 

3 [The old ballad of " Death and the Lady" is alluded to 
in Shakspeare.] 

4 Dante calls his wife, in the Inferno, " la fiera moglie." 
(.Sec cnte, p 509.1 



IX. 

All tragedies are finish'd by a death. 
All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 

The future states of both are left to faith. 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, [riage ; 
And then both worlds would punish their miscar- 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 

They say no more of Death or of the Lady ^ 

X. 

The only two that in my recollection 

Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante^ and Milton,^ and of both the affection 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection, 

(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar ;) 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive.* 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology, 

Deem this a commentator's fantasy. 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge h-e 

Decided thus, and show'd jrood reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics.' 

XII. 

Haid^c and Juan were not manned, but 

The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair. 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wisli they were ; 

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book whicli treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful ; 

'Tis dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 

Indulgence of their innocent desires ; 
But more imprudent grown with every visit, 

Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 
When we have what we like, 'tis hard to misa it, 

At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 
Thus she came often, not a moment losing. 
Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange. 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey,* 

And merely practised as a sea-attorney. 



^ Milton's iirst wife ran away from him within the first 
month. If she had not, what would John Milton have 
done ? 

6 [From whatever causes it may have arisen, the coinci- 
dence is no less striking than saddening, that, on the list of 
married poets, who have been unhappy m their homes, there 
should an-eady be found four such illustrious names as Dante, 
Milton, Shakspeare. and Dryden ; and that we should now 
have to add, as a partner in their destiny, a name worthy ot 
being placed beside tlie greatest of them. — Mooke.] 

' [" Lady B. would have made an excellent wrangler at 
Cambridge." — Byron Diary.Z 

8 [" Display'd much more of nerve, perhaps, of wil , 
Than any of the parodies of Pitt."— MS.] 



C-^NTO III. 



DON JUAN. 



641 



XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 

By winds and waves, and some important captures ; 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 

Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he d-.sposed uf off Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsaleable, (being old ;) 

The rest — save hero and there some richer one, 
Reserved for future ransom in the hold. 

Were link'd alike, as for the common people he 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchairdise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey, 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, tray, 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers. 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. # 

xvin. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens, 

He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, 

Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pittance : 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather, 

He caged in one huge hamper all together. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs. 
Dispatching single cruisers here and there. 

His vessel having neod of some repairs. 

Ho shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Continued still her hospitable cares ; 

But that part of the coast being shoal and bare, 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile. 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

XX. 

And there he went ashore without delay, 
Having no custom-house nor quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way. 
About the time and place where he had been . 

He left his ship to be hove down next day, 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

So that all hands were busy beyond measure. 

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his home. 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced U) roam ! 



' f ' Thus near the gates, conferring as they drew, 
Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew ; 
He, not unconscious of the voice and tread, 
Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head. 
He knew his lord ; he knew, and strove to meet. 
In vain he strove, to crawl and kiss his feet ; 



81 



With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the years long lost 
And bring our hearts back to their starting-post 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires. 
After, long travelling by land or water. 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family 's a serious matter ; 

(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 

And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIIL 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses ; 

Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn. 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 

To his memory — and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and riches— 

And that his Argus' bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser. 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier serventc, or despise her ; 

And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Write odes on tlie Inconstancy of Woman. 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship witli a married lady — 
Tho only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connections the most steady. 

And the true Hymen, (the first 's but a screen)-J- 

Yot for all that keep not too long pway, 

I've known the absent wrong'd four times a day. • 

XXVL 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 
On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad ; 

But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 
Of the true reason of his not being sad, 

Or that of any other strong emotion ; 
He loved his child, and would have wept the loss of hei^ 
But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXVII. ) 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his r'vulet's light bubbling run, 

The distant dog -bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun 
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various dyes 

Of color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 



Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes 
Salute his master, and confess his joys," &c. 

Pope, Odyssey, b. S\n ] 

a [" Yet for all that don't stay away too long, 

A sofa, like a bed, may come by wrong." — MS.J 



642 * 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

He hears — alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears, 

The cause being past his guessing or unriddling ; 

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing. 
Descending rather quickly the declivity. 

Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
'Midst other indications of festivity, ^glancing. 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance' so martial, 

To which the Levantines arc very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a troop of Grecian girls," 

The first and tallest her white kerchief waving. 

Were strung together like a row of pearls, 

Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each too having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving ;)' 

Their leader sang— and bounded to her song. 

With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXL 

And here, assembled cross-lcgg'd round their trays, 
Small social parties just begun to dine ; 

Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze. 
And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 

And sherbet cooling in the porous va^e ; 
Above them their dessert grew on its vine ; 

The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 

Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their mellow store. 

XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 

While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb. 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head, majestically tame. 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 

Yielding to their sniall hands, draw? be.:k again. 

XXXIIL 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks. 

Crimson as cleft pomegrantes, their long tresses. 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks. 

The innocence which, happy childhood blesses. 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 

So that the philosophical beholder [older. 

Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er grow 

1 ["This dance is still performed by young men armed 
cap-a-pie, who execute, to the sound of instruments, all the 
proper movementsof attack aud defence."— Dr. E. Claeke.] 
[" Their manner of dancing is certainly the same that 
Diana is nun^ to have danced on the banks of Eurotas. The 
great lady still leads the dance, and is followed by a troop of 
young girls, who imitate her steps, and if she sings, make up 
the chorus. The tunes are extremely gay and lively, yet 
with something in them wonderfully soft. The step's are 
varied according to the pleasure of her that leads the dance, 
but always in exact time, and infinitely more agreeable than 
ujiy of our dances."— Lady M. \V. Montagu.] 

3 t" Thai would have set Tom Moore, though married, 
raving."— MS ] 



XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate gray circle of old smokers 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 

Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 

Transform'd their lords to beasts, (but that 's a fact.) 

XXXV 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses. 
Song, dance, wine, inusic, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastimes in which no offence is ; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion. 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 
Dreading that climax of all human ills. 
The inflammation of his weekly bills.* 

XXXVL 

Ah ! what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner- • 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 'a a sireu, 
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner; 

Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 

Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket 

XXXVIL 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surpriso 

(111 general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter — had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 

And long he paused to reassure his eyes. 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXVIII. 

He did not know (alas ! how men will Vie) 

That a report (especially the Greeks) 
Avouch'd his death, (such people never die,) 

Aud put his house in mourning several weeks, — 
But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 

The bloom, too, had return'd to I(aid6e's cheeks. 
Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount. 
She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and iiddling 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure ; 

The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond measure. 

Her father's hospitality seem'd middling. 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treasure ; 

'Twas wonderful how things went on improving, 

While she had not one hour to spare from loving* 



4 [The piratical father of Haidi^e having remained long at 
sea, it was supposed he had perished, and she, in consequence, 
took possession of all his treasures, and suriendered herself 
to the full enjoyment of her lover. The old gentleman, how- 
ever, returns, and, landing on a distant part of the island, 
walks leisurely towards his home, while Juan and his daugh- 
ter are giving a public breakfast to their friends and ac- 
quaintances. The description of the fete is executed with 
equal felicity and spirit ; we think it would be difficult to 
match the life and gayety of the picture by any thing of the 
kindin English— perhaps m any other poetry. — Blackwood.] 

6 [" All had been open heart, and open house, 

Ever since Juan served her for a spouse.-' — MS.] 



Canto hi. 



DON JUAN. 



643 



XL. 

Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 

He flew into a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 

To teach his people to be more exact. 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate, 
He showed the royal penchants of a pirate. 

XLT. 

You're wrong. — Ho was the mildest manner'd man 
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 

With such true breeding of a gentleman. 
You never could divine his real thought ; 

No courtier could, and scarcely woman can 
Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 

Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 

He was so great a loss to good society.' 

XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, by the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd., 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday ; 

The vinous Greek to whom ho had address'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine, 

XLHI. 

And without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 

" Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 

A second hiccup'd, " Our old master's dead. 
You'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir." 

" Our mistress !" quoth a third : " Our mistress I — 
pooh ! — 

You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage foil — 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and endeavoring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron. 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLV. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what • 
He is, nor whence he came — and little care ; 

But this I know, that this roast capon 'a fat. 

And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare; 

And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my neighbor there ; 

He'll answer all for better or for worse. 

For none likes more to hear himself converse."^ 



' [The jjortrait of this man is one of the best, if not the 
very best, of all Lord Byron's gloomy portraits. It may be 
the Corsair grown into an elderly character and a father ; 
but ii is equal to the finest heads that ever Micliael Angelo 
or Caravaggio painted with black and umber. — Black- 
wood. J 
* " Rispone allor' Margutte, a dir tel tosto, 

lo non ciedo piu al iiero eh' all' azzurro ; 
Ma nel cappone, o lesso, o vuogli arrosto, 
E credo alcuna volta anco nel burro ; 



XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding, 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations, 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 

He bore these sneers against his near j-elatious. 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding. 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton, 

Who all the time was eating up his muttoE. 

XLVII. 

Now in a person used to much commind — 
To bid men come, and g;o, and cone again — 

To se« his orders done, too, out of hand — 

Whether the word was death, or but the chain—" 

It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet such things are, which I can not explain. 

Though doubtless he who can command himself 

Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

XLVIII. 

Not that he was not sometimes rash or so. 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 

With him it never was a word and blow. 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood. 

But in his silence there was much to rue, 

And his one blow loft little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way. 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded. 
So little they expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidce's sake, is more than I can say, 

But certainly to one dcem'd dead returning. 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 



If all the dead could now return to life, 

(Which God forbid I) or some, or a great many, 

For instance, if a husband or his wife, 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any,) 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strifo, 
The present weather would be much more rainy^ 

Tears shed into the grave of the connection 

Would share most probably its resurrection. 

LI. 

He cnter'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying. 

And harder for the heart to overcome, 

Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 

And round its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 



Nella cervigia, e quando io n' ho nel mosto, 
E molto piu neir espro che il rnangurro ; 
Ma sopra tutto nel buon vino o fade, 
E credo che sia salvo chi gli crede." 

PuLci, Morgante Maggiore, ca. 18, st 15J. 
3 [The account of Lambro proceeding to the house is 
poetically imagined ; and, in his character may be traced a 
vivid likeness of Ali Pacha, and happy illustrative allusions 
to the adventures of that chief — Galt.J 



644 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



LII. 

Ho enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no home ; — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome ; there he long had dwelt, 

There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelinp-s undefiled. 

Lin. 

He was a m«in of a strange temperament. 
Of mild demeanor thougk of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food. 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good ; 

His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold. 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused. 

The sights he was accustom'd to behold. 

The wild seas, and wild men with whom he cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 

And made him a good friend, but bad acquaintance. 

LV. 

But something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays. 

Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 

'Tis true he had no ardent love for peace — 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time, — 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen,' 

A lonely pure affection unopposed : 

There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him like the Cyclops' mad with blindness. 



1 [" And make him Samson-hke— more fierce with blind- 
ness."— MS.] 

2 [" Not so the single, deep, and wordless ire, 

Of a strong human heart," fcc— MS.] 

3 [" I said, I disliked the custom which some people had 
of bringing their children into company, because it in a 
manner forced us to pay foolish compliments to please their 
parents."— Johnson. " You are right, sir ; we may be ex- 
cused for not caring much about other people's children, for 
there are many who care very little about their own."— 
Boswcll, vol. vi. p. 47, ed. 1835.] 

1 [" Almost all Don Juan is real life, either my own, or 
froin people I knew. By the way, much of the description 
ci tho furniture, in Canto Third, is taken from Tally's Tripoli, 



LVIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging, 
Their fury being spent by its own shock, 

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire" 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire 

LIX. 

It is a hard although a common case 

To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay, 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing, 

(Prorvided they don't come in after dinner;)' 
'Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up, (if nursing them don't thin her 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fireside, (a sight to touch a sinner) 
A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
Shine like a gtynea and seven-shilling pieces 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
And stood within his hall at eventide ; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every side ;* 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the sei-vice mostly, 

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly.' 

LXII. 

"^riie dinner made about a hundred dishes ; ' 

Lamb and pistachio-nuts — in short, all meats, 

And saffi'on soups, and sweetbreads ; and the fishes 
Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 

Dress'd to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes ; 
The beverage was various sherbets 

Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 

Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for use.* 

Lxin. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal ewer, 
And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the repast, 

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 
In small fine China cups, ;ame in at last ; 

Gold cups of filigree made to secure 

The hand from burning underneath them placed, 

Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 

Up with the cofFee, which (I think) they spoil'd.' 

(pray note this,) and the rest from my own observation. Re- 
member, I never meant to conceal this at all, and have only 
not stated it, because Don Juan had no preface, nor name 
to iV'—Lord B. to Mr. Murray, Aug. 23, 1821.] 

5 [" A small table is brought in, when refreshments ar« 
served ; it is of ebony, inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, tortoise- 
shell, ivory, gold, and silver." — TuUt/'s Tripoli, 4to. 1816, 
p. 133.] 

6 [" The beverage was various sherbets, composed of Ihf 
juice of boiled raisins, oranges, and pomegranates, squeezed 
through the vini."— Ibid. p. 137 j 

7 [" Coflee was served in small China cups ; geld filigree 
cups were put under them. They introduced cloves, cin- 
namon, and safl'ron into the coilee." — Ibid. p. 132.] 



Canto hi. 



DON JUAN. 



545 



liXIV 

Tlie hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid ; 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

Tlie upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poets, or the moralists their betters.* 

LXV. 

These Oriental writings on the wall, 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recall, 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

I'he words which shook Belshazzar in his hall. 
And took his kingdom from him : You will find. 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, 

There is uo sterner moralist than Pleasure. 

r.xvi. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic — ^ 

(For that 's the name they like to pray beneath) — ^^ 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic. 

Are things that really take away the breath, — 

And show that late hours, wine, and love are able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVII. 

Haid^e and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 

Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold,^ whose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue.* 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 

Had done their work of splendor ; Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, 
Orer the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats, 

And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gain 
Their bread as ministers and favorites — (that 's 

To say, by degradation) — mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 

LXIX. 

There was no want of lofty mirrors and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother of psarl or ivory, stooa at hand. 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 

1 1" The hangings of the room were of tapestry, made .n 
panels of diflerent colored velvets, thickly inlaid with 
flowers of silk damask ; a yellow border finished the 
tapestry at top and bottom, the upper border being em- 
broidered with Moorish sentences out of the Koran in lilac 
letters.'— T«%, p. 133.] 

2 [See the Eclectic Review among the " Testimonies of 
Authors," unte, p. 590.] 

3 ["For that's the name they like to cant beneath."— MS.] 

4 [" The carpet was of crimson satin with a deep border of 
pale blue. The cushions that lay around were of crimson 
velvet; the centre ones were embroidered with asunin gold."] 

6 ["The upholsterer's 'fiat lux' had bade to issue."— MS.] 

5 [" Her chemise was covered with gold embroidery at 
the neck ; over it she wore a gold and silver tissue jelick, 
with cora. ?.rd pearl buttons, set quite close together down 
the front. Tlie oaracan she wore over her dress was of the 
finest crimson transparent gauzes, between rich silk stripes 
of the same color " — Tully, p. 31.] 



Fretted with gold or silver : — by command. 

The greater part of these were ready spread 
With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 

All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her. 
Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her." 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold, 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm 
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 

The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal was held iu.' 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd,^ 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's line fold 

Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 

Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 

Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
Her person^ if allow'd at large to run. 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 

To offer his young pinion as her fan. 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies, 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel.'" 



7 This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are 
worn in the manner described. The reader will perceive 
hereafter, that as the mother of Haid6e was of Fez, her 
daughter wore the garb of the country. 

8 The bar of gold above the instep is a mark ot sovereign 
rank in the women of the families of the deys, and is worn 
as such by their female relatives. 

9 This is no exaggeration: there were four women whom 
I remember to have seen, who possessed their hair in this 
profusion ; of these, three were English, the other was a 
Levantine. Their hair was of that length and quantity, 
that, when let down, it almost entirely shaded the person, 
so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only 
one had dark hair ; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the liglitest 
t olor of the four. 

«• [ " But Psyche owns no lord — 

She walks a goddess from above ; 
All saw, all praised her, all adored. 

But no one ever dared to love." — Cupid and Psyche, 
from Apuleius, by Mr. Hudson Gukney, 1803.J 



648 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, thougli dark as nigh), were tinged, 
(It is the country's custom,)^ but in vain ; 

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain. 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 

Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her; 

The eye might doubt if it v/ere well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

LXXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and so transparent 

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stare through the milky way apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 

Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent. 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

Lxxvni. 

And now they were diverted by their suite. 

Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 

Which made their new establishment complete ; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme — he seldom sung below it, 

He being paid to satirize or flatter, 

As the psalm saysj " inditing a good matter." 

LXXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the pasJ 
Reversing tlie good custom of old days, 

An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 

For some few years his lot had been o'ercast 
By his seeming independent in his lays. 

But now he sung the Sultan a.id the Pacha 

With truth like Southey, and with verse like Crashaw.'^ 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes. 
And always changed as true as any needle ; 

His polar star being one wiiich rather ranges. 

And not the fix'd — he knew tlie way to wheedle : 

So vile he 'scaped the doom w)-.'cli oft avenges; 
And being fluent, (save iudeca when fee'd ill,) 

He lied with such a fervor of intention — 

There was no doubt he earn'd his laureate pension. 

LXXX I. 

But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it. 

The " Vates irritabilis" takes care 
That without notice few full moons i-hajl pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 



1 ["It was, and still is, the 'ustom to tinge the eyes of 
the women with an impalpable powder, prepared chiefly 
from crude antimony. This pigment, when applied to the 
inner surface of the lids, communicates to the eye a ten- 
der and fascinating languor."— Habesci.] 

' ;" Believed like Southey— and perused like Crashaw."— 
51S.— ' Crashaw, the friend of Cowley, was honored," says 
Warlon, "with the praise of Pope; who both read his 
poems and oorrowel from them. Being ejected fiom his 



But to my subject — let me see — what was it? — 
Oh ! — the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and mode 
Of living in their insular abode, 

Lxxxn. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow, 
Had been the favorite of full many a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow ; 
And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society. 

And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. 

He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends. 

That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends ; 

And singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and Franks, 
And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 

And having lived with people of all ranks. 
Had something ready upon most occasions — 

Which got him a kw presents and some thanks! 
He varied with some skill his adulations ; 

To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 

Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXV. 

Thus, usually, when he was ask'd to sing, 

He gave the difFerent nations something national ; 

'Twas all the same to him — " God save the king," 
Or " (^a ira," according to the fashion all: 

His muse made increment of any thing. 

From the high lyric down to the low rational 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 

In England a six canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he'd make a ballad or romance on 

The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he'd prance on 

Would be old Goethe's — (see what says Do StatJl ;) 
In Italy he'd ape the " Trecentisti ;"^ 
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye ; 

1. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 



fellowship at Peterhouse for denying the covenant, he 
turned Roman Calholjc, and died canon of the church at 
Loretto." The following are from Cowley's hnes on Lii 
death : — 

" Angels (they say) brought the famed chapel there ; 
And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air:— 
'Tis surer much they brought thee there ; and they, 
And thou, their charge, went singing all the way."] 
3 [The poets of the fourteenth century— Dante, fltc] 



Canto hi. 



DON JUAN. 



647 



.Tho Scian' and the Teian muse,- 

The hero's harp, the lover's hite, 
Have found tlie fame your shores refuse ; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd."* 

3. 
Tlie mountains look on Marathon^ — 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I drcam'd that Greece might still be free ; 
For standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

4. 
A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
And ships, by thousands, lay below, 

And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
He counted them at break of day — 
And when the sun set where were they?' 

5. 
And where are they? and where art thou. 

My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
Tho heroic lay is tuneless now — 

The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

6. 
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 

Though link'd among a fctter'd race, 
To feel at least a patriot's shame, 

Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
For what is left the poet hero? 
For Greeks- a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a no\v Thormo^ylaj ! 

8. " 
What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — wo come, we come !" 
'Tis but the living wh:; are dumb. 

9. 
In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 

Fill high tho cup with Samian wine ! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 



1 [Homer.] 2 [Anacreon.] 

3 The vijaoi jxaKagav of the Greek poets were supposed to 
have been the Cape de Verd Islands or the Canaries 

4 [" Euboea looks on Jlarathon, 

And JMarathon looks on the sea,"' &c. — MS.] 

6 " Deep were tho groans of Xerxes, when he saw 
This havoc ; for his seat, a lofty mound 
Commandmg the wide sea, o'erlook'd the hosts 
With rueful cries he rent his royal robes, 
And through liis troops embattled on the shore 
Gave signal of retreat ; then started wild 
And flea disorder'd."— iEscHYLus. 

« [*• Wliich Heitjules might deem his own."— M.S.] 
. " Ttvotnav 
J»' {>\atv iircari ttovtov 



Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal i 

10. 
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone 7 
Of two such lessons, vrhy forget 

The nobler and the manlier one? 
You have tho letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

11. 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served — but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

12. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
That tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

13. 
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
Exists tho remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 
The Heracleidan blood might own." 

14. 
Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 

They have a king who buys and sells : 
In native swords, and Jiativo ranks, 

Tho only hope of courage dwells ; 
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 
Would break your shield, however broad. 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

16. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die :' 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine I* 



TrpoS'XJiii' (lAu-XucTToi/, anpav 

VKO TrXaKa SouViou. K. r. A SoPH. Ajax, v. 1217. 

8 [This glorious Ode on the aspirations of Greece aftei 
Liberty is instantly followed up by a strain of oold-blooded 
ribaldry .- and, in lliis way, all good feelings are excited only 
to accustom u.s to their speedy and complete extinction, and 
we are brought back, from their transient and theatrical ex- 
hibition, to the staple and substantial doctrine of the work— 
the non-existence of constancy in women, or honor in men, 
and the folly of expecting to meet with any such virtues, or 
of cultivating them for an undeserving world ; — and all 
this mixed up with so much wit and cleverness, and know- 
ledge of human nature, as to make it irresistibly pleasant 
and plausible— while there is not only no antidote supplied, 
but every thing that might have operated in that way haj 
been anticipated, and presented already in as stiong and 
engaging a lorm as possible. — Jeffkey.J 



648 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto hi. 



LXXXVII. 

Ihus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Gieeco was young, 
Yet in these times he might have done much worso: 

His strain display'd some feeling — right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars, 

And take all colors — like tlie hands of dyers: 

LXXXVIII. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ; 
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this. 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 

His station, generation, even his nation. 
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 

In chronological commemoration, 
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's station 
In digging the foundation of a closet. 
May turn his name up, as a rare deposite. 

XC. 
And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upou the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle : 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks. 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 
Milton 'r the prince of poets — so we say ; 

A little heavy, but no less divine : 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine ; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way. 

We're told this great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipp'd at college — a harsh sire — odd spouse, 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.' 

XCII. 
All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Bacon's bribes ; 
Like Titus' youth, and Ccesar's earliest acts ; 

Like Burns, (whom Doctor Currie well describes ;) 
Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although truth exacts 

These amiable descriptions from the scribe.s. 
As moiW essential to their hero's story. 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 



1 See Johnson's Life of Milton. 

2 [" Confined his pedler poems to democracy."— MS.] 
s [See Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, 1817.] 

* [" Flourish'd its sophistry for aristocracy."— MS.] 
6 [The followers of this fanatic are said to have amounted, 
at one time, to a hundred thoasand. She announced herself 
as the mother of a second Shiloh, whose speedy advent she 
confidently predicted. A cradle of expensive materials was 
prepared for the expected prodigy. Dr. Reece and another 
medical man attested her dropsy ,- and many were her dupes 
down to the moment of her death, in 1814.] 

6 [Here follows in the original MS. — 

•♦ Time has approved Ennui to be the best 

Of friends, and opiate draughts ; your love and wine, 



XCIIL 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy ;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his pedler poems with democracy j' 

Or Coleridge,^ long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy ;* 

When he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners, (milliners of Bath.) 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography ; 

Their loyal treason, renegade rigor. 

Are good manure for their more bare biography; 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography ; 

A drowsy frouzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 

Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds \\p a formidable dike 

Between his own md others' intellect ; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 

Joanna Southcote's Shiloh,^ and her sect. 
Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind, — so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities 

XCVI. 
But let me to my story I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression — 
Leaving my people to proceed alone. 

While I soliloquize beyond expression ; 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

. Which put off business to the ensuing session: 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCVII 
I know that what our neighbors call " longueurs" 

(We've not so good a word, but have the thing. 
In that complete perfection which ensures 

An epic from Bob Southey every spring — ) 
Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader ; but 'twould not be hard to bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee, 
To prove its grand ingredient is emiui." 

XCVIIL 
We leani from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleeps ;" 

We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes 
To show with what complacency he creeps, [wakes,— 

With his dear " Wagoners," around his lakes.' 
He wishes for " a boat" to sail the deeps — 

Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes 
Another outcry for " a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat.* 



Which shake so much the human brain and breast, 
Must end in languor ;— men must sleep like swine ; 

The happy lover and the welcome guest 
Both sink at last into a swoon divine ; 

Full of deep raptures and of bumpers, they 

Are somewhat sick and sorry the next day ""■ 

' [Wordsworth's "Benjamin the Wagoner," appeared in 
1819.1 

8 " There 's something in a flying horse, 
There 's something *ri a huge balloon ; 
But through the clouds I'll never float 
Until I have a little boat," &c. 

WoRDSwoBTii's Piter BclL 



Canto tii. 



DON JUAN. 



649 



XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his " Wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain ? 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 

Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 



" Pedlers," and " Boats," and " Wagons !" Oh ! ye 
shades 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 
Floats scumliko uppermost, and these Jack Cades 

Of sense and song above your graves may hiss — 
The " little boatman" aivd his " Peter Bell" 
Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel !"' 

CI. . 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone, 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone. 

The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ; — 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 

That hoaveuliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee ! 

CII. 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiiul and soft. 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,'' 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 

CHI. 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fair! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured imag?? — strike — 
That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 

CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 

In nameless print' — that I have no devotion ; 

But set those persons down with me to pray. 
And you shall see who has the properest notion 



1 " The verses of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are 
forgotten." — Mr. W. Woedswokth's Preface. 

2 [" While swung the signal from the sacred tower." — 
MS.] 

s [" Are not these pretty stanzas 7— some folks say— 
Downright in print — " — MS.] 

■• [" The first time I had a conversation with Lord Byron 
on the subject of religion was at Ravenna, my native coun- 
try, m 1620, while we were riding on horseback in an exten- 
sive solitary wood of pines. The scene invited to religious 
meditation. It was a fine day in spring. ' How,' he said, 
'raising our eyes to heaven, or directing them to the earth, 
can we doubt of the exi.'^tence of God ?— or how, turning 
then f) what is within us, can we doubt that there is some- 
thing n: are noble and durable than the clay of which we are 
formed .'"'—Count Gamba.] 

* [" Vy her example warn'd, the rest beware , 
More easy, less imperious, were the fair ; 



82 



Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean. 
Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great 

Whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul 

CV. 

Sweet hour of twilight I — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 

To where the last Ccesarean fortress stood. 
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me. 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee I* 

CVI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's lino. 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 

Which learn'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, — shadow'd my mind's eye.* 

CVII. 

Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things^ — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings. 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CVIII. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 

As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 

Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns !' 

CIX, 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 

Amidst the roar of liberated Rorhe, 

Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb :^ 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the v/retch an uncorrupted hour. 



And that one hunting, which the devil design'd 
For one fair female, lost him half the kind." 

Dkyden's Theodore and HonoriaJ 
* " 'Ea-nepc iravra (pepeis 

$£p£if oii'ov — tpcpcig aiya, 
'tepcts ytarcpi iraiba." — Fragment of Sappho. 
^ " Era gia 1' ora che volge '1 disio, 

A' naviganti, e 'ntenerisce il cuore ; 
Lo di ch' han detto a' dolci amici a dio ; 

E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore 
Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, 
Che paia '1 giorno pianger che si muore." 

Dante's Purgatory, canto vii» 
This last line is the first of Gray's Elegy, taken by L.a. 
without acknowledgment. 

8 See Suetonius for this fact.— [" The public jov was so 
great upon the occasion of his death, that the common people 
ran up and down with caps upon their heads. And yet Itere 



650 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



ex. 

But I'm digressing ; what on earth has Nero, 

Or any such hke sovereign buffoons,^ 
To do with the transactions of my hero, 

More than such madmen's fellow man — the moon's ? 
Sure my invention must be down at zero, 

And I grown one of many " wooden spoons" 
Of verse, (the name with which we Cantabs please 
To dub tilt' last cf honors in degrees.) 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do — 

'Tis being too epic, and I must cut aowu 

(In copying) this long canto into two ; 
They'll never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced iew ; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is 

From Aristotle passim. — See HoirtriKTu. 



weie some, who for a long time trimmed up his tomb with 
spriiig and summer flowers, and one wliile placed his image 
upon his rostra dressed up In state robes, another while 
published proclamations in his name, as if he was yet alive, 
and would shortly come to Rome again, with a vengeance 
to all his enemies."] 

1 [" But I'm digressing— what on earth have Nero 

And Wordsworth— both poetical buffoons," &c. — 
MS] 

2 [Canto III. originally included almost all the stanzas 
which now form Canto IV. Cantos III., IV., and V. were 
published together, in 8vo., in August, 1821. The following 
are extracts from Lord Byron's letters to Mr. Murray. — 

Ravenna. December 4, 1819. — "The third Canto of Don 
Juan is completed, in about two himdred stanzas ; very de- 
cent, I believe, but do not know, and it is useless to discuss." 

December 10, 1819. — " I liave finished the third Canto, 
but the things I have read and heard discourage all further 
publication — at least for the present. The cry is up, and 
cant is up. I should have no objection to return the price 
of the copyright." 

February 7, 1820. — " I have cut the third Canto into two, 
because it was too long ; and I tell you this beforeliand, 
because in case of any reckoning between you and rne, these 
two are only to go for one, as this was the original form, and, 
in fact, the two together are not longer than one of the first : 
so remember that I liave not made this division to double 
upon you. — I have not yet sent off the Cantos, and have 
some doubt whether they ought to be published, for they 
have not the spirit of tne fir.st. The outcry has not fright- 
ened but it has hurt me, and I have not written con amore 
this time." 

October 12, 1820. — " I don't feel inclined to care further 
about Don Juan. What do you think a vCry pretty Italian 
lady said to me the other day .' She had read it in the French, 
and p:iid me some complimei;ts, with due drawbacks, upon 
it. 1 answered, that what she said was true, but that I sus- 
pected It would live longer than Childe Harold. — ' Ah, but' 
(said she) ' I would rather have the fame of Childe Harold for 
three years than an IMMORTALITY of Don Juan !' The truth is, 
that His TOO TRUE, and the women hate many things which 
strip olf the tinsel of sentiment ; and they are right, as it 
would lob them of their weapons. I never knew a woman 
who did not hate De Grammont's Memoirs for the same 
reason." 

We subjoin a single specimen of the contemporary criti- 
cism on Cantos III., IV., and V. 

" It seems to have become almost an axiom in the literary 
world, that nothing is so painful to the sensibilities of an 
author as the palpable neglect of his productions. From this 
species of mortification, no poet has ever, perhaps, been more 
fully exempt than Lord Byron. Noneofhispublicationshave 
failed in at least exciting a sufficient portion of general in- 
terest and attention ; and even those among them which the 
scrutinizing eye ol criticism might deem somewhat unworthy 
of his powers have never compelled him, like many of his 
poetic a1 brethren, to seek refuge from llie apathy and want 
of discernment of contemporaries, in the consoling anticipa- 
tion of posthumous honors and triumphs. But, it we are to 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE FOURTH." 



I. 

Nothing so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning ; 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 
Being pride,^ which leads the mind to soar too far, 
Till our own weakness shows us what we arc.* 

IL 

But Time, which brings all beings to their level, 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 

Man, — and, as we would hope,— perhaps the deTil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast : 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 

We ponder deeply on each past emotion.^ 



infer, from the axiom already alluded to, that extensive no- 
toriety must be pleasing in the same proportion that neglect 
is distressing to an author, then none of his lordship's pro- 
ductions can aflbrd him so ample afield for self congratula- 
tion as the Don Juan. Revilers and partisans have alike 
contributed to the popularity of this singular work ; and the 
result is, that scarcely any poem of the present day has been 
more generally read, or its continuation more eagerly and 
impatiently awaited. Its poetical merits have been extolled 
to the skies by its admirers ; and the Priest and the Levite, 
though they have joined to anathematize it, have not, when 
they came in its way, 'passed by on the other side.' 

" But little progress is made in the history and adventures 
of the hero in these three additional cantos. The fact is, 
however, that notliing has appeared, from the beginning, to 
be farther from the author's intention, than to render his 
Don Juan any thing like a regular narrative. On the con- 
trary, its general appearance tends strongly to remind us of 
the learned philosopher's treatise — ' De rebus omnibus et 
quibusdam aliis.' And here we cannot avoid remarking, 
vvliat an admirable method those persons must possess of 
reconciling contradictions, who, in the same breath, censure 
tlie poem for its want of plan, and impeach the writer of a 
deliberate design against the religion and government of the 
country. His lordship has himself given what appears to us 
a very candid exposition of his motives — 

' the fact is, that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it were to be a moment meriy, 

A novel word in my vocabulary.' 
Indeed, the whole poem has completely the appearance ot 
being produced in those intervals in which an active and 
powerful mind, habitually engaged in literary occupation, 
relaxes from its more serious labors, and amuses itself with 
comparative trifling. Hence the narrative is interrupted by 
continual digressions, and the general character of the lan- 
guage is that of irony and sarcastic humor ; — an apparent 
levity, v.'hich, however, often serves but as a veil to deep re- 
flection. Nor can the talent of the master-hand be always 
concealed : it involuntarily betrays itself in the touches of 
the pathetic and sublime which frequently present them- 
selves in the course of the poem ; in the thoughts ' too big 
for utterance, and too deep for tears,' which are interspersed 
in various parts of it." — Campbell.] 

3 [ " Pride and worse Ambition threw me down. 

Warring in heaven agamst heaven's matchless King." 

Pwadise Lost.\ 

4 [ " the same sin that overthrew the angels. 

And of all sins most easily besets 

Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
• The vile are only vain ; the great are proud." 

Marino Fatiero. See ante, p. 216 ] 

5 [" Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy, 

And shuts up all the passages of joy : 
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour, 
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal llow'r ; 
With listless eyes the dotard views the store, 
He views, and 'wonders that they please no more. 
Johnson's Vanity of Human Wisha.'] 



Canto iv. 



DON JUAN. 



65] 



III. 

As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion ; 
They took it up when my days grew more mellow. 

And other minds acknowledged my domini9n : 
Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 

Leaf,'" and Imagination droops her pinion, 
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'Tis that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 
'Tis that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring, 

Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx f 
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.' 

V. 
Some have accused me of a strange» design 

Against the creed and morals of the land,'' 
And trace it in this poem every line : 

I don't pretend that I quite understand 
Mv own meaning when I would be very fine ; 

"But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd. 
Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 
To the kind reader of our sober clime 

This way of writing will appear exotic ; 
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,* 

Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 
And revell'd in the fancies of the time, [despotic ; 

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings 
But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 
I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

VIL 
How I have treated it, I do not know ; 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me, 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see . 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free : 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear. 
And tells me to resume my story here.* 

VIIL 
Young Juan and his lady-love were left 

To their own hearts' most sweet society ; 
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms ; he 



"'Tis a grand poem— and so true! — true as the 10th of 
Juvenal himself. The lapse of ages changes all things- 
time— language— the eartli — the bounds of the sea — the stars 
of tlie sky, and every thnig ' about, around, and underneatli' 
man, except man himself, who has always been, and always 
will be, an unlucky rascal. The infinite varie.ty of lives 
conduct but to death, and the mfinity of wishes lead but to 
disappointment." — Byron Diary, 1821.] 

1 [ " my May of life 

Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf." — Macbeth.] 

2 [Achilles is said to have been dipped by his mother m 
the river Styx, to render him invulnerable.] 

3 [" Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls 

Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks 
Forthwith his former state and being forgets. 
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain." 

Paradise Lost, b. VI.] 
* r c. g. — " Lord Byron is the very Comus of poetry, who, 
by the bewitching airiness of his numbers, aims to turn the 
laora! world into a herd of monsters." — Watkins. 

" D(!ep as Byron has dipped his pen into vice, he has 
dipped it still deeper into immorality. Alas I he shines 
oiiiy to mislead— he flashes only to destroy." — Colton. 



Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 

Though foe to love ; and yet they could not-be 
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 
Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail; 

The blank gray was not made to blast their hair, 
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail 

They were all summer: lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for thena — they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 

Weary, unless when separate: the tree 
Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once forever, — 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ;' 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart — 

XI. 

The heart — which may be broken : hajipy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould. 
The precious porcelain of human clay. 

Break with the first fall : they can ne er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day. 

And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

xn. 

" Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore,* 
And many deaths do they escape by this : 

The death of friends, and that which slays even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is. 

Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 

The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save.' 

XIIL 

Haidue and Juan thought not of the dead. [them : 
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 

They found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; 
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 

Each was the other's mirror, and but read 
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 

And knew such brightness was but the reflection 

Of their exchanging glances of affection. 



" In Don .Tuan he is highly profane ; but, in that poem, the 
profaneness is in keeping with all the otiier qualities, and 
religion comes in for a sneer, or a burlesque, only in com- 
mon with every thing that is dear and valuuble'to us as 
moral and social beings." — Eel. Rev. 

" Dost thou aspire, like a Satanic mind. 
With vice to waste and desolate mankind? 
Toward every rude and dark and dismal deed 
To see them hurrying on with swifter speed '< 
To make them, from restraint and conscience free 
Bad as thyself, or worse— if such can be V— Cottle.] 

5 [See ante, p. 492.] 

6 [" Cum canerem reges et prselia, Cynthius aurem 

Vellit, et aimonuit."— ViRG. Eel. vi 1 

' [ " from its mother's <cnee 

When its last weaning draught is urain'd forever. 
The child divided— it were less to see. 
Than these two from each other torn apart." — MS.] 

8 See Herodotus. 

9 [" The less of this cold world, the more of Heaven." 

IMlLMAN 



652 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



XIV. 

TIio gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 

To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er hear 

XV. 

All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And children still they should have ever been ; 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene. 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

XVI. 

Moons changnig had roH'd on, ana changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys. 

For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys' 

Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was lovo in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and flights. 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more, 
Wlios.3 husband only knows her not a wh — ro. 

XVIII. 

Hard words ; hai-sh truth ; a truth which many know 
Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 

Who never found a single hour too slow. 

What was it made them thus exempt from care? 

Young innate feelings all have felt below, 
Which perish in the rest, but in them were 

Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic. 

And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is 111 others a factitious state, 

An opium dream^ of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or their fate : 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding ; 
So that there was no reason for their loves 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 'tis an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 



> [*• For theirs were buoyant spirits, which would bound 
'Gainst common failings," &c.— MS.] 

2 [The " Confessions of an English Opium Eater," by De 
Qain«.y, had been published shortly before this Canto was 
written.] 

t" Seldom he smiles ; and smiles in such a sort. 
As if he mock'd himself," &.C.— Shakspeare.] 



For it had made them what they irere : the power 
Of love had first o'erwhelmed them from such skies, 

When happiness had been their only dower. 
And twilight sav/ them link'd in passion's ties ; 

Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that 
brought 

The past still wel:ome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I Kiiow lii-t why, but in that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'-^r a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 

And thus some bodinxr flash'd through either frame, 

And call'd from Juai. s breast a faint lov/ sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

xx:i. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd [j dilate 

And follow fai*the disappearing 6un, 
As if their last day Oi a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gona; 
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none. 
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 

Which makes not others smile ;^ then turn'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see " 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this. 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 'tis the best : 
Some people prefer wine — 'tis not amiss ; 

I have tried both :'' so those who would a part take. 

May choose between the headache and the heartache. 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice. 
Woman or wine, you'll have to undergo ; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 

But which to choos3. 1 really hardly know ; 

And if I had to give a cashing, voice. 

For both sides I could many reasons show. 

And then decide, without great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither 

XXVI. 

Juan and Haid^e gazed upon each other 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness. 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brothofi 
All that the best can mingle and express 



4 [" The effect of all wines and spirits upon me is s'.range 
It settles, Dut it makes me gloomy— gloomy at the vefj 
moment of their effect, and not gay hardly ever. Bin it 
composes for a time, though .sullenly .Swimmijig raises 
my spirits,— but in general tliey are low, and get daily c wcr. 
That is hopeless ; for I do not think I am so much er^myi 
as I was at nineteen " — Byron Diary, Ib^l.] 



Canto iv. 



DON JUAN 



653 



When two pure hwarts are pour'd in one another, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 
But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
By the immortal wish and power to bless.' 

XXVII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, [long 
Why did they not then die? — they had lived too 

Should an hour coino to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong ; 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense," 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ;- they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care : 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in lovnig sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air ;' 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep c^aar stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream. 
The mystical usurper of the mind — * 



> [" Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 

Towards a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanction'd, chiefly for tliat end : 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annull'd— her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 

Wordsworth's Laodamia.] 

2 [" The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, 
1 better brook than flourishing peopled towns : 
There can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
And to the nightingale's complaining notes 
Tune my distresses, and record my woes." 

Shakspeare.] 

s [In one of Wilson's minor poems, " On the Death of a 
€hild," (1812,) occurs this beautiful image : 

..." All her innocent thoughts, 
Like rose-leaves scatter'd."] 
• 
* [" We are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps, 
and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of 
the soul. Itis the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason ; 
and our waking conceptions do not match the fancies of our 
sleeps. At my nativity my ascendant was the watery sign of 
.Scorpius ; I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I 
think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no 
way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardise of 
company ; yet in one dream I can compose a wliole comedy, 
behold the action, apprehend the jests, and laugh myself 
awake at the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faithful 
as my reason is then fruitful, I would never study but in my 
dreams ; and this time also would I choose for my d ovo- 
tions ; but our grosser memories have then so little hold of 
our abstracted understandings, that they forget the story, and 
can only relate to our avvakened souls a confused and broken 
tale of that that has passed." — Sir Tho.mas Browne.] 

s [" Strange state of being !— for 'tis still to be— 

And who can know all false what then we see ?" — MS.] 

« [" One of the finest moral tales I ever read, is an accoimt 



O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem " 

Good to the soul which wo no more can bind ; 
Strange state of being ! (for 'tis still to be) 
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.^ 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,' 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the fepot, and the loud roar 

Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her; 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour. 

Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 

XXXII. 

Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every sten she made ; 
And something roH'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid : 
'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed: — in a cave she stood, its walls 
Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 

Of ages on its water-fretted halls, [and lurk ; 

Where waves might wash, and seals might breed 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 

Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 

Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear, (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now I) 



of a dream in the Tatler, which, though it has every appear- 
ance of a reftl dream, comprehends a moral so sublime and 
so interesting, that I question whether any man who attends 
to it can ever forget it ; and, if he remembers, whether he 
can ever cease to be the better for it. Addison is the auu: j r 
of the paper ; and I shall give the story in his own elegant 
words : — ' I was once in agonies of grief that are unutterable, 
and in so great a distraction of mind, that I thought myself 
even out of the possibility of receiving comfort. The occa- 
sion was as follows :— When I was a youth, in a part of the 
army which was then quartered at Dover, I fell in love with 
an agreeable young woman of a good family in those parts, 
and had the satisfaction of seeing my addresses kindly re- 
ceived, which occasioned the perplexity I am going to relate. 
We were, in a calm evening, diverting ourselves, on the top 
of a cliff, with the prospect of the sea ; and trifling away the 
time in such little fondnesses, as are most ridiculous to people 
in business, and most agreeable to those in love. In the 
midst of these our innocent endearments, she snatched a 
paper of verses out of my hand, and ran away with them. I 
was following her ; when on a sudden the ground, though at 
a considerable distance from the verge of the precipice, sunk 
under her, and tlirevv her down from so prodigious a height, 
upon such a range of rocks, as would have dashed her into 
ten thousand pieces, had her body been made of adamant. 
It is much easier for my reader to imagine my state of mind 
upon such an occasion, than for me to express it. I said to 
myself, it is not in the power of Heaven to relieve me— when 
I awaked, equally transported and astonished, to see myself 
drawn out of an affliction, which, the very moment before^ 
appeared to be altogether inextricable.' — What fable of 
.iEsop, nay of Homer, or of Virgil, conveys so fine a moral ? 
Yet most people have, if I mistake not," met with sucl; de- 
liverances by means of a dream. Lotus not despise instruc- 
tion, how mean soever the vehicle may be that brings it. 
Even if it be a dream, let us learn to profit by it. For, 
whether asleep or awake, we are equally the care of Provi- 
dence ; and neither a dream, nor a waking thought, can 
occur to us without the permission of Him in whom we live, 
and move, and have our being." — Dr. Beattie.] 



654 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CAxNTO IV. 



Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 

Of his quench'd heart ; and the sea dirges low 
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.^ 

XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view? 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she 
there ? 

'Tis — 'tis her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXVI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too well: 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind • 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call, 

A thousand cimeters await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 'tis — 
'Tis Lambro — 'tis my father ! Kneel with me — 

He will forgive us — yes — it must be— yes. , 
Oh I dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood. 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 

Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 
He look'd upci> her, but gave no reply ; 

Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 

" Young man, your sword.;" so Lambro once more 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free." [said : 



i["I awoke from a dream— well! and have not others 
dreamed '—Such a dream !— but she did not overtake me. 
I wish the dead would rest, however. Ugh I how my blood 
cldlled — and I could not wake— and — heigho ! 
' Shadows to-night 
Have stnick more terror in the soul of Richard, 
Than could the substance often thousand, 
Arm'd all in proof,' &c. &c. 
I do not like this dream,— I hate its ' forgone conclusion.' 
And am I to be shaken by shadows 1 Ay, w hen they remind 
nie of— no matter — but, if I dream thus again, I will try 
whether all sleep has the like visions. Since I rose, I've 



The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 

Replied, " Your blood be then on your own head." 
Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 

'Twas fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 

And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the eL.r, 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards olF, or so ; 

A gentlernanly distance, not too near. 
If you have got a former friend for foe ; 

But after being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes rnoro Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 

Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don .Tuan's breath, 

When Haidde threw herself her boy before ; 

Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let death 

Descend — the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 

He found — but sought not. I have pledged my 
faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness — know your daughter's too." 

XLIIL 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 

She stood as one who champion'd human fears — 
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow ; 

And tall beyond her sei;, and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 'twas strange 
How like they look'd ! the expression was the 
same ; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she, too, was as one who could avenge. 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame. 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 

Their stature, differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of theii»hand^ 

There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both. 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 



been in considerable bodily pain a-lso ; but it is gone and 
over, and now, like Lord Ogleby, 1 am wound up for the 
day." — Byron Journal, 1813.] 

2 [The reader will observe a curious mark of propinquity- 
which the poet notices, with respect to the hands oj Ihe 
father and daughter. Lord Byron, we suspect, is indeMcd 
for the first hint of this to All Pacha, who, by the by, is tlie 
Original of Lnmbro ; for, when his lordship was introduced, 
with his friend Hobhouse, to that agreeable-mannered 
tyrant, the vizier said that he knew hu was the Megalos 
Anthropos (i. e. the Great Man) by the smallness of his 
ears and hands. — Galt.] 



Canto iv. 



DON JUAN. 



655 



XLVI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, am! replaced it ; hut stood still, 

And looking on her, as to look her through, 

" Not /," he said, " have sought this stranger's ill ; 

Net / have made this desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill ; 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past.' 

XLVII. 

" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew, another answer'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led. 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all. 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 

Ho gave the word, — " Arrest or slay the Frank." 

xLvni. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter ; while compress'd within his clasp, 

'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — • 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 

The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in ; so well, ere you could look 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot, 
Witli the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 



And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore. 

Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.^ 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 

Until they reach'd some galliots, jtlaced in line ; 

On board of one of these, and under hatches. 

They stow'd him; with strict orders to the watches, 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes. 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 

Handsome and young, enJDying all the presc.'it, 

' V And if / ci'd my duty as thou hast, 

This hour were thine, and thy young minion's last." 

—MS.] 

" ['• Till further orders should his doom assign." — MS.] 

3 [" But thou, sweet fury of the fiery rill, 
Makcsl on the liver a still worse attack ; 

Besides, thy price is something dearer still."— MS.] 

4 t" I have been considering what can be the reason why I 
always wake at a certain hour in the morning, and always in 
very bad spirits — I may say, in actual despair and despond- 
eney, in all respects, even of that which pleased me over 
night. In about an hour or two this goes off, and I compose 
t'itlier to sleep .tgain, or, at least, to quiet. In England, live 
years ago, 1 had the same kind of hypochondria, but accom- 
panied with so violcMJ, a thirst, that I have drunk as many 
as thirteen bottles of soda-water in one night, after going to 
bed, and been still thirsty. At present I have not the thirst, 
but the depression of spirits is no less violent. What is it ? 



Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent, 
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot mova, 
And all because a lady fell "in love. 

LH 
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic. 

Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea! 
Than whom Cassandra was in t more prophetic; 

For if my pure libations exceed three, 
I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must have recourse to black Bohoa : 
'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious. 
For tea and coffee leave us much more seri&us. 

LHL 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac . 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlogethontic rill ! 
Ah I why the liver wilt thou thus attack,' 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack^ 

(In each sense of the word,) whene'er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim. 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIV. 

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 

Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded ; 

Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 

Of those with which his Haid^e's bosom bounded ! 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe. 
And then give way, subdued because surrounded ; 

Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 

Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 

In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er f 
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root. 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan ; 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 

LVI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled ; full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 

The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour. 

And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 

Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower : 

But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force. 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source.' 



—liver? I suppose that it is all hypochondria." — Byron 
Diary, 1821.] 

6 [" At Fez, the houses of the great and wealthy have, 
withinside, spacious courts, adorned with sumptuous galle- 
ries, founts of the finest marble, and fish-ponds, shaded with 
orange, lemon, pomegranate, and fig-tn cs, abounding with 
fruit, and ornamented with roses, hyaciiths, jasmine, vio- 
lets, and other odoriferous flowers, emitting a delectuble 
fragrance ; so thatitis justly called a paradise. "—Jackson's 
Morocco.} 
c [" Beauty and passion were the natural dower 
Of Haid6e's mother, but her climate's force 
Lay at her heart, though sleeping at the source." 
Or, 

" But in her large eye lay deep passion's force, 
Like to a Hon sleeping by a source." 
Or, 

" But in her large eye lay deep passion's force 
As sleeps a lion by a river's source." — MS.] 



656 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



LVII. 

Her daugbter, temper'd with a milder ray, 

Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fall, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air. 

Had held till now her soft and milky way ; 
Bat overwrought with passion and despair. 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins. 

Even as the Simoom' sweeps the blasted plains 

Lvni. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down ; 

His blood was running on the very floor 

Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 

On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes- 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er f 

And her head droop'd as when the lily lies [bore 

O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. 

But she defied all means they could employ. 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she m that state unchanged, though chill — 
With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 

She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 

Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 

New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 

She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXL 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 

But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but forever fair ;■• 

1 [The suffocating blast of the Desert. See ante, p. 75.] 

2 [" The blood gush'd from her lips, and ears, and eyes : 

Those eyes, so beautiful — beheld no more."— 31S.] 
s This is no very uncommon effect of the violence of con- 
fficting and different passions. The Doge Francis Foscari, 
on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bells of St, Mark an- 
nounce the election of his successor, " mourut subitement 
d'une hemorragie causae par une veine qui s'eclata dans sa 
poitrine," (see Sismondi and Daru, vols. i. and ii. : see also 
ante, p. 30S,) at the age of eighty years, when " U7io would 
have thought the old man had so much blood in him ?" Before I 
was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy in- 
stance ol the same effect of mixed passions, upon a young 
person, who, however, did not die in consequence, at that 
time, but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure 
of the same kind, arising from causes intimately connected 
with agitation of mind. 

4 [See ante, p. 57. The view of the Venus of Medicis 
IriStantly suggests the Imes in the " Seasons,"— 

" With wild surprise. 

As if to marble struck, devoid of sense, 
A stupid moment motionless she stood: 
So stands the statue that enchants the world." 

HOBHOUSE. 

5 [" The sublime mark of a great soul shines forth, in all 
its beauty, through those affecting expressions of pain and 
anguish that appear in the countenance of the famous Lao- 
coon, and diffuse their horrors through his convulsed mem- 
bers The bitterness of his torment seems to be imprinted on 
each muscle, and to swell every nerve ; and it is expressed 
v\ 1th peculiar energy, by the contraction of the abdomen and 



O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes,* 

And ever-dying Gladiator's air," 
Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.' — 

LXIL 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake. 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something now, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not her memory, though a heavy acho 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXHL 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eyo, 
On many a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking why ; 
And rcck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not : not a sigh 
Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left tht grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded pot ; 

Her father watch'd, she turii'd her eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot. 

However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
Tiiey changed from room to room, but all forgot, 

Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning 
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 

XLV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument ; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent ; 
And he begun a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 



all the lower parts of his body : this expression is so lively, 
that the attentive spectator partakes, in some measure, of the 
anguish it represents. The sufferings of the body and the ele- 
vation of the soul are expressed in every member with equal 
energy, and form the most sublime contrast imaginable 
Laopoon suffers it, but he suffers like the Philoctetes of So- 
phocles ; his lamentable situation pierces the heart, but fills 
us, at the same lime, with an ambitious desire of being able 
to imitate his constancy and magnanimity in the pams and 
sufferings that may fall to our lot."— Winkelmann. 

" In the group of the Laocoon, the frigid ecstasies of Ger 
man criticism have discovered pity like a vapor swimming 
on the father's eyes ; he is seen to suppress in the groan for 
his children the shriek for himself — his nostrils are drawn up- 
ward, to express indignation at unworthy sufferings, whilst 
he is said at the same time to implore celestial help. To 
these are added the winged effects of the serpent-poison, the 
writhings of the body, the spasms of the extremities: to the 
miraculous organization of such expression, Agesander, the 
sculptor of the Laocoon, was too wise to lay claim. His 
figure is a class : it characterizes every beauty of virility 
verging on age ; the prince, the priest, the father are vi.sible, 
but, absorbed in the man, serve only to dignify the victim of 
one great expression ; though poised by the artist for us. f) 
apply the compass to the face of the Laocoon is to measure 
the way fluctuating in the storm : this tempestuous front, 
this contracted nose, the immersion of these eyes, and, above 
all, that long-drawn mouth, are, separate and united, seats 
of convulsion, features of nature, struggling within the jaws 
of death."— FusELi.] 

6 [See ante, p. 52.] 

7 [" Distinct from life, as oeing still the «a.T.e.' —MS.} 



Canto iv. 



DON JUAN. 



657 



LXVI. 

Aiion her thin wan fingers beat the wall 

In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 

And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through all 
Her recollection ; on her flash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To bo so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain. 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — 

Hers was a phreusy which disdain'd to rave, 

Evea when they smote her, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she bctray'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either; neither change of place. 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone forever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 

And they who watch'd h^ nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change tliat cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lus^'S— and then lack !' 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone ; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin f 
But closed its little being without light. 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight ; 

la vain the dews of Heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 



1 [" And then lie drew a dial from his poke, 
And looking on it with lack-lustre eye." 

As Yuu Like Jj.] 
» C" Have dawn'd a child of beauty, though of sin." — MS.] 

3 [ " Duncan is in his grave : 

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." — Macbeth.] 

4 [We think that few will withhold their sympathy from 
this a'%cting catastrophe, or refuse to drop a tear over the 
fate of the lovely and unfortunate Haid6e, and to bid her 

" sleep well 
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell." 

Over this charming creature the poet has thrown a beauty 
and a fascination, which were never, we think, surpassed. 
In this, as in the former cantos, he pours out a smgular 
mixture of pathos, doggerel, wit, and satire ; taking a strange 
and almost malignant delight in dashing the laughter he lias 
raised with tears, and crossing his finest and most affecting 
passages with burlesque ideas, against which no gravity is 
pro )f.— Campbell.] 
"i [■■' No stone is there to read, nor tongue to say, 

No du'ge — save when arise the stormy seas." — MS.] 

[It will be advanced that her amours are objectionable, 
b7 6o:ne fastidious critic, 



LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not mide 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth : her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful — such as had not staid 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well' 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
" Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 
None but her own and father's grave is there, 

And nothing outward tells of human clay ; 
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 

No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
What was ; no dirge, except the hc!!ow sea's,' 
Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

Lxxin. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving eong 
Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long ; 
Valor was his, and beauty dwelt with her : 

If she loved rashl} , ner life paid for wrong — " 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad. 
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf;- 

I don't much like describing people mad, 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 

Besides, I've no more on this head to add ; 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We'll put about, and try another tack 

With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'" 
Some days and nights elapsed before that he 

Could altogether call tiie past to mind ; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea, 

Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 

Another time he might have liked to see 'em, 

But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigeeum.* 



" Who minces virtue, and doth shake th'e head 
To hear of pleasure's name." 
If the loves of Juan and Haidie are not pure and innocent, 
and dictated with sufficient delicacy and propriety, the ten- 
der passion may as well be struck at once out of the list of 
the poet's themes. We must shut our eyes and harden our 
hearts against the master-passion of oLir existence ; and, 
becoming mere creatures of hypocri'^y and form, charge 
even Milton himself with folly.— Campbell.] 

' ["But now I'm cabin'd, cribb'd," &c.—Skakspeare.] 

8 [We had a full view of Mount Ida, 

" Where Juno once caress'J her amorous Jove, 
And the world's master x&y subdued by love." 
We anchored at Cape Janissaiy, the famous promontory of 
Sigaeum. My curiosity supplied me with strength to climb 
to the top of it, to see the p'.ace where Achilles was buried, 
and where Alexander ran -.Kiked round his tomb, in honor 
of him— whicn no doubt was a great comfort to his ghost. 
Farther downward we s^v/ the promontory famed for the 
sepulchre of Ajax. Wh^le I reviewed these celebrated fields 
and rivers, I admired tile exact geography of Homer, whom 
I had in my hand. J'imost every epnhet he gives to a moun- 
tain or plain is stiU just for it ; and I spent several hours 
here in aa agreeat le cogitations as ever Don Quixote had on 
Mount Montesin'j;},— Lady M. W. Montagu.] 



B3 



658 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



LXXVI. 

There, on the green and villago-cotted hill, is 
(Flauk'd by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 

Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles ; 
They say so — (Bryant says the contrary :) 

And further dovi^nward, tall and towering still, is' 
The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may t 

Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus f 

All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same. 
And old Scamander, (if 'tis he,) remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls ; 

Lxxvni. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 

Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth ; 

Some shepherds, (unlike Paris,) led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their schoolboy feelings bear;^ 
A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion. 

Are what I found there — but the devil a Phrygian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave ; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ersiiadow'd there by many a hero's grave ; 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard. 
Which was an odd one ; a troop going to act 



' [Proc 3; ling towards the east, and round the bay dis- 
tinctly pointed out by Strabo, as the harbor in which the 
Grecian fleet was stationed, we arrived at the sepulchre of 
Ajax, upon the ancient ilhtelian promontory. In all tl.a 
remains of former ages, 1 know of nothing likely to affec. 
the mind by emotions of local enthusiasm more powerfully 
than this most interesting tomb. It is impossible to view its 
sublime and simple form without calling to mind the venera- 
tion so long paid to it ; without picturing to the imagination 
a successive series of mariners, of kings and heroes, who, 
from the Hellespont, or by the shores of Troas and Cherso- 
nesus, or on the sepulchre itself, poured forth the tribute of 
their homage ; and, finally, without representing to the mind 
the feelings of a native, or of a traveller, in those times, 
who, after viewing the existing monument, and witnessing 
the instances of public and of private regard so constantly 
bestowed upon it, should have been told the age was to ar- 
rive when tlie existence of Troy, and of the mighty dead 
entombed upon its plain, would be considered as having no 
foundation in truth.— Dr. E. D. Clarke.] 

2 [" The Troad is a fine field for conjecture and snipe- 
shooting, and a good sportsman and an ingenious scholar 
may exercise their feet and faculties to great advantage 
upon the spot ;— or, if they prefer riding, lose their way, as 
I aid, in a cursed quagmire of the Scamander, who wriggles 
about, as if the Dardan virgins still oflfered their wonted 
tribute. The only vestige of Troy, or her destroyers, are 
the barrows supposed to contain the cai uasses of Achilles, 
Autilochus, Ajax, &c. ; but Mount Ida is still in high feather, 
;hough the shepherds are now a-days not much like Gany 
mede." — tiyron Letters, 1810.] 

' [Nothing could be more agreeable than our frequent 



In Sicily — all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation ; had not been attack'd 
In sailing from Livorno by the pirate. 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.* 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo^ of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty, 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanor, 

Than did the prima doniia and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, " Our Machiavclian impresario. 

Making a sigi a off some promontory, ♦ 

Hail'd a strange brig ; CoijyCi di Caio Mario ! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But if the Sultan has a taste for song, 

We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

" The prima donna, though a little old. 

And haggard with a dissipated life. 
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold. 

Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife. 
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold • 

Last carnival she made a deal of strife 
By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 
From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers ; there 's the Nini, 
With more than one profession gains by all ; 

Then there's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 
She, too, was fortunate last carnival. 

And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 
But spends so fast, she lias not now a paul ; 

And then there 's the Grotesca — such a dancer ! 

Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. 



rambles. The peasants of the numerous villages, whom we 
frequently encountered ploughing with their bufl'aloes, or 
driving their creaking wicker cars, laden with fagots from 
the mountains, whether Greeks or Turks, showed no incli- 
nation to interrupt onr pursuits. Parties of our crew might 
oe seen scattered over the plain, collecting the tortoises 
which swarm on the sides of the rivulets, and are found 
under every furze-bush.— Hobhouse.] 

* This is a fact. A few years ago a man engaged a com- 
pany for some foreign theatre, embarked them at an Italian 
port, and carrying them to Algiers, sold them all. One of 
the women, returned from her captivity, I heard sing, by a 
strange coincidence, in Rossini's opera of " L'llaliana in 
Algieri,," at Venice, in the beginning of 1817.— [AVe have 
reason to believe that the following, which we take from the 
MS. journal of a highly respectable traveller, is a more cor- 
rect account :— " In 1812, a Signor Guariglia induced several 
young persons of both sexes— none of them exceeding fifteen 
years of age— to accompany him on an operatic excursion ; 
part to form the opera, and part the ballet. He contrived to 
get them on board a vessel, which took them to Janina, where 
he sold them for the basest purposes. Some died from the 
effect of the climate, and some from suflfering. Among the 
few who returned were a Signor IMolinari, and a female 
cancer named Bonfiglia, who afterwards became the wife of 
Crespi, the tenor singer. The wretch who so basely solo 
them was, when Lord Byron resided at Venice, employed as 
capo de' veslarj, or head tailor, at the Fenice."— Gbaham.J 

s [A comic singer in the opera buffa. The Italians, how- 
ever, distinguish the bufi'o cantante, which requires good 
singing, from the bulib comico, in v.hich there is moie 
acting.] 



Canto iv. 



DON JUAN. 



G59 



LXXXV. 

" As for the figiiranti,' they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here aud there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

Tlie rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
There 's one, though tall and stifFer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental kind of air 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigor ; 
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXVI. 

" As for the men, they are a middling set ; 

The mustco is but a crack'd old basin, 
But being qualified in one way yet. 

May the seraglio do to set his face in,'' 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

His singing I no further trust can place in : 
From all the Pope^ makes yearly 'twould perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXVII. 

" The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education. 

An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow, 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 

Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'Twould not become myself to dwell upon 

My own merits, and though young, — I see. Sir — you 

Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You've heard of Raucocanti ?■* — I'm the man ; 
The time may come when you may hear me too ; 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — do go. 

LXXXIX. 

" Our baritone^ I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit : 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of not great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot. 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 

In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe. 

Having uo heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

XC. 

Hero Raucocauti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright all 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by cue. 

XCI. 

They heard next day — that in the Dardanelles, 
Waiting for his Sublimity's firman, 



> [The figuranti are those dancers of a ballet who do not 
dance singly, but many togcUier, and serve to fill up the 
background during the exhibition of individual performers. 
They correspond to the chorus in the opera. — Graham.] 

2 [" To help the ladies in their dress and lacing."— MS.] 

2 It is strange that it should be the Pope and the Sultan 
who are the chief encouragers of this branch of trade— wo- 
men being prohibited as singers at St. Peter's, and not 
deemed trust-worthy as guardians of the harem. 

* [Rauco-canti— may be rendered by Hoarse-song.] 



The most imperative of sovereign spells, 
Which everybody does without who can, 

More to secure them in their naval cells. 
Lady to lady, well as man to man. 

Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple, 

For the slave market of Constantinople. 

xcn. 

It seems when this allotment was made out. 

There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt. 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male 

Was Juan, — who, an awkward thing at his age, 

Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage. 

xcin. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more paiu'd 
With this his tuneful neighbor than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-graiu'd, 
Instead of bearing up without debaie. 

That each pull'd different ways with many au oath, 

" Arcades ambo," id est — blackguards both-* 

XCIV. 

Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within tiie march of old Ancona, 

With eyes that look'd into the very soul, 
(And other chief points of a " bella donna,") 

Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion shone a 

Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 

Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 

But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command ; 

Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim ; 
And though "thus chain'd, as natural her hand 

Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
(And she had some not easy to withstand) 

Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle, 

Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCVL 

No matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
But facts are facts : no knight could be more true, 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 

We will omit the proofs, save one or two: 

'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus ;"' but few, 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

Was more triumphant, and not much less real. 

XCVII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description, 
Having withstood temptation in my youth,* 

But hear that several people take exception 
At the first two books having too much truth ; 



s [A male v^-ii-e, the compass of which partakes of those of 
the common bass and the tenor, but does not extend so far 
downwards as the one, nor to an equal heiglit with the 
other.— Gr AH A.M.] 

6 [" That each puU'd different ways— and waxing rough, 
Had cuff'd each other, only for the cuff." — MS.] 

' ["Oh, who can hold a fire in his hand, 

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?"— Shai^speahe.] 

s [" Having had som.e experience in my youth."— MS.] 



660 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto iv. 



Tlierefore I'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 
To pass,than those two cantos into families. 

XCVIII. 
Tis all the same to me ; I'm fond of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an age ; 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.' 

XCIX. 
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble. 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease ; 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long. 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 
Of poets who come down to us through distance 

Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, 
Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 

Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
'Tis as a snowball whicli derives assistance 

From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,' 
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 
But, after all, 'tis nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 
And so great names are nothing more than nominal. 

And love of glory 's but an airy lust. 



1 [" Don Juan will be known, by and by, for what it is in- 
tended—a satire on abuses in the present states of society, 
and not a eulogy of vice. It may be now and then volup- 
tuous:— I can't help that. Ariosto is worse. Smollett (see 
Lord Strutwell in Roderick Random) ten tilnes worse ; and 
Fielding no better. No girl will ever be seduced by reading 
Don Juan : — No, no ; she will go to Little's Poems, and 
Rousseau^s Romans for that, or even to the immaculate De 
Stael. They will encourage her, and not the Don, who 
laughs at that, and— and — most other things. But never 
mind — Ca ira!" — Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, 1822.] 

2 [" I stooo ipon the plain of Troy daily, for more than 
a month, in 1810 , and if any thing diminished my pleasure, 

'vas that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veraci- 
ty. '—Byron Diary, 1621.] 

3 [It seems hardly to admit of doubt, that the plain of 
Anatolia, watered by the Mender, and backed by a moun- 
tainous ridge, of which Kazdaghy is the summit, offers the 
precise territory alluded to by Homer. The long contro- 
versy, excited by IMr. Bryant's publication, and since so 
vehemently agitated, would probably never have jxisted, 
had it not been for the erroneous maps of the country «hich, 
e '?n to this hour, disgrace our geographical knowledge of 
thai part of Asia.— Dr. E. D. Clarke. 

" Although a real poet is naturally anxious to avail himself 
of interesting and well-known scenery, and a story hallowed 
by tradition, yet it is only so far as they suit his purpose, that 
either tradition or topography will be adhered to : and it is 
surely preposterous to expect that in a poem, so long, so 
varied, and so busy as that of Homer, he should exactly con- 
form to the sober rules of the annalist, or the land-surveyor. 
It was the general opinion of antiquity, that Homer had, in 
many respects, departed from the truth of history in the 
action of his poem. Nor can any reason be assigned why he 
should not, by an equal privilege, have omitted or softened, 
or altered, such features of the scenery as interfered, in his 
opinion, with the effect or coherence of his narration. But, 
while a poet himself is seldom thus particular, it is the privi- 
lege of poetry to bestow, even on imaginary scenery, the mi- 
nuteness and liveliness which convey the idea of accuracy, — 
and if only the general features of his picture are correct, the 
zeal of his admirers in after ages will not fail to assign a local 
habitation tc even the wildest of his features. The sexton of 



Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 'twei-e identify their dust 

From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 
Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just" — 

Save change : I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,^ 

And heard Troy doubted f time will doubt of Rcnie 

cn. 

The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits toniD, 

Until the memory of an age is fled. 

And,- buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom: 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 

Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloon! 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath, 

And lose their own in universal death.* 

cm. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 

Where perish'd in his fame the ht'D-boy, 
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 

For human vanity, the young Be Foix ! 
A broken pillar, not uacou'hly hewn. 

But which neglect is haste.iing to destroy, 
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face. 
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 

CIV. 
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: 

A little cupola, more neat than solemn. 
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid® 

To the bard's tomb,' p.nd not the warrior's col- 
umn : 
The time must come, when both alike decay'd, 

The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume, 
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 



Melrose has already begun to point out the tomb of JMichael 
Scott, as described in tlie Lay of the Last Minstrel ; and 
though the main outlines of Homer's picture are perfectly 
copied from nature, yet we doubt not that many of those ob- 
jects to which Strabo refers, instead of affording subjects 
for the bard to describe, derived, in after-days, their name 
and designation from his description." — Bishop Heber.] 

4 [" Look back who list unto the former ages, 

And call to count what is of them become ; 
Where be those learned wits and antique sages 

Which of all wisdom knew the perfect sum? 

Where those great warriors which did overcome 
The world with conquest of their might and main. 
And made one mear of the earth and of their reign." 

SrEHSER.] 

5 The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about 
two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the river to 
the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who gained the 
battle, was killed in it : there fell on both sides twenty thou- 
sand men. The present slate of the pillar and its site is de- 
scribed in the te.xt. — [De Foix was Duke of Nemours, and 
nephew to Louis XII., who gave him the government of 
Milan, and made him general of his army in Italy. The 
young hero signalized his valor and abilities in various ac- 
tions, which terminated in the battle of Ravenna, fought on 
Easter-day, 1512. After he had obtained the victory, he 
could not be dissuaded from pursuing a body of Spanish in- 
fantry, which retreated in good order. Making a furious 
charge on this brave troop, he was thrown from his horse, 
and dispatched by a thrust of a pike. He perished in las 
twenty-fourth year, and the king's affliction for liis death 
embittered all the joy arising from his success. — JIoeeri.] 

6 [" Protects his tomb, but greater care is paid."- MS.] 

T [Dante was buried ("in sacra minorum eede"' at Ra- 
venna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by ms pro- 
tector, Guido da Polenta, restored by Bernardo Bemlo in 
1483, again restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1692, and replaced 
by a more magnificent sepulchre in 1760, at the expense o 
the Cardinal Luigi Valent Gonzaga. The Florentines hav- 
ing in vain and frequently attempted to itcover hs body, 
crowned his image in a church, and his dure is still one 
of the idols of their cathedral.— Hobhouse ] 



Canto i.v. 



DON JUAN. 



6G1 



CV. 

Witli human blood that cokimn was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
To show his loathing of the spot ho soil'd :^ 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 

Should ever be those bloodhounds, from whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.^ 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards : though fame is smoke. 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 

And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 

Song in the world, will seek what then they 
sought f 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 

Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 

Dash into poetry,* which is but passion. 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CVII. 

If in the courso of such a life as was 
At once adventurous and contemplative. 

Men who partake all passions as they pass. 
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give' 

Their images again as in a glass. 

And in such colors that they seem to live ; 

You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 

But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ! 

Benign Coruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks. 

Your " imprimatur" will ye not annex ? 
Whi.t ! must I go to the oblivious cooks?* 

Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah t must I then the only minstrel be. 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea !' 



1 [" With human ordure is it now defiled, 
As if the peasant's scorn this mode invented 

To show his loathing -.he thing he soil'd."— 
MS.] 

2 £" Those sufferings once reservea .or Hell alone."— MS.] 

s [" Its fumes are frankincense ; and were there naught 
Even of this vapor, still the chilling yoke 
Of silence would not long be borne by Thought."— 
MS.] 

< [" ' The Bride of Abydos' was written in four nights, to 
distract my dreams fr:>m . . . Were it not thus, it had never 
Deen composed ; and iin,: not done something at t^iat time, 

must have gone mad, oy eating my own heart— bitter 
uiat 1'' — Byron Diary, 1813.] 

6 ;'* I h-'.ve drunk deep of passions as they jfess. 

An dearly bought the bitter power to give."— MS.] 

6 [" To pastry-cooks and moths, ' and there an end.' "— 

GifFORD.] 

'' t" What ! must I go with Wordy to the cooks ? 

Read — were it but your Grandmother's to vex — 
And let me not the only minstrel be 
Cut off from tasting your Castalian tea." — MS.] 

6 [" Away, tlien, with the senseless iteration of the word 
popularity ! In every thing which is to send the soul into 
Lei self, to be admonished of her weakness, or to be made 
conscious of her strength ; wherever hfe and nature are de- 
scribed i.s operated upon by the creative or abstracting vir- 
tue of tnc imagination ; wherever the instinctive wisdom 
of antiquity, and her heroic passions, uniting, in the lieart 
of th i Poet, with the meditative wisdom of later ages, have 
produced that accord of sublimated humanity, which is at 
once a history of the remote past, and a prophetic an- 
nounccnieLt of the remotest future— iAere, the Poet must 



CIX. 

What ! can I prove " a lion" then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling? 
To bear the compliments of many a bore. 

And sigh, " I can't get out," like Yorick's starling; 
Why then I'll swear, as poet Wordy swore, 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarling,) 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottoy, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie."* 

ex. 

Oh ! " darkly, deeply, beaitlifully blue," 

As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 

They say your stockings are so —(Heaven knows 
why, 

I have examined few pair of that hue ;) 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn 

The festal midnight, and the levee morn." 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover, 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features : 
And — but no matter, all those things are over • 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 

For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I knew one woman of that purple school. 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
The last, if late accounts be accurate, 

Invented, by some name I have forgot, 
As well as the sublime discovery's date, 

An airy instrument, with which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state, ' 

By measuring " the intensity of blue .•""• 

Oh, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you !" 



reconcile himself for a season to few and scattered hearers." 
Wordsworth's Second Preface.] 

9 [" Not having look'd at many of that hue. 

Nor garters— save those of the ' honi soiV — which lie 
Round the Patrician legs which walk about. 
The ornaments of levee and of rout." — MS.] 

10 [The cyanoineter — an instrument invented for ascertain- 
ing the intensity of the blue color of the sky. On the sum- 
mit of high mountains, elevated above the grosser portions 
of the atmosphere, it might be curious to compare experi- 
ments with those made with the same kind of instrument by 
M. Saussure on the Alps ; but it is mere ostentation to talk, 
as M. de Humboldt does, of such experiments made at sea 
with a view of oeing useful to navigation. We prefer, as 
more simple and more correct, that natural diaphanometer, 
which for ages has regulated the prognostics of mariners — 
" a great paleness of the setting sun, a wan color, an extra- 
ordinary disfiguration of its disc ;" though we should be 
cautious in admitting that these meteorological phenomena 
are the unequivocal signs of a tempest. The marine ba- 
rometer is far more important to the mariner than hygro- 
meters or cyanometers. By this instrument a change of 
weather never fails to be indicated by the least rising or fall- 
ing of the mercury in the tube ; the descent, in tropical lati- 
tudes, of an eighth of an inch, when at a distance from the 
land, is the unequivocal indication of an approaching storm. 
Many a ship has been saved from destruction by the timely 
notice given by this instrument to prepare for a storm ; and 
no ship should be permitted to go to sea without cne — 
Barrow.] 

11 [" I'll back a London ' Bas^ against Peru." 
Or, 

" I'll bet some pair of stockings beat Peru." 
Or, 
" And so, old Sotheby, we'll measure yc u."— MS.] 



CG2 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



CXIII. 

But to t)ie narrative : — The vessel bound 

With slaves to sell off in the capital, 
After the usual process, might be found 

At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound, 

Were landed in the market,^ one and all, 
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians, 
Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIV. 

Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 

Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colors 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers. 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven f 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'Twas for the Sultan, and at once withdi-ew. 

cxv. 

Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce could bring ; 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 'twas ere Abolition ; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 

Is always much more splendid than a king : 

The virtues, even the most exalted. Charity, 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop. 

How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 

And others rose to the command of crews 



1 ["The slave-market is a quadrangle, surrounded by a 
covered gallery, and ranges of small and separate apart- 
ments. Here the poor wretches sit in a melancholy posture. 
Such of them, both men and women, to whom dame Nature 
has been niggardly of her charms, are set apart for the vilest 
purposes : but such girls as have youth and beauty, pass their 
time well enough. The retailers of this human ware are the 
Jews, who take good care of their slaves' education, that they 
may sell the better : their choice'; . they keep at home, and 
there you must go, if you would have better than ordinary ; for 
it is here, as in markets for horses, the handsomest do not 
always appear, but arc kept within doors." — Touenefort.] 

2 [The manner of purchasing slaves is thus described in 
the plam and unafl'ected narrative of a German merchant, 
" which," says Mr. Thornton, " as I have been able to as- 
lertain its general authenticity, may Li relied upon as cor- 
rei;t."— " The girls were introduced to mo >ne after another. 
A Circassian maiden, eighteen years old, was the first who 
presented herself: she was well-dressed, and her face was 
covered with a veil. She advanced towards me, bowed 
down and kissed my hand : by order of her master she 
walked backwards and forwards, to show her shape and the 
easiness of her gait and carriage. When she took oflf her 
veil, she displayed a bust of the most attractive beauty : 
she rubbed her cheeks with a wet napkin to prove that she 
had not used art to heighten her complexion ; and she 
opened her invitinj lips, to show a regular set of teeth of 
pearly whiteness. . was permitted to feel her pulse, that I 
might be convinced of the good state of her health and con- 
stitution. She was then ordered to retire while we delib- 
erated upon the bargain. The price of this beautiful girl 
was four thousand piastres."— See Voyage de N. E. Klee- 
man, and also Thornton's Turkey, vol. ii. p. 289.] 

3 ;;" The females stood, ull chosen each as victim 

To the soft oath of ' Ana seing Siktum !' "—MS.] 

4 [Canto V. was begun at Ravenna, October the 16th, and 
finished November the 20th, 1820. It was published late in 
1821, along with Cantos III. and IV. ; and here the Poet 
meant to stop— for what reason, the subjoined extracts from 
his letters will show : 

February 1(5, 1821. " The fifth is so far from being the last 
of Don Juan, that it is hardly the beginning. I meant to 
take him the tour of Europe, with a proper mixture of siege. 



As renegadoes ; while in hapless group, 

Hoping no very old vizier might choo.se, 
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em 
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim :' 

CXVII. 

All this must be reserved for further song ; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this Canto has become too long,) 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present; 
I'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 

But could not for the muse of me put less in 't : 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE FIFTH.' 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, 
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, 

They little think what mischief is in hand ; 
The greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verso may give to understand ; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity.^ 



battle, and adventure, and to make liim finish as Anacharsis 
Cloots, in the French Revolution. To how many cantos 
this may extend, I know not, nor whether (even if I live) I 
shall complete it ; but this was my notion 1 meant to have 
made him a Cavalier Servente in Italy, and a cause for a 
divorce in England, and a sentimental ' Werther-faced man' 
in Germany, so as to show the difl'erent ridicules of the 
society in each of those countries, and to have displayed 
him gradually, gdte and bJase as he grew older, as is natural. 
But I had not quite fixed whether to make him end in hell, 
or in an unhappy marriage ; not knowing which would be 
the severest : the Spanish tradition says hell : but it is pro- 
bably only an allegory of the other state. You are now in 
possession of my notions on tlie subject." 

July 6, 1821. " At the particular request of the Countess 
Guiccioli I have promised not to continue Don Juan. You 
will therefore look upon these three Cantos as the last of the 
poem. She had read the two first in the French translation, 
and never ceased beseeching me to write no more of it. The 
reason of this is not at first obvious to a superficial observer 
of FOREIGN manners ; butitarisesfrom the wish of all women 
to exalt the sentiment of the passions, and to keep up the il- 
lusion which is their empire. Now, Don Juan strips off this 
illusion, and laughs at that and most other things. I never 
knew a woman who did not protect Rousseau, nor one who 
did not dislike De Gi'ammont, Gil Bias, and all the comedy 
of the passions, when brought out naturally. But ' king's 
blood must keep word,' as Sergeant Bothwell says." 

September 4, 1821. " I read over the Juans, which are ex- 
cellent. Your squad are quite wrong ; and so you'll find, by 
and by. I regret that I do not go on with it, for I had all the 
plan for several cantos, and difl'erent countries and climes. 
You say nothing of the note I enclosed to you, winch will ex- 
plain why I agreed to discontinue it." 

In Madame Guiccioli's note here referred to, she had said, 
" Remember, my Byron, the promise you have made me. 
Never shall I be able to tell you the satisfaction I feel from 
it ; so great are the sentiments of pleasure and confidence 
with which the sacrifice you have made has inspired me " 
In a postscript to the note she adds, " Mi reveresce solo che 
Don Giovanni non resti all' Inferno." " I am only sorry that 
Don Juan was not left in the infernal regions."] 

6 [See Appendix : " Hobhouse's Historical Notes to the 
Fourth Canto of Childe Harold."] 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



663 



II. 

I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 
Except in such a way as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructinjr than delighting. 
And with all passions in their turn attack'd ; 

Now, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill. 

This poem will become a moral model. 

III. 

The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream' 

Here and there studded with a seventy- "our ; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam f 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 

The twelve isles, and the more than I could dream. 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu.' 

IV. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary,"* 
For once it was a magic sound to me ; 

And still it half calls up the realms of fairy. 
Where I beheld what never was to be ; 

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free : 

But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold. 

Which must not be pathetically told. 

V. 

The wind swept down the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades ; 

'Tis a grand sight from off " the Giant's Grave"' 
To watch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease ; 

There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, 

Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning. 
When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 

The ParcsB then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise' 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
lu all, who o'er the great deep take their ways: 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared^ they won't. 



' '^Ktavoio^toio. ThisexpressionofHomerhasbeenmuch 
criticised It hardly answers to our Atlantic ideas of the 
ocean, but is sufficiently applicable to the Hellespont, and 
the Bosphorus, with the jEgean intersected with islands. 

2 c" Lady Mary Wortley errs strangely when she says, 
' St. Paul's would cut a strange figure by St. Sophia.' I have 
been in both, surveyed them inside and out attentively. St> 
Sophia's is undoubtedly the most interesting, from its im- 
mense antiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek em- 
perors, from Justinian, having been crowned there, and sev- 
eral murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish sultans who 
attended it regularly. But it is not to be mentioned in the 
same page with St.' Paul's, (I speak like a Cockney.")— 
Byron Letters, 1810.] 

3 [" The pleasure of going in a barge to Chelsea is not 
comparable to that of rowing upon the canal of the sea here, 
where, for twenty miles together, down the Bosphorus, the 
most beautiful variety of prospects present themselves. The 
Asian siii3 is covered with fruit trees, villages, and the most 
deVightlu.. landscapes in nature; on the European stands 
Constantinople, situated on seven hills ; showing an agree- 
able mixture of gardens, pine and cypress trees, palaces, 
mosques, and public buildings, raised one above another, with 
as much beauty and appearance of symmetry as you ever 
saw in a cabinet adorned by the most skilful hands, where 
jajs show themselves above jars, mixed with canisters, babies, 



VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation. 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ' 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 

Poor creatures I their good looks weie sadly changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation. 

From friends, and home, and freedom far estranged ; 

The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd 

VIII. 
Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 

As most at his age are, of hope and health ; 
Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull. 

And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 
Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 

His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 
A mistress, and such comfortable quarters. 
To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 

His figure, and the splendor of his dress. 

Of which some gilded remnants still were seen, 

Drew all ej^es on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom.' 

X. 

Like a backgammon board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted: 

Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale,* 

With resolution in his dark gray eye. 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair. 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sang-froid, ih&t greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 



and candlesticks. This is a very odd comparison ; but it gives 
me an exact idea of the thing."— Lady M. W. Montagu ] 

4 [See ante, p. 394.] 

6 The " Giant's Grave" is a height on the Asiatic shore of 
the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties ; like 
Harrow and Highgate. [In less than an hour, we were on 
the top of the mountain, and repaired to the Tekeh, or Der- 
vishes' chapel, where we were fhown, in the adjoining 
garden, a flower-bed more than fifty feet long, rimmed round 
with stone, and having a sepulchral turban at each end, 
which preserves a superstition attached to the spot long be- 
fore the time of the Turks, or of the Byzantine Christians ; 
and which, after having been called the tomb of Amycus; 
and the bed of Hercules, is now known as the Giant's 
Grave. — Hobhouse.] 

G [" For then ; he Parcse are most busy spinning 

The fates of seamen, and the loud winds raise."— 
MS.] 
' [" That he a man of rank and birth had been. 
And then they calculated on his ransom. 
And last not least — he was so very handsome.' — MS.] 

s [" It chanced, that near him, separately lotted. 

From out the group of slaves put up for sale, 
A man of middle age, and," &;c.— MS.] 



664 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of a high spirit ovidontly, though 
At present woigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, ho soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for tho sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the wo, 
Which for himself he seern'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

XIII. 

" My boy !" said he, " amidst this motley crew 
Of (Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what not. 

All ragamuffins differing but in hue. 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot. 

The only gentlemen seem I and yon ; 
So let us be acquainted, as wo ought : 

If I could yield you any consolation, [nation?" 

'Twould give me pleasure. — Pray, what is your 

XIV. 

When Juan answor'd — " Spanish!" ho replied, 
" I thought, in fact, you could not bo a Greek ; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 
Fortune has play'd you hero a pretty freak. 

But that 's her way with all men, till they're tried ; 
But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, next week: 

She has served me also much tho same as you, 

E.vcept that I have found it nothing new." 

XV. 

," Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, [rare — 
What brought you here?" — "Oh! nothing very 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question 's fair, 

Is that which I would learn." — " I served for some 
Months with the Russian army here and there, 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin."' 

XVI. 

"Have you no friends?" — "I luid — but, by God's 
blessing, 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Now 
I have answor'd all your questions without pressing. 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 
" Alas !" said Juan, " 'twere a tale distressing. 

And long besides." — " Oh ! if 'tis really so. 
You're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
A sad tale saddens doubly, when 'tis long. 

XVII. 

" But droop not: Fortune at your time of life, 

Although a female moderately fickle. 
Will hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 

For any length of days in s !.?h a pickle. 
To strive, too, with our fate wore such a strife 

As if tho coru-sheaf should oppose tho sickle : 
Men are tiio sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XVIII. 

" "lis not," said Juan, " for my present doom 
I mourn, but for the past ; — I loved a maid :" — 

He paused, and his dark eye grow full of gloom ; 
A single tear upon his eyelash staid 

A moment, and then drop])'d ; " but to resume, 
'Tin not my p-esent lot, as I have said, 

^^^lich I deplore so much ; for I have borne 

Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

1 [A considerable town in Bulgaria, on the right oank of 
tho Danube.] 



XIX. 

" On tho rough deep. But this last blow — " and hero 
lie stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 

" Ay," quoth his friend, " I thought it would appear 
That there had been a lady in the case ; 

And those are things which ask a tender tear. 
Such as I, too, would shed if in your place : 

I cried upon my first wife's dying day. 

And also when my second ran away : 

XX. 

"My third "—"Your third!" quoth Juan, turn- 
ing round ; 
• " You scarcely can be thirty : have you three?" 
" No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 

" Well, then, your third," said Juan ; " vi'hat did she ? 
She did not run away, too, — did she, sir?" 
," No, faith." — " What then?"—" 1 ran away from her." 

XXI. 

" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 
Replied the other, " what can a man do? 

There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

Ikit mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new. 

Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high; 
But time strips our illusions of their h\io. 

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 

Casts ofTits bright skin yearly like tho snake. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh. 

Or fresher, brighter ; but the year gone through, 

This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 
Or sometimes only wear a week or two ; — 

Lovo 's the first not which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 

Where still wo flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 

" All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 

" No ?" quoth tho other ; " yet you will allow 

By sotting things in their right point of view, 

Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now. 

Wo know what slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave when masters " 

XXIV. 

" Would we were masters now, il but to try 

Their present lessons on our Pagan friends hero," 

Said Juan, — swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 

" Heaven help the scholar whom his fortune sends 
here !" 

" Perhaps we shall be one day, 'oy and by," [here ; 
Rejoin'd tho other, " n'hen our bad luck mends 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 

I wish to G— d that somebody would buy us. 

XXV. 

" But after all, what is our present state? 

'Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot- 
Most men are slaves, none more so than tlie great, 

To their own whims and passions, and what net 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got: 
To feel for none is tho true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



665 



XXVI. 

Just HOW a black old neutral personarro 

Of the third sex stepp'd uj), and peering; over 

The captives seem'd to mark their looks and age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No Iddy e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse oy a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Foe by a counsel, felon by a jailer, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder.' 

'Tis pleasant pnrchasing.our fellow-creatures ; 

And all are to bo sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by features 

Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 

The most by ready cash — but all have prices,'' 

From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 

The eunuch liaving eyed thorn o'er with care, 
Tum'd to the merchant, and begun to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair ; 

They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did I 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simi)lo grumbling, 

And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 

Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
And by mistake sequins' with paras jumbling, 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
And then the merchant giving change, and signing 
Receipts in full,i)egan to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ? 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion? 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude. 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question, 



i["The intended bidders minutely examine the poor 
creatures merely to aseertain their qualities as animals, 
select the sleekest and best-conditioned from the different 
groups; and, besicies handling and examining their make 
and size, subject their mouths, their teeth, and whatever 
chiefly engages attention, to a scrutiny of the most critical 
description."— De Pouqueville.] 

2 [" Sir Robert Walpole is justly blamed for a want of 
pohtical decorui, ind for deriding public spirit, to which 
Pope alludes : 

♦ Seen him, i nxve, but in his happier hour 
Of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power; 
Seen liim, uncumber'd with the vena) tribe, 
Smile withoiU art, and win without a bribe. 
Would he oblige me I let me only find 
lie does not think mc, what he thinks mankind.' 
Although it is not possible to justify him, yet this part of 
his conduct has been greatly exaggerated. The political 
axiom generally attributed, that all men have their price, was 
perverted by leaving out the word those. Flowery oratory 
he despised ; he ascribed it to the interested views of them- 
selves or their relatives, the declarations of pretended 
patriots, of whom he said, ' All those men have their price,' 
and in the event many of them justified his observation." 

— COXE.] 

2 [The Turkish zecchino is a gold com, worth about seven 
shillings and sixpence. The para is not quite equal to an 
Enghsh halfpenny.] 

< S':e Plutarch in Alex., Q. Curt. Hist. Alexand., and Sir 
Richard Clayton's " Critical Inquiry into the Life of Alexan- 
dsr the G- -.at." 

» r" Bir, for mere food, I think with Philip's son. 

Or Ammon's— for two fathers claim'd lids one." — MS.] 



About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppros.s'<] one, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says " No:'' li<^ tells you that Candide 

Found life most tolerable after meals ; 
He 's wrtng — unless man were a pig, indeed, 

Repletioki rather adds to what he feels, 
Unless ho 's Qrunk, and then no doubt ho 's freed 

From his own brain's oppression while it reels. 
Of food I think with Phili!)'s son," or rather 
Ammon's, (ill pleased with one world and one father;*) 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two. 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd. 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would i)ique himself on intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon tho gastric juice ?" 

XXXIII. 

The other evening, ('twas on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great-coat was about me cast. 

My hat and gloves still lying on tho table, 
I heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce past — 

And, running out as fast as I was able,' 
I found tho military commandant 
Stretcli'd in tho street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIV. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad. 

They had slain him with five slugs ; and loft him there 

To perish on the pavement: so I had 

Him borne into the house and up the stair. 

And stripp'd, and look'd to," But why should I 

add 
More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 

The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 

Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel.° 

6 [" Last night suffered horribly from an indigestion. I re- 
marked in my illness the complete inertion, inaction, and de- 
struction of my chief mental faculties. I tried to rouse them, 
and yet could not. I should believe that the soul was married 
to the body, if they did not sympathize so much with each 
other. If the one rose when the other fell, it would he a sign 
that they longed for the natural state of divorce. But, as it 
is, they seem to draw together hke post-horses."— i?yron 
Diary, 1821.] 

' The assas.sination alluded to took place on the 8th of 
December, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hundred 
paces from the residence of the writer. The circumstances 
were as described.— [" December 9, 1820. I open my letter 
to tell you a fact, which will show the state of this country 
Ijetter than I can. The commandant of the troops is now 
lying dead in my house. He was shot at a little past eight 
o'clock, about tvfo hundred paces from my door. I was 
putting on niy great-coat when I heard the shot. On coming 
into the hall, I found all my servants on the balcony, ex- 
claiming that a man was murdered. I iuunediale.- ran 
down, calling on Tita (the bravest of them) to follow me. 
The rest wanted to hinder us from going, as it is the cu.stora 
for everybody here, it seems, to run away from the stricken 
deer." — liijron Letters.] 

i " so I had 

Ilim borne, as soon's I could, up several pair 

Of stairs— and look'd to, But why should I add 

More circumstances," &c.— MS.] 

9 [" We found him lying on his back, almost, if not quite, 
dead, with five wounds, one in the heart, two in the stomach, 
one in the finger, and the other in the arm. Some soldiers 
cocked their guns, and wanted to hinder me from fassing. 
However, we passed, and I found Diego, the adjutant, crying 



84 



666 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And thoufjh I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, [and liver, 

So calm ; though pierced throuffh stomach, heart. 
He secm'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that ho was dead : 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this bo death ? then what is life or death .' 
Speak !" but ho spoko not : " wake !" but still he 
slept : — 

"But yesterday and who had mightier breath? 
A tiiousand warriors by his word were kept 

In awe : ho said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and ho goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 

The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb — 

And now naught left him but tho muffled drum.'" 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
With their rough faces throng'd about the bed 

To gazo once more on tho commanding clay 

Which for the last, though not the first, time bled: 

And such an end ! that ho who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

Tho foremost in tho charge or in the sally, 

Should now be butcher'd in a civic alloy. 

XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honorable scars which brought him fame ; 

And horrid was the contrast to tho view " 

But let me quit the theme ; as such things claim 

Perhaps even more attention than is duo 

From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed tho same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death 

Whicli should con£rm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here wo are. 

And there we go : — but where 1 five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 

And is tliis blood, then, form'd but to be shed? 

Can every element ou' elements mar? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we dead? 

"We, whose minds comprehend all things ? No more ; 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 

Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 
Embark'd himself and them, and ofT they went thence 

As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence. 

Wondering what next, till the calq^a' was brought 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 



over him like a child— a surgeon, who said nothing of his 
profession— a priest, sobbing a frightened prayer— and the 
commandant, all this time, on his back, on the hard, cold 
pavement, without light or assistance, or any thing around 
him but confusion and dismay. As nobody could, or would, 
do any thing but howl and pray, and as no one would stir a 
tlngei to move him, for fear of consequences, I lost my pa- 
tience-made my servant and a couple of the mob take up 
the body— sent off two soldiers to the guard— dispatched 
Diego to the Cardinal with the news, and had him carried 
up stairs into my own quarters. But it was too late— he was 
gone." — Byron Letters.} 

* [" Ana now as silent as an unstrung drum."— MS. J 



XLI 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 

He led them onward, first tlyough u low thicket 
Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on eithcrhand: 

They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere tliey came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to those on board. 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 

As they were plodding on their wLv'ing way 

Through orange bowers, and jasriwne, and so forth: 

(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of orienta :lants, " et cetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travel. 6 'mongst the Turks :*) 

XUII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion : — 'twas tho same 
Which might have then occurr'd to you or me. 

" Methinks," — said he, — " it would be no great shame 
If wo should strike a stroke to set us free ; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head, 

And march away — 'twere easier done than said." 

XLIV. 

" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

How get out? how the devil got we in? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew wo have saved our skin,' 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den^ 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beefsteak. 

XLV. 

" Wo must be near some place of man's abode ; — 
For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 

With his two captives, by so queer a road. 

Shows that he thinks his friends have not been 
sleeping ; 

A single cry would bring them all abroad: 
'Tis therefore better looking before leaping — 

And there, you see, this turn has brought us through, 

By Jove, a uoble palace ! — lighted too." 

XLVI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 

Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

There seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont, — 

A gaudy taste ; for they are little skill'd in 

The arts of which these lands were once the font: 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

Now painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 



" [" I luid liim partly stripped— made the surgeon examine 
liini, and examined him myself, lie had been shot by cut 
balls or slugs. I felt one of the slugs, wlucli had gone 
tlnough luni, all but the skin. He only said, ' O Dio 1' and 
' tiiesu !' two or tlnee times, and appeared to have sufl'ere<l 
little. Poor fellow ! he was a brave officer ; but had made 
himself disliked by the people." — Bi/ron Letters.] 

3 The light and elegant wherries plying about the quays 
of Constantinople are so called. 

4 [" Eastern Sketches," " Parga," " Phrosyne," " Ilderim," 
&.C. &c.] 

6 St. Bartholomew is said to have been flayed &Iivo. 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



667 



XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savor 

Of certain stews, and. roast-meats, and pilaus, 
Thincrs which in hungry mortals' eyes tind favor, 

Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause. 
And put himself upon his good behavior: 

His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 
Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some supper now. 
And then I'm with you, if you're for a row." 

XLVIII. 
Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 

Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 
The last of these was never much the fasiiion, 

For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 
Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 

Bat more or less continue still to tease on, 
With arguments according to their " forte ;" 
But no one ever dreams of being short. — 

XLIX. 
But I digress: of all appeals, — although 

I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 

Method's more sure at moments to take hold' 
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 

More tender, as we every day behold, 
Thau that all-softening, overpowering knell, 
The tocsin cf the soul — the dinner-bell. 

L. 
Turkey contains no bells, and yat men dine ; 

And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 

Of lackeys ushei- to the feast prepared. 
Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 

And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 
And gazed around them to the left and right. 
With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 
And giving up all notions of resistance. 

They follow'd close behind their sable guide. 
Who little thought that his own crack'd existence 

Was on the point of being set aside: 
He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 

And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd wide, 
And a magnificent large hall dis])lay'd 
The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

LII. 

I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these bright days 

Hip wondrous journey to some foreign court, 

Afid spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport ; 

While Nature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustrations.' 



1 [" Of speeches, beauty, flattery— there is no 
Blethod more sure," &c.— MS 1 

2 " Guide des Voyageurs," " Directions for Travellers," 
&c. — "Rhymes, Incidental and Humorous," "Rhyming 
Reminiscences," "Effusions in Rhyme," &c. — "Lady 
Morgan's Tour in Italy," " Tour through Istria," &c. &c. 
— " Sketches of Italy," " Sketches of Modern Greece," &c. 
&c. — The last is a playful allusion to his friend Mr. Hob- 
house's " Illustrations of Childe Harold."] 

' In Turkey nothing is more common than for the Mussul- 
mans to take several glasses of strong spirits by way of ap- 
petizer. I have seen them take as many as six of raki before 
dinner and swear that they dined the better for it: I tried 
the experiment, but fared like the Scotchman, who having 
heard that the lards called kittiw?.kes were admirable whets, 
ate six of them, and complainef Uiat " he was no hungrier 
than when he began." 



LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 

Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 
Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 

And some seom'd much in love with their own dress, 
And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 

With amber mouths of greater price or less ; 
And several strutted, others slept, and some 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.^ 

LIV. 
As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 

Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 
A moment without slackening from their pace ; 

But those who sate, ne'er stirr'd in anywise : 
One or two stared the captives in the face, 

Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 
Some nodded to the negro froi.'; .heir station, 
But no one troubled him with conversation.* 

LV. 
He leads them through the hall, and, without stopping, 

On through a fartlier range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping," 

A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 

Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice, 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 
Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 

Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 
But not enough to show the imperial halls 

In all the flashing of their full array ; 
Perhaps there 's nothing — I'll not say appals, 

But saddens more by night as well as day, 
Than an enormous room without a soul 
To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LVII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing: 

In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore. 
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 

The spots which were her realms for evermore ; 
But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of yore, 
A kind of death comes o'er us all alone. 
Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII. 
A neat, snug study on a winter's night," 

A book, friend, single lady, or a glass 
Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening pass ; 
Though ceries by no means so grand a sight 

As is a theatre lit up by gas. 
I pass my evenings in long galleries solely ; 
And that 's the reason I'm so melancholy. 



* [" Every thing is so still in the court of the seraglio, that 
the motion of a fly might, in a manner, be heard ; and if any 
one should presume to raise his voice ever so little, or show 
the least want of respect to the mansion-place of llieir em- 
peror, he would instantly have the bastinado by the officers 
that go the rounds." — Touknefort.] 

6 A common furniture. I recollect being received by Ali 
Pacha in a large room, paved with marble, containing a 
marble basin, and a fountain playing in the centre, &c. &c 
[Seean/e, p. 33. 

" In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose. 
Whose babbling did a genial freshness fling, 

And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose; 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes," &c.] 
" ["A small, snug chamber on a winter's night, 

Well furnish'd with a book, friend, gi; '., or glass,' 
&c.— MS I 



668 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little : 
I grant you in a church 'tis very well : 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means be brittle, 
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 

Their names who rear'd it ; but huge houses fit ill — 
And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam fell : 

Methinks tho story of the tower of Babel 

Might teach them this much better than I'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then 

A lown of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 

Where Nebuchodonosor, king of men, 

Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 

And Daniel tamed the lions in their den. 
The people's awe and admiration raising ; 

Twas famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus,' 

And the calumniated queen Semiramis — * 

LXI. 

That injured Queen, by chroniclers so coarse 
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 

Of an improper friendship for her horse, 

(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy:) 

This monstrous tale had probably its source 
(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 

In writing " Cwirser" by mistake for " Courier :" 

I wish the case could come before a jury here.^ 

LXII. 

But to resum.e, — should there be (what may not 
Be in these days?) some Infidels, who don't, 

Because they can't find out the very spot* 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't, 

(Though Claudius Rich,. Esquire, some bricks has got. 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't ^ 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, whc 

Must be believed, though they believe net you. 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has express'd 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of those, forgetting the great place of rest. 
Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 

We Know where things and men must end at best : 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 

And " Et sepulchri immemor struis domos'" 

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

LXIV. 

At last they reach'd a quarter most retirea, 
Where echo woke as if from a long slumber ; 

Though full of all things which could be desired. 
One wonder'd what to do with such a number 



1 [See Ovid's Metamorphoses, lib.iv. 
" In Babylon, where first her qusen, for state, 
Raised walls of brick magnificently great, 
Lived Pyramus and Thisbe, lovely pair! 
He found no Eastern youth his equal there, 
And she beyond the fairest nymph was fair." — Garth.] 
2 Babylon was enlarged by Nimrod, strengthened and 
beautified by Nebuchodonosor, and rebuilt by Semiramis. 

s [At the time when Lord Byron was writing this Canto, 
the unfortunate affair of Queen Carolir^, charged, among 
other offences, with admitting her cha.noerlain, Bergami, 
originally a courier, to her bed, was occupying much atten- 
tion in Italy, as in England. The allusion to the domestic 
troubles of George iV. in the text, are frequent.] 

4 [Excepting the ruins of some large and lofty turrets, like 
that of Babel or Belus, tlie cities of Babylon and Nineveh are 
so completely crumbled into dust, as to be v/hoUy undistin- 
guishable but by a few inequalities of the surface on which 



Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment, 
Which puzzled Nature much to know what Art meant 

LXV. 

It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, which 

Might lead to heaven knows where ; but in this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich : 

Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they : carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, they made j-ou wish 

You could glide o'er them hke a golden fish. 

LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning [der, 
A glance at that which wrapp'd the slaves in won- 

Trampled what they scarce trod foi fear of staining, 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder — 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't the fault is not in me, — 

LXVII 

I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 

A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 

And of variety there was no lack — 

And yet, though I have said there was no dearth, — 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXVIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 

A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
And trousers not so tight that they would-burst, 

But such as fit an Asiatic breech : 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nursed, 

Slippers of safTron, dagger rich and handy ; 

In short, all things which form a Turkish Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While ho was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end. 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which P^ortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

" 'Twould greatly tend to better their condition, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 



they once stood. The humble tent of the Arab now occupies 
the spot formerly adorned with the palaces of kings, and his 
flocks procure but a scanty pittance of food, amidst the fallen 
fragments of ancient magnificence. The banks of the Eu- 
phrates and Tigris, once so prolific, are now, for the most 
part, covered with an impenetrable brushwood ; and the in- 
terior of the province, which was traversed and fertilized 
with innumerable canals, is destitute of eitlier inhabitanta 
or vegetation. — Mokier.] 

6 [" Two Memoirs on the Ruins of Babylon, by Claudius 
James Rich, Esq., Resident for the East India Company at 
the Court of the Pasha of Bagdat."] 
6 [" Day presses on the heels of day. 

And moons increase to their decay , 
But you, with thoughtless pride elate. 
Unconscious of impending fate. 
Command the pillar'd dome to rise, 
When, lo ! the tomb forgotten lies " 

FBAiScis's Horetc.i 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



f)69 



LXX 

" For his own part, he really should rejoice 
To see them true believers, but no less 

Would leave his proposition to their choice." 
Tlie other, thanking him for this excess 

Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 
In su^h a trifle, scarcely could express 

" Sufficiently" (he said) " his approbation 

Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 

LXXI. 

" For his own share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite ; 
And, after swallowing down a slight refection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." 
" Will it ?" said Juan, sharply : " Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head !' 

LXXII. 

"Cut ofl" a thousand heads, before " — "Now, 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt : [pray," 

You put me out in what I had to say. 
Sir ! — as I said, as soon as I have supp'd, 

I shall perpend if your proposal may 
Be such as I can properly accept ; 

Provided always your great goodness still •* 

Remits the matter to our own free-will." 

LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
As dress yourself — " and pointed out a suit 

In which a Princess with great pleasure would 
Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute, 

As not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 

And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

LXXIV. 

" Wiat you may be, I neither know nor care," 
Said Baba ; " but pray do as I desire : 

I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of *h's odd travesty 1" — " JForbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious ; 'twill transpire, 

No doubt, in proper place, and time, and season 

I have no authority to tell the reason " 

LXXV. 

" Then if I do," said Juan, " I'll be "— « Hold !" 

Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not provoking ; 

This spirit 's well, but it m-iy wax too bold, 
And you wilt find us not ivX) fond of joking." 

" What, sir !" said Juan, " shall it e'er be tolci 
Tliat I unsex'd my dress?" But Baba, stroking 

Tlie things down, said, " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXVI. 

" I offer you a handsome suit of clothes: 
A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — " What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb?" — thus, after a short pause, 

Sigli'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze ?" 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

AVhicli e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 



» f" If they shall not as soon cut off my head."— MS.] 



LXXVII. 

And then lie swore ; and, sighing, on ho slipp'd 
A pair of trousers of flesh-color'd silk ; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equijjp'd, 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 

Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, whili, 

(The rhyme obliges me to this ; sometimes 

Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes) — * 

LXXVIII. 

Whilk, which, (oi A'hat yon please,) was owino- to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward . 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward : 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 

When some untowiird part of raiment stuck hard ; 

And, wrestling both his r.rms into f. gown. 

He paused, and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd — his haii 

Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare. 

That soon his head was most completely crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 

And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet. 

While Baba made him comb hie head and oil it. 

LXXX 

And ncv7 teing femininely all array'd, [zers. 

With some small aid from scissors, paint, and twee- 
He look'd in almost all respects a maid, 

And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, " You see, sirs, 
A perfect transformation here'display'd ; 

And now, then, you must come along with me, eira. 
That is — the Lady:" clapping his hands twice, 
Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir ; for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 

What fear you? think you this a lion's deu? 

Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

" You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm.'' 
" So much the better," Juan said, " for thenr ; 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm. 
Which is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm 
If any take me for that which I seem: 

So that I trust for everj'body's sake, 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead . come on, and see," quoth Baba; while 
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who 

Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a 
smile 
Upon the metamorphosis in view, — 

" Farewell !" they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 

One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 

By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 



- [" Kings are not more imperative than rhy;nes."— MS.] 



/ 



670 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



LXXXIV. 

" larewell !" said Juan : " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell !" 

Replied the other ; " though it grieves me sore ; 
When we next meet we'll have a tale to tell : 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself once 
fell." [carry me, 

"Nay," quoth the maid, "the Sultan's self shan't 

Unless his Highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward room by room 
Through glittering galleries and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
\t seem'd as though they came upon a shrine, 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXVI 

The g,ant door was broad, and bright, and high, 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd lies ; 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye. 
And in perspective many a squadron flics : 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantino. 

LXXXVII 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 

Of a huge hall, and on its either side 
Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 

Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 
In mockery to ihe enormous gate which rose 

O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 
The gate so splendid was in all its features,^ 
You never thought about those little creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 

You started back in horror to survey 
The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 

Whose color was not black, nor white, nor gray, 
But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 

Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 
They were misshapen pVmies, deaf and dumb — 
Monsters, who cost a na less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. . 

riieir duty was — for they were strong, and though 
They iook'd so little, did strong things at times — 

To ope this door, which they could really do, 
The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' rhymes ; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow 
As is the custom of those Eastern climes, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat : 

/or mules are generally used for that. 

1 Features of a gate— a ministerial metaplior: "the fea- 
ture upon wliich this question hinges." See the " Fudge 
Family," or hear Castlereagh.— [PhiL Fudge, in his letter 
to Lord Castlereagh, says: 

" As thou wouldst say, mv guide and teacher 
In these gay metaphbric fringes, 
I now embark into Ihe fccture 
On which this letter chiefly hinges." 

The note adds, " verbatim from one of the noble Viscount's 
speeches : 'And now, sir, I must embark into the feature 



xc. 

They spoke by signs — that is, not spoke at all ; 

And looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small. 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared , 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'er they fix'd their eyes on, 

XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 

" If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 

That somewhat manly majesty of stride, [in H) 

'Twould be as well, and, — (though there 's not much 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

Which has at times an aspect of the oddest ; — 

And also could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 

" 'Twould be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, which may pierce tho^e petticoats ; 

And if they should discover your disguise. 

You know how near ns the deep Bosphorus floP'ts ; 

And you and I may chance, ere morning rise. 
To find our way to Marmora without boats, 

Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 

A good deal practised here upon occasion."' 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away. 

Object on object flash'd so bright and fast ; 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter. 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such 
things 

Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings 

(Of which I have also seen some six or seven) 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 

Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures, 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcv. ^ 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Undei a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba slopp'd, and kneeling sign'd 
To Juan, who though not much used to pray. 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 



on which this question chiefly hinges.' " — Fudg; Family, 
p. 14.] 

2 A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained 
to his father of his son's supposed infidelity: he asked with 
whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the 
twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were Efized, 
fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same 
niglit. One of the guards who was present informed me, 
that not one of the victims uttered aery, or showed a symp- 
tom of terror at so sudden a " wrench from all we ihow, 
from all we love." [See ante, pp. 72. 66. J 



Canto 



DON JUAN. 



671 



XCVI. 

Tlie lady risino; up with such an air 

As Ve.ius lose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair' 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem ; 

And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
Shd sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 

Pomted to Juan, who remain'd below. 

XCVII. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Tlian lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

XCVIII. 

Thus much however I may add, — her years 

Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs, 

But there are forms which Time to touch forbears, 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things,^ 

Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots f true — tears 
And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings 

Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 

Ugly ; for instance — Ninon de I'Enclos.* 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too. 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen ; 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew,* 

Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 



They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring. 

But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring. 
At some small distance, all he saw within 



1 [" As Vencis rose from ocean— bent on them 

Willi a far-reaching glance, a Paphian pair." — MS.] 

J [" But there are forms which time adorns, not wears, 
And to which beauty obstinately clings." — MS.] 

3 L" With regard to the queen's person, all contemporary 
authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of 
countenance, and elegance of shape, of which the human 
form is capable. Her hair was black ; her eyes were a dark 
gray ; her complexion was exqwisitely fine ; and her hands 
and arms remarkably delicate bo :h as to shape and color. 
Her stature was of a height that ro.se to the majestic. She 
danced, walked, and rode, with equal grace. Her taste for 
music was just, and she both sang and played upon the lute 
with uncommon skill. No man, says Brantome, ever be- 
held her person without admiration and love, or will read 
her history v.'ithout sorrow." — Robertson.] 

< [Mademoiselle del'Enclos, celebrated for her beauty, her 
wit, her gallantry, and, above all, for the extraordinary 
length of time during which she preserved her attractions. 
She intrigued with the young gentlemen of three genera- 
tions, and is said to have had a grandson of her own among 
her lovers. See the works of Madame de S6vign6, Voltaire, 
&c. &c. fcr copious particulars of her life. The Biographie 
VniverseUt says — " In her old age, her house was the ren- 
dezvous o; the most distinguished persons. Scarron con- 
Bulted her on his romances, St Evremond on his poems, 
Moliere on his comedies, Fontenelle on his dialogues, and 
La Rociieloucault on his maxims. Coligny, Sfevignii, &c. 
were her l.ivers and friends. At her death, in 1705, and in 
her ninetieth year, she bequeathed to Voltaire a considera- 
ble sum, to expend in book?."] 



This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 

Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ; 
And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 
Great happiness of the " Nil Adtnirari "° 

CI. 

" Not to admire, is all the art I know 

(Plain iruth, dear Murray,' needs few flowers Cif 
speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so ;" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech.) 
Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago ; 

And thus Pope^ quotes the precept to re-teach 
From his translatiou ; but had none admired, 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ?' 

CII. 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel down. 

And kiss the lady's foot ; which ma.xim when 

He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 
Drew himself up to his full height again, 

And said, " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

CHI. 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed prido. 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
About a bow-string — quite in vain ; not yet 

Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride : 
There 's nothing in the world like etiquette 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 

As also at the race and county balls. 

CIV. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 
Boird in his veins, and rather than descend 

To stain his pedigree a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end ; 

At length perceiving the ^' foot'" could not stand, 

Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

° [" Her fair maids were ranged below the sofa, and, to 
the number of twenty, were all dressed in fine light damasks, 
brocaded with silver. They put me in mind of the pictures 
of the ancient nymphs. I did not think all nature could 
have furnished such a scene of beauty," <fec. — Lady M. W 
Montagu.] 

6 [" Nil admirari, prope res est una, Numici, 

Solaque quae possit facere et servare beatum." — Hor. 
lib. i. epist. vi.] 

7 [The " Murray" of Pope was the great Earl JIansfieM.] 

6 [" Not to admire, is all the art I know 
» To make men happy, and to keep them so, 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, 
So take it in the very words of Creech.")] 

9 [I maintained that Horace was wrong in placing happi 
ness in nil admirari, for that I thought admiration one of the 
most agreeable of all our feelings ; and I regretted that 
I had lost much of my disposition to admire, which people 
generally do as they advance in life. " Sir," said Johnson, 
" as a man advances in life, he gets what is better than ad- 
miration — judgment, to estimate things at their true value." 
I still insisted that admiration was more pleasing than judg- 
meat, as love is more pleasing than friendship. The feeling 
of friendship is like that of being comfortably filled with 
roast beef; love, like being enlivened with champagne. 
Johnson, " No, sir ; admiration and love are like being in- 
toxicated with champagne ; judgment and friendship lika 
being enlivened. Waller has hit upon the same thought 
with you ; but I don't believe you have borrowed from Wal- 
ler."— Boswell, vol. V. p. 306, edit. 1835.] 



672 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



CV. 

Here was an honorable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest, 
Where they might meet m much more peaceful guise ; 

And Juan now his willingness express'd, 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best, 
For through the South the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CVI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace. 
Though on more tkorough-hrcd^ or fairer fingers 

No lips o'er left their transitorj' trace : 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers. 

And for one kiss wolild fain imprint a brace. 
As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

Au almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CVII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style. 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 

And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction. 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 

CVIII. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 
I know not what might be the lady's thought, 

But o'er her bright brow flush'd a tumult strange. 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 
The verge of Heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought 

A mixture of sensations, might be scann'd. 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CIX. 

Her form had all the softness of her sex. 

Her features all the sweetness of the' devil. 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 

E/?, and paved (God knows how) the road to evil ; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 

Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
Yet, somehow, there was something somewhere want- 
As if she rather ordered than was granting — [ing, 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did ; that is, a chain 

Was throv/n as 'twere about the neck of you — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view : 
Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 

Wo would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will havo,its way. 

CXI 

Her very smile was haughty, thouga so sweet ; 

Her Very nod was not au inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her station — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, is the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) 



1 There is nothing, perhaps, more distinctive of birth 
tJi2.n the hand. It is almost the only sign of blooa which 
aristocracy can generate. [See ante, p. 654.] 



CXII. 

" To hear and to obey" had been from birth 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All fantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth • 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
We sliould have found out the " perpetual motion' 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 
Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
might be seen, with diligence was sought, [closed 
And when 'twas found straightway the bargain 

There was no end unto the things slie bouglit. 
Nor to the trouble whic her fancies caused ; 

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace. 

The women pardon'd all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims,' had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 

She order'd him directly to be bought,' 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 
At all such auctions knew how to prevail : 

She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 

E.<;plains the garb which Juan took amiss 

cxv. 

lljj youth and features favor'd the disguise. 
And, should yon ask how she, a sultan's bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange fantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified,^ 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tending : — 
She now conceived all difficulties pass'd. 

And deem'd herself extremely condescending 
When, being made her property at last. 

Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 
Passion and power, a glance on him she cast. 

And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love : 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVII. 

And so it was, in proper time and place ; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'erflowing. 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face. 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was glowing. 
Rush back upon his heart, which fill'd apace. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowiiig : 
These words went through his soul like Arab-spears, 
So that ho spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIII. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears.. 

For women shed and use them at their liking ; 
But there is something when man's eye appears 

Wet, still more disagreeable and striking : 
A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 

Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 
His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 



2 [" And husbands now and then are mystified."- MS ) 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



673 



CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how 
Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 

Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 'twas to bear 

Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 
There might arise some pouting petty care 

To cross her brow, she wonder'd how so near 

Her oye another's eyes could shed a tear. 

cxx 

But nature teaches more than power can spoil,' 
And, when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil. 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

ITiey naturally pour the " wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why, 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must slop like all things else ; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if " he had loved," 

Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days. 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life Vi'ith aught save prayers and praise ; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into a comfortable tete-5,-tete. 

To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr, 

And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time. 
To gentlemen in any such like case, 

That is to say — in a meridian clime, 

With us there is more law given to the chase. 

But here a small delay forms a great crime : 
So recollect that the extremest grace 

Is just two minutes for your declaration — 

A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIV. 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still better. 
But he had got Haidee into his head: 

However strange, he could not yet forget her, 
Whic made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to her palace led. 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

CXXV. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 

Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes. 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 



1 [" But nature teaches what power cannot spoil. 

And, thou'-rh it was a new and strange sensation, 
Young female lieaiis are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, she forgot her station."— MS.] 
s [In Fielding's novel of Joseph Andrews.] 
' [" li'it i" my boy with virtue be endued. 

What harm will jeauty do him ? Nay, what good T 



85 



Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 
She rose, and pausuig one chaste moment, threw 
Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXVI 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found. 

But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride: 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound, 
And seated her all drooping by his side. 

Then rising haughtily he glanced around. 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a SuHli a's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st, if I can love ? be this the proof 
How much I have loved — that I love not thee I 

In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof. 
Were fitter for me : Love is for the ^"-ee ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof ; 

Whate'cr thy power, and great it seems to be ; 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a throne, 

And hands obey — :v.i nearts are still our own." 

CXXVIH. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite ; 

Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things: 
She deem'd her least command must yield delight, 

Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion anywhere. 

And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, 
By their possessors thrown into the shade : 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine ;" 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine. 

Ye, who have kept your chastity when young. 

While some more desperate dowager has been waging 
Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 

By your refusal, recollect her raging 1 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject ; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

cxxxi. 

Suppose, — but you already have supposed. 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby," 

Phoedra,^ and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples ; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed. 

To educate — ye youth of Europe — you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

Ycu can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

Say, what avail'd, of old, to Theseus' son, 
The stern resolve? what to Bellerophon?— 
O, then did Pheedra redder, then her pride 
Took fire to be so steadfast y denied ! 
Then, too, did Sthenobxa glow with shame. 
And both burst forth withunextinguish'd flame 1"— Jnv. 
The adventures of Hippolitus, the son of Theseus, andBe.- 
lerophon are well known. They were accused of inconu 



674 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto v. 



CXXXII 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey, 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies, who can not have their own way ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less, 

These don't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any ? 

CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring's nature's geneia 'aw, 

From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings ; 

Theie 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw 
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw [lings ; 
How mothers love their children's squalls and chuck- 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

Tf I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'Twere nothing — for her eyes flash'd always fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes,, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 

So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 

(Enough, God knows !) would much fall short of this. 

cxxxv. 

Her rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well — 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 

It lasted 'twas like a short glimpse of hell : 
Naught 's more sublime than energetic bile, 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell. 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXVL 

A vulgar tempest 'twere to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage, 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon,^ 
Like moderate Ilotspm- on the immortal page f 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tunj5. 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," hke Lear's,^ 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd in tears. 

CXXXVIL 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 

Pasw'd without words — in fact she could not speak ; 

And then her sex's shame* broke in at last, 
A sentim .-nt till then in her but weak, 

But now it flow'd in nc::;ural and fast. 
As water through an unexpected leak. 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 



nence, by the women whose inor^''>ate passions they had 
refused to gratify at the expense of their duty, and sacrificed 
to the fatti credulity of the husbands of the disappointed 
fair ones. It is very probable tiiat both the stories are found- 
ed on the Scrip Jare account of Joseph ancC Potiphar's wife. 

— GiFFORD.] 

» [" By heaven ! raethinks, it were an easy leap, 

To pluck brigl.t lionor from the pale-faced moon."— 
Henry IV.i 

s C'l Like natural Shakspeare on the immortal pase."— 

MS J ^ ° 



. CXXXVIII. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
It also gently hints to them that others. 

Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 

Though not all born of the same sires and mdthcni 

It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought was to cut off Juan's head ; 

Her second, lo cut only his — acquaintance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself ; her seventh, to sentence 
The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 

The dagger close at hand, which made it awkward ; 

For Eastern stays are little made to pad. 
So that a poniard pierces if 'tis stuck hard: 

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 

Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLL 

Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 

To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 
For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 

Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 
And thus heroically stood resign'd, 

Rather than sin, — except to his own wish: 
But all his great preparatives for dying 
Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLIL 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed,* 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 

And first he wonder'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now; 

And next his savage virtue he accused. 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow. 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath. 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of bolh. 

CXLIIL 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ;° 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

s [" And when I have stolen upon these sons-in-law, 
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill."- Lear.] 

* [" A woman scorn'd is pitiless as fate. 

For, there, the dread of shame adds stings to ha^e." — 
GlFJOiiD's Juvenal.} 

5 [" Yes, my valor is certainly going! it is .sneaking otf ! 
I feel it oozing, as it were, at the palms of my hands I" — 
Sheridan's Rivals.'i 

" [" Or all the stuff which utter'd by the ' Blues' is."— 
MS.] 



Canto v. 



DON JUAN. 



675 



CXLIV. 

" Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 

('Twas thus he spake,) " and Empress of the Earth ! 
Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune, 

Whoso smile makes all the planets dance with mirth, 
Your slave brings tidings — he hopes not too soon — 

Which your sublime attention may be worth : 
Tlie Sun himself has sent me like a ray. 
To hint that he is coming up this way." 

CXLV. 
'• Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say? • 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky way. [ing — ' 

Hence, my old comet! give the stars due waru- 
And, Christian ! mingle with them as you may, 

And as you'd have me pardon your past scorn- 
ing " 

Here they were interrupted by a humming 

Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan 's coming !" 

CXLVI. 
First came her damsels, a decorous file, 

And then hj^ Highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 
The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 

His majesty was always so polite 
As to announce his visits a long while 

Before he came, especially at night ; 
For being the last wife of the Emperor, 
She was of course the favorite of the four. 

CXLVII. 
His Highness was a man of solemn port, 

Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 
Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 

His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 
He was as good a sovereign of the sort 

As any mention'd in the histories 
Of Canteniir, or Knolles, where few shine 
Save Solyman, the glory of their line.^ 

cxLvni. 

He went to mosque in state, and said his prayers 

With more than " Oriental scrupulosity ;"' 
He left to his vizier all state affairs, 

And show'd but little royal curiosity ; 
I know not if he had domestic cares — 

No process proved connubial animosity ; 
Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 
Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen.* 

CXLIX. 
If now and then there happen'd a slight slip, 

Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
The story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 

The sack and sea had settled all in time, 



1 [" But prithee — get my women in the way, 

'1 hat all the stars may gleam with due adorning." — 
MS.] 

2 It may not be unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in his 
essay on " Empire," hints that Solyman was the last of his 
line ; on wjiat authority, I know not. These are his words : 
— " The destruction of Mustaplia was so fatal to Solyman's 
line ; as the succession of the Turks from Solyman until this 
day is suspected to be untrue, and of strange blood ; for that 
Selymus the Second was thouglit to be supposititious." But 
Bacon, in his historical authorities, is often inaccurate. .1 
could give half a dozen instances from his Apophthsgms 
only. [See Appendix : Don Juan, canto v.] 

s [Gibbon.] 

'« I" Because he kept them wrappM up in his clcset, he 
Ruled four wives and twelve hundred whores, unseen, 
More easily than Christian kings one queen." — MS.] 

» ['' There ended many a fair Sultana's trip : 

The Public knew no more than does this rhyme ; 
No printed scandals flew,— the fish, of course. 
Were belter — while the morals were no worse." — MS.] 



From which the secret nobody could rip : 

The Public knew no more than does this rhyme; 
No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
Morals were better, and the fish no worse.* 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon wais round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square. 

Because he had journey'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular anywhere ; 

His empire also was without a bound : 
'Tis true, a little troubled here and there, 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 

But then they never came to " the Seven Toweru ;"* 

CLL 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 

To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons. 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 

They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once. 
Sometimes at six years old' — though this seems 
odd, 

'Tis true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire in law. 

CLIII. 

His sons were kept in prison, till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 

Meantime the education they went through 

Was princely, as the proofs have always shown: 

So that the heir apparent still was found 

No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd. 

CLIV. 

His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 

With all the ceremonies of his rank. 
Who clear'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd her brows, 

As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 
These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 

To save the credit of their breaking bank: 
To no men are such cordial greetings given. 
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 



6 [The state prison of Constantinople, in which the Porte 
shuts up the ministers of hostile powers who are dilatory in 
taking their departure, under pretence of protecting them 
from the insults of the mob.— Hope. 

We attempted to visit the Seven Towers, but were stoppej 
at the entrance, and informed that without a firman it was 
inaccessible to strangers. It was supposed that Count Bu- 
lukoff, the Russian minister, would be the last of the Moiis- 
safirs, or imperial hostages, confined in this fortress; but 
since the year 1784, M. Ruffin and many of the French have 
been imprisoned in the same place ; and the dungeons were 
gaping, it seems, for the sacred persons of the gentlemen 
comoosing his Britannic Majesty's mission, previous to the 
ruptiire between Great Britain and the Porte in 180S.— 

HOBHOUSE.] 

' [" The princess" (Sulta Asma, daughter of Achmet III.) 
" exclaimed against the barbarity of the institution^which, 
at six years old, had put her in the power of a decrepit 
old man. who, by treating her like a child, had only inspired 
disgust." — De Tott.] 



676 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi. 



CLV. 

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 

And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 
Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 

A* which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, 
But Just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 

While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 
" I see you've bought another girl ; 'tis pity 
That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLVI. 
This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 

The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 
Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone 

Oh ! Mahomet ! that his Majesty should take 
Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 

Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 
There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle, 
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

cLvn. 

The Turks do well to &hut — at least, sometimes — 
The women up — because, in sad reality, 

Their chastity in these unhappy climes > 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality, 

Which in the North prevents precocious crimes. 
And makes our snow less pure than our morality : 

The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 

Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLvni. 

Thus in the East they are extremely strict. 
And wedlock and a padlock mean the same ; 

Excepting only wheii the former 's pick'd 
It r^e'er can be replaced in proper frame ; 



1 [This stanza— which Lord Byron composed in bed, Feb. 
27, 1821, is not in the first edition. On discoverini; the 
omission, he thus remonstrated with Mr. Murray :—" Upon 
what principle have you omitted one of the concluding 
stanzas sent as an addition ?— because it ended, I suppose, 
with— 

' And do not link two virtuous souls for life 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife V 

Now, I must say, once for all, that I will not permit any 
human being to take such liberties with my writings because 
I am absent. I desire the omission to be replaced. I have 
read over the poem carefully, and I tell you, it »s poetry. 
The little envious knot of parson-poets may say what they 
please: time will show that I am not, in this instance, mis- 
taken,"] 

2 [Blackwood says, in No. LXV., for June, 1822, " These 
three Cantos (III. IV. V.) are, like all Byron's poems, and, 
by the wny, like every thing in this world, partly good and 
pr.rtly oad. In the particular descriptions they are not so 
naughty as their predecessors : indeed, his lordship has been 
so pretty and well-behaved on the present occasion, that we 
should not be surprised to hear of the work being detected 
a,mong the thread-cases, flower-pots, and cheap tracts that 
litter the drawing-room tabibo of some of the best regulated 
families. By those, however, who suspect him of 

' a strange design 

Against the creed and morals of the land, 
And trace it in this poem every line,' 
it will be found as bad as ever. He shows his knowledge of 
the world too openly ; and it is no extenuation of tliis free- 
dom that he does it playfully. Only infants can be shown 
naked in company ; but his lordship pulls the very robe-de- 
chambre from both men and women, and goes on with his 
exposure as smirkingly as a barrister cross-questioning a 
chambermaid m a case of crim. con. This, as nobody can 
approve, we must confess is very bad. Still, it is harsh to 
ascribe to wicked motives what may be ov,-ing to the tempt- 
ations of circumstances, or the headlong impulse of passion. 
Even the worst habits should be charitably considered, for 
they are often the result of the slow but irresistible force of 
nature, over the artificial manners and discipline of society 
—the flowing i-trcam that wastes away its embankments. 
Man towards 1 is lellow-man should be at least compas- 
sionate ; for he can be no judge of the instincts and the im- 
pulses of action, he can only see effects. 



Spoil'd, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd: 

But then their own polygamy 's to blame , 
Why don't they knead two virtuous souls foi hie 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife?' 

CLIX. 

Tlius far our chronicle : and now we psuse. 
Though not for want of matter ; but 'tis tjrae. 

According to the ancient epic laws. 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause. 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 

Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

You'll pardon to my muse ,1 few shoit naps.^ 



DON JUAN. 



PREFACE TO CANTOS VI. VII. AND VIII. 

The details of the siege of Ismail in two of the 
following cantos (i. e. the seventh and eighth) are 
taken from a French Work, entitled " Histoire de la 
Nouvelle Russie."^ Some of the incidents attributed 
to Don Juan really occurred, particularly the cir- 
cumstance of his saving the infant, which was the 
actual case of the late Due de Richelieu,^ then a 
young volunteer in the Russian service, and after- 
ward the founder and benefactor of Odessa,^ where 



' Tremble, thou wretch, 

That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 

Unwhipp'd of justice : Hide thee, thou blood]' hand ; — 

Thou perjured, and thou simular rnan of virtue. 

Thou art incestuous : Caitiff', to pieces shake, ■ 

That under covert and convenient seeming 

Hast practised on man's life :— Close pent-up guilts. 

Rive your concealing continents, and cry 

These dreadful summoners grace.' " — Lear.'] 

3 [Cantos VI., VII., and VIII. were written at Pisa, in 
1822, and published by Mr. John Hunt in July, 1823. The 
poet's resumption of Don Juan is explained m the following 
extract from his correspondence : — 

Pisa, July 8, 1822. — " It is not impossible that I may have 
three or four cantos of Don Juan ready by autumn, or a 
little later, as I obtained a permission from my dictatress to 
continue it, — provided always it was to be more guarded 
and decorous and sentimental in the continuation than in 
the commencement. How far these conditions have been 
fulfilled may be seen, perhaps, by and by ; but the embargo 
was only taken ofl"upon these stipulations."] 

4 [" Essai sur I'Histoire ancienne et moderne de la Nou- 
velle Russie, par le IMarquis Gabriel de Castelnau." 3 torn. 
Paris, 1820."] 

6 [" Au commencement de 1803, le Due de Richelieu fut 
nomm6 gouverneur d'Odessa. Quand le Duo vint en prendre 
I'administration, aucune rue n'y etait formfee, aucun 6tablis- 
sement n'y etait achev6. On y comptait ii peine cinq mille 
habitans: onze ans plus tard, lorsqu'il s'en feloigna, on y en 
comptait trente-cinq milles. Les rues etaient tirees au cor- 
deau, plant6es d'une double rang d'arbres ; et I'on y voyait 
tous les etablissemens qu'exigent le culte, I'instruction, la 
commodity, et mfeme les plaisirs des habitans. Un seul Edi- 
fice public avait cte n(?glig6 ; le gouverneur, uans cet oubli 
de lui-meme, et cette simplicite de mceurs, qui distinguaient 
son caractere, n'avait rien voulu changer a la modeste 
habitation qu'il avait trouv6 en arrivant. Le commerce, 
debarasse d'entraves, avait pris I'essor le plus rapide a 
Odessa, tandis que la security et la liberty de conscience y 
avaient promptement attire la population." — Biog. Univ.]. 

e [Odessa is a very interesting place ; and being the seat 
of government, and the only quarantine allowed ezcept 
Cafl'a and Taganrog, is, though of very recent crec!::or. al- 
ready wealthy and flourishing. Too much praise cannot be 
given to the Duke of Richelieu, to whose admir.istration, 
not to any natural advantages, this town owes its prosperity 
—Bishop Heber.] 



Canto vi. 



DON JUAN. 



G77 



his name and memory can never cease to be re<rardfid 
with reverence. 

In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will 
bo found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, 
but written some time before his decease. Had that 
person's oligarchy died with him, they would have 
been suppressed ; as it is, I am aware of nothing in 
the manner of his death' or of his life to prevent 
the free expression of the opinions of all whom his 
whole existence was consumed in endeavoring to 
enslave. That he was an amiable man in private 
life, majr or may not be true ; but with this the 
public have nothing to do; and as to lamenting his 
death, it will be time enough when Ireland has ceased 
to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one of 
millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in in- 
tention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyran- 
nized over a country. It is the first time indeed since 
the Normans that England has been insulted by a 
minister (at least) who could not speak English, and 
that Parliament permitted itself to be dictated to in the 
language of Mrs. Malaprop.'' 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, ex- 
cept that if a poor radicel, such as Waddington or 
Watson, had cut his ihroat, he would have been buried 
in a cross-road, with the usual appurtenances of the 
stake and mallet. But the minister was an elegant 
lunatic — a sentimental suicide — he merely cut the 
" carotid artery," (blessings on their learning !) and 
lo ! the pageant, and the Abbey ! and " the syllables 
of dolor yelled forth" by the newspapers — and the 



1 [Robert, second Marquis of Londonderry, died, by his 
own hand, at his seat at North Cray, in Kent, in August, 
1822. During the session of parliament which had just 
closed, his lordship appears to have sunk under the weight 
of his labors, and insanity was the consequence The fol- 
lowing tributes to his eminent qualities we take from the 
leading Tory and Whig newspapers of the day : — 

" Of high honor, fearless, undaunted, and firm in his re- 
solves, he combined, in a remarkable manner, with the 
foriiterin re Ihe suaviterin modo. To his political adversa- 
ries (and he had no other) he was at once open, frank, un- 
assuming, and consequently conciliatory. He was happy in 
his union with a most amiable consort ; he was the pride of 
a venerated father ; and tow.rds a beloved brother it might 
truly be said he was notus animo fraterno. With regard to 
his public character, all admit his talents to have been of a 
high order, and his industry in the discharge of his official 
duties to have been unremitting:. Party animosity may 
question the wisdom of measures in which he was a princi- 
pal actor, to save its own consist-ency, but it does not dare 
to breathe a doubt of his integrity and honor. His reputa- 
tion as a minister is, however, above the reach of both friends 
and enemies. He was one of the leaders of that ministry 
which preserved the country from being subjugated by a 
power which subjugateL^ all the rest of Europe — which 
fought the country against combmed Europe, and triumphed 
—and which wrenched thf sceptre of dominion from the 
desolating principles that the French revolution spread 
through the world, and restored it to religion and honesty. 
If to have preserved the faith and liberties of England from 
destruction— to have raised her to the most magnificent 
point of greatness — to have liberated a quarter of the globe 
from a despotism which bowed down both body and soul — 
and to have placed the world again under the control of 
national law and just principles, be transcendent fame — 
such fame belongs to this ministry ; and,of all its members, 
to none more than to the Marquis of Londonderry. During 
great part of the year, he toiled frequently for twelve or 
fourteen hours per day at the most exhausting of all kinds 
of labor, for a salary which, unaided by private fortune, 
would not have supported him. He labored for thirty years 
in the service of the country. In this service he ruined a ro- 
bvi:t constitution, broke a lofty spint, destroyed a flrst-rate 
un-ierstanding, and met an untimely death, without adding 
a sbilling to his patrimonial fortune. What the country gained 
from him may never be calculated— what he gained from 
tlie country was lunacy, and a martyr's grave." — Ncv) Times. 

"Lord Londonderry was a man of unassuming manners, 
of simple tastes, and (so far as regarded private life) of kind 



harangue of the Coroner' in a eulogy over the bleed- 
ing body of the deceased — (an Antony worthy of 
such a Csesar) — and the nauseous and atrocious cant 
of a degraded crew of conspirators against all that is 
sincere and honorable. In his death he was necessa- 
rily one of two things by the law* — a felon or a 
madman — and in either case no great subject for 
panegyric.' In his life he was — what all the world 
knows, and half of it will feel for years to ccme, un- 
less his death prove a " moral lesson" to the surviving 
Sejani^ of Europe. It may at least serve as some 
consolation to the nations, that their oppressors are not 
happy, and in some instances judge so justly of their 
own actions as to anticipate the sentence of mankind. 
Let us hear no more oi this man ; and let Ireland re- 
move the ashes of her Grattan from the sanctuary of 
Westminster. Shall the patriot of humanity repose by 
the Werther of politics ! i ! 

"With regard to tiie objections which have been 
made on another score to the already published cantos 
of this poem, I shall content myself with two quota- 
tions from Voltaire : — " La pudeur s'est enfuite des 
cosurs, et s'est refugiee sur les levres." ... " Plus 
les moeurs sout depraves, plus les expressions devien- 
nent mesur^es ; on croit regagner en langage ce qu'on 
a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded 
and hypocritical mass which leavens the present En- 
glish generation, and is the only answer they deserve. 
The hackneyed and lavished title of Blasphemer — 
which, with Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, &c. 



and generous disposition. Towards the poor he was be- 
neficent : in his family mild, considerate, and forbeaiing. 
He was firm to the connections and associates of his earlier 
days, not only those of choice, but of accident, when not un- 
worthy ; and to promote them, and to advance their inter- 
ests, his efforts were sincere and indefatigable. In power 
he forgot no service rendered to him while he was in a 
private station, nor broke any promise, expressed or implies 
nor abandoned any friend who claimed and merited his as- 
sistance." — Times.] 

2 [See Sheridan's comedy of" The Rivals."] 

3 [Lord Byron seems to have taken his notions of the pro- 
ceedings of this inquest from Cobbett's Register. What the 
Coroner really did say was as follows ; — " As a public man, 
it is impossible for me to weigh his character in any scales 
that I can hold. In private life I believe the world will ad- 
mit that a more amiable man could not be found. Whether 
the important duties of the great office which he held pressed 
upon his mind, and conduced to the melancholy event which 
you are assembled to investigate, is a circumstance which, 
in all probability, never can be discovered. If it should un- 
fortunately appear that there is not sufficient evidence to 
prove what is generally considered the indication of a dis- 
ordered mind, I trust that the jury will pay some attention 
to my humble opinion, which is, that no man can be in his 
proper senses at the moment he commits so rash an act as 
self-murder. My opinion is in consonance with every mor- 
al sentiment, and the information which the wisest of men 
have given to the world. The Bible declares that a man 
clings to nothing so strongly as his own life. I therefore 
view it as an axiom, and an abstract principle, that a man 
must necessarily be out of his mind at the moment of de- 
stroying himself."] 

* I say by the law of the land— the laws of humanity judge 
more gently: but as the legitimates have always the law in 
their mouths, let them here make the most of it. 

s [Upon this passage one of the magazines of the time ob- 
serves : " Lord Byron does not appear to have remembered 
that it is quite possible for an English nobleman to be both 
(in fact) a felon, and (what in common parlance is called) a 
madman."] 

6 From this number must be excepted Canning. C^nnhig 
is a genius, almost a universal one, an orator, a wit, a po- 
et, a statesman ; and no man of talent can long pursue the 
path of his late predecessor. Lord C. If ever man saved 
his country. Canning can, but toill he? I, for one, hope 
so. 



678 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi 



are the changes which the hirelings are daily ringing in 
the ears of those who will listen — should be welcome to 
all who recollect on ichom it was originally bestowed. 
Socrates and Jesus Christ were put to death publicly 
as blasphemers, and so have been and may be many who 
dare to oppose the most notorious abuses of the name 
of God and the mind of man. But persecution is not 
refutation, nor oven triumph: "the wretched infidel," 
as he is called, is probably happier in his prison than 
tho proudest of his assailants. With his opinions I 
have nothing to do — they maybe right or wrong — but 
he has suffered for them, and that very suffering for 
conscience' sake will make more proselytes to deism 
than the example of heterodox' Prelates to Christiqni- 
ty, suicide statesmen to oppression, or over-pensioned 
homicides to the impious ftUiance which insults the 
world with the name of " Holy !" I have no wish to 
trample on the dishonored or the dead ; but it would 
be well if the adlierents to the classes from whence 
those persons sprung should abate a little of the cant 
which is the crying sin of this double-dealing and 

false-speaking time of selfish spoilers, and ^but 

enough for the present. 
Pisa, July, 1822 



CANTO THE SIXTH 



" There is a tide in the affairs of men 

Which, — taken at the flood," — you know the rest,' 
And most of us have found it now and then ; 

At least we think so, though but few have guess'd 
The moment, till too late to come again. 

But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. 

II. 

There is a tide in the affairs of women 

Which, taken at the flood, leads — God knows where : 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its current to a hair ; 
Not all the rev-.?ries of Jacob Behmen' 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men with their heads reflect on this and that — 
But women with their hearts on heaven kno a's what ! 

III. 

And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would risk 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 

The stars from out the sky, than not be free 
As are the billows when the breeze is brisk — 



1 When Lord Sandwich said "he did not know the differ- 
ence between orthodoxy and heterodoxy," Warburton, the 
oishop, replied, " Orthodoxy, my lord, is my doxy, and hete- 
rodoxy is another marl's doxy " A prelate of the present day 
has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which has 
not greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect that which Ben- 
tham calls " Church-of-Englandism." 

3 See Shakspeare, Julius Caesar, act iv. sc. iii. 

8 [A noted visionary, born near Gorlitz, in Upper Lnsatia, 
in 1575, and founder of the sect called Behmenites. He had 
nimerous followers in Germany, and has not been without 
admirers in England; one of these, the famous William 



Though such a she 's a devil, (if that there be one ) 
Yet she would make full many a Manicheau. 

IV. 

Thrones, worlds, etcetera, are so oft upset % 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget. 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Antony be well remember'd yet, 

'Tis not his conquests keep his name in fashion, 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalances all CiEsar's victories. 

V. 

He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport — I 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had — a heart : as the vorld went, I 
Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds could never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone forever. 

VI. 

'Twas the boy's " mite," and like the " widow's," may 
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 

But whether such things do or do not weigh. 
All who have loved, or love, will still allow 

Life has naught like it. God is love, they say. 
And Love's a God, or was before the brow 

Of earth vpas wrinkled by the sins and tears 

Of — ^but Chronology best knows the years 

VII. 

We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin. 

And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.* 

VIIL 

I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction even in song. 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she 
claim it) 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by " the bookish theoric"^ it appears, 

If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision. 

That, adding to the accoimt his Highness' yoare, 



Law, author of the " Serious Call," edited an edition of his 
works.] 

4 Cato gav 3 up his wife Martia to his friend Hortensius 5 
but, on the death of the latter, took her back again. This 
conduct was ridiculed by the Romans, who observed, that 
Martia entered the house of Hortensius very poor, but re- 
turned to the bed of Cato loaded with treasures — Plutarch. 
8 [" Forsooth, a great arithmetician. 

One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 

That never set a squadron in the field. 

Nor the division of a battle knows 

More than a spinster ; unless the bookish theoric' &c 
—OthMo.-\ 



Canto vi. 



DON JUAN. 



579 



The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 

For vere the Sultan just to all his dears, 
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon all legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are rehgious, 

Which doubles what they think of the trans- 
gression ; 
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 

As the tribunals show through many a session, 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 

XI. 

Now, if this holds good m a Christian land, 
The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, 

Are apt to carry things with a higli hand. 

And take, what kings call an " imposing attitude ;" 

And for their rights connubial make a stand, [tude : 
When their liege husbands treat them with ingrati- 

And as four wives must have quadruple claims, 

The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 

The favorite ; but what's favor amongst four? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Not only as a sin but as a bore : 

Most wise men with o?!e moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware."* 

XIII. 

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
So styled according to the usual forms 

Of every monarch, till they are consign'd 
To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,'^ 

Who on the very loftiest kings have dined, — 
His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms. 

Expecting all the welcome of a lover, 

(A " Highland welcome"^ all the wide world over.) 

XIV. 

Now here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 

May look like what is — neither here nor there, 
They are put on as easily as a hat, 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

Which form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than then" caresses of the heart. 

XV. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in the eyelids than the eyes, rcsign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown, 

Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 

Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 



» [At Ware, the inn known by the sign of the Saracen's 
Head still contains the famous bed, measuring twelve feet 
tquare, to which an allusion is made by Shakspeare in 
<■' Twelfth Night."] 

2 " Your worm is your only emperor for diet : we fat all 
c.-eatures else, to fat us ; and we fat ourselves for maggots. 
Your fat king, and your lean beggar, is but variable service : 
two dishes but to one table : that's the end.."— Hamlet. 



A sincere woman's breast, — for over-warm 
Or over-coZcZ annihilates the charm. 

XVI. 

For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 'lis no great lease of its own fire ; 
For no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over chUly 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat silly 

XVII. 

Tliat is, we caimot pardon their bad taste. 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow, 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 
And see a sentimental passion glow. 

Even were St. Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his monastic concubine of snow ; — * 

In' short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatian, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XVIII. 

The " tu" 's too much, — but let it stand, — ^the verse 
Requires it, that's to say, the English rhyme. 

And not the pink of old hexameters ; 

But, after all, there's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse. 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. 

XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all he, but love no less : 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose : 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 

Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes: 
' Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep • 

As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 

'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 

The soul out (like the stone) with petty carea 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen sou, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per-centago ; a child cross, dog ill, 

A favorite horse fallen lame just as he's mounted, 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 

Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain ; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 



3 See Waverly. 

* " The blessed Francis, being strongly solicited one day 
by the emotions of the flesh, pulled off his clothes and 
scourged himself soundly : being after this inflamed with a 
wonderful fervor of mind, he plunged his naked body into a 
great heap of snow. The devil, being overcome, retired im- 
mediately, and the holy man returned victorious into his 
cell " — See Butler's Lives of the Saints. 



680 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi. 



XXII. 

I'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stioicism leaves naught behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call, 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know — the deuce take them both I 

XXIII. 

Sa now all things are d — n'd one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse, 
Which doth your true believer so much please : 

I doubt if any now could make it morse 
O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 

'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just clearing air. 

XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 

At least one of them ! — Oh, the heavy night. 

When wicked wives, who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite — 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 

Lest their too lawful bedfellow should wake ! 

XXV. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven. 

Also beneath the canopy of beds. 
Four-posted and silk curtain'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Snow."' Well ! 'tis all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as wretched if a feasant's quean. 

XXVL 

•Don Juan m his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes, 
And at the usual signal ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's" wish, " that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce :" 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad. 

And much more tender on the whole than fierce ; 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth. 

To kiss them all at once from North to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh, enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 

And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion ! — But my Muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride. 



1 [The bards of Queen Caroline were continually, during 
the period of her trial, ringing the changes on the " driven 
fcnow" of her purity.] 

2 Calig\ila— see Suetonius. " Being in a rage at the 
people, for favoring a party in the Circensian games in op- 
position to him, he cried out, ' 1 wish the Roman people had 
but onenecK.'" 



Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 

So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
Our hero through the labyrinth of love. 
In which we left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,^ 
At the given signal join'd to their an'ay ; 

And though he certainly ran many risks, 
Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, 

(Although the consequences of such frisks 
Are worse than the west damages men pay 

In moral England, where the thing's a tax.) 

From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise: — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, 

By emauchs flank'd ; while at their head there stalk'd 

A dame who kept up discipline among 

Tiie female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd, 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not, [ther ; 

Or whether they were " maids" who call'd her mo- 
But this is her seraglio title, got 

I know not how, but good as any other ; 
So Cantemir'' can tell you, or De Tott ■? 

Her office was to keep aloof or smother 
All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 
Young women, and correct them when they blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men — 

Except his majesty, — who with her aid. 

And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and then 

A slight example, just to cast a shade 
Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 

Of beauties cool as an Italian convent. 

Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless — ^how 
Could you ask such a question ? — but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill — 

Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 

Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their owm apartments, there, 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 

Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere 

When freed from bonds, (which are of no great uae 

After all,) or like Irish at a fair. 

Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce 

Establish'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 



3 The ladies of the seraglio. 

4 [Demetrius Cantemir, a prince of Moldavia ; whose 
" History of the Growth and Decay of the Ottoman Empire" 
was translated into English by Tindal. lie died in 1723.] 

6 ["Memoirs of the State of the Turkish Empire,. 1785."j 



Canto vi. 



DON JUAN. 



G81 



XXXV 

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer ; 

Her shape, her hair, her air, her every thing: 
Some thought her dress did not so much become her. 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
Some said her years were getting nigh their simimer 

Others contended they were but in spring ; 
Some thought her rather mascuhne in lieight, 
While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. . 

But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly,'" 

Who with the brightest Georgians^ might compare : 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside. 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex, 

After tlie first investigating view. 

They all found out as few, or fewer, speclvs 

In the fair form of their companion new, 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 

Wlien they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 

In a new face, " the ugliest creature breathing." 

XXXVIII. 

And yet they had their little jealousies. 
Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion. 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation. 

Although they could not see through his disguise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that : 

XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'twere 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha' or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudii ; in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report. 
Though ditTering in stature and degree. 

And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 

They all alike admired their new connection. 



■ [" I guess, 'twas frightful thero to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly." — Coleeidoe's Christabel.'i 

' "It is hi Iheadjacentclimatesof Georgia, Mingrelia, and 
Circassia, that nature has placed, at least to our eyes, the 
model of beauty, in the shape of the limbs, the color of the 
skin, the symmetry of the features, and the expression of the 
couii tenance : the men are formed for action, the women for 
love." — Gibbon 

s Padisha is the Turkish title of the Grand Sigrdor. 



8jS. 



XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian,^ white and red. 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudii's form 

Look'd more adapted to bo put to bed, 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudti, 
Yet very fit to " murder sleep" in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. 

Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 

Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to iay where 

It would uot spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife. 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
" Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 

" From Spain." — " But where is Spain?" — " Don't 
ask such stuff. 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for shame !" 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 

To poor Katinka : " Spain's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV 

Dudti said nothing, but sat down beside 
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd, 
As if she pitied her for being there, 

A pretty stranger without friend or guide. 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 

Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 

With kind remarks upon their mien and faces 

XLVI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 
With, " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 

I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
She added to Juanna, their new guest : 

" Your coming has been unexpected here. 
And every couch is occupied ; you had best 

Partake of mine ; but by to-Tiorrow early 

We will have all things setthd for you fairly." 



* [Katinka was the name of the voungest of the three 
girls, at whose house Lord Byron resided while at Athens, in 
1810. See ante, p. 555.] 

6 [The " good points" of a Georgian girl are a rosy or 
carnation tint on her cheek, which they call numuck, " the salt 
of beauty ;" dark hair, large black antelope eyes and arched 
eyebrows, a small nose or mouth, white teeth, long neck, de- 
licate Umbs and small joints. They are extremely beautiftu, 
full of animation, grace, and elegance. — Moriek.] 



682 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi. 



XLVII. 

Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 

That anybody should disturb you so ; 
I'll take Juanna ; we're a slenderer pair 

Tlian you would make the half of ; — don't say no ; 
And I of your young charge will take due care." 

Biit here Katinka interfered, and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIII. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep aJone," quoth she. 

The matron frown'd: " Why so ?"— " For fear of 
Replied Katinka ; " I am sure I see [ghosts," 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be, 

Of Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns, and Gouls in hosts." 
The dame replied, " Between your dreams and you, 
I fear Juanua's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

" You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudii, 

Who's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 

And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

Wiiat say you, child?" — Dudii said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 

Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeks, 
Katinka, too ; and with a gentle bow 

(Court'sies are neither used by Turks nor Greeks) 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both their piques, 
Tiie others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudti, though they held their tongues from 
deference. 

LI. 
It was a spacious chamber, (Oda is 

The Turkish title,) and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets — ^and much more than this 

I might describe, as I have seen it all, 
But it suffices — little was amiss ; 

'Twas on the whole a nobly fumish'd hall. 
With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature. 

Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wud strokes of nature 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 

And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
Where all was hannony, and calm, and quiet. 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth. 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Thau are your mighty passions and so forth. 

Which, some call " the sublime :" I wish they'd try it: 

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 



LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy. 
And serious more than pensive, and serene, 

It may be, more than either — not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 

The Age of Gold, (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
Thus most appro i risitely has been .sliown 

" Lucus &, non lucendo," not what icas. 

But what was not ; a sort of style that's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose, but never settle : 

LVI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass,"* 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader ! pass 
This long parenthesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 

My faults even with your own ! which meaneth, Pot 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't — then don't — I'm not less free. 

LVII. 

'Tis time we should return to plain narration, 
And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudii, 

With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station [few : 
Described — what's strange — in words extremely 

I've but one simile, and that's a blunder, 

For wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 

LVII 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 
The gender still was epicene, at least 

In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
An outline of the customs of the East, 

AVith all their chaste integrity of laws. 
By which the more a harem is increased, 

The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 

Of any supermmierary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss. 

Because 'tis pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothing better near, or newer. 

" Kiss" rhymes to '• bliss" in fact as well as verse — 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of Nature, carelessly array'd: 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'Twas like the fawn, which, in the lake display'd. 
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 



> [This brass, so famous in antiquity, is a mixture of gold, 
silver and copper, and is supposed to have been produced 



by the fusion of these metals, in which Ccrinlh abounded, 
when it was sacked.] 



Canto vi. 



DON JUAN. 



683 



LXI. 

Aiid one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but not before she offer'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd . • 

Which pass'd well off — as she could do no less ; 
Though by this politesse she rather suftiei'd, 

Pricking her fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII 

Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd. But still more dread, 
Oh ye ! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine, 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — - 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
The pins were placed sufHciently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise, 
And I love wisdom more than she loves me ; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knoivledge flies. 

What are we ? and whence came we '.' what shall be 

Our ulti7iiate existence? what's our present? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights, 

And slumber hovcr'd o'er each lovely limb 

Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, [trim, 

Tliey should have walk'd there in their sprightliest 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around. 

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root. 
In some exotic garden sometimes found. 

With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound. 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm. 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 

And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud 

Tlio moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm. 
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

All bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 

'Twas night, but there were \arr.^, as hath been said. 
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleeping tiurrow , and betray'd 
Tlirough the heaved breast tne dream of some far shore 

Beloved and deplored ; while slowly stray'd 
'(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 
Tlio black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark 
fringes. 



LXVIII. 

A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 

White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 

Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will ;— 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be content 

With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and what is she ? 

A lady of a " certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens ; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see. 

As ere that awful period intervenes 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX 

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu ? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over. 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue. 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover 
To those who like their company, about 
Tlie apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out ; 

LXXI 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 

All trembling* wondering, without the least notion 
More than I have myself of what could make 
The calm Dudii so turbulently wake. 

LXXII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed, 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread. 
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare. 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause of care. 

For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd 

Her eye dilated and her color heighten'd. 

LXXHL 

But what was strange — and a strong proof how great 
A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay 

As fast as ever husband by his mate 
In holy matrimony snores away. 

Not all the clamor broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say 

At least, — and then she, too, unclosed her eyes. 

And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIV. 

And now commenced a strict investigation. 

Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudii had never pass'd for wanting sense. 

But, being " no orator as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expoimd what was amise 



684 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi. 



LXXV. 

At length she said, that hi a slumber sound 
She dream'd a dream, o{ walking in a wood — 

A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found ' 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; 

Ai\d that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And in tho midst a golden apple grew, — 

A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 
Rafter too high and distant ; that she threw 

Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 
Stones and whatever she could pick up, to 

Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 
But always at a most provoking height ; — ■ 

LXXVII. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 

It fell down of its own accord before 
Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 

And pick it up, and bito it to the core ; 
Tliat just as her young lip began to opo 

Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 
A bee tlew out, and stung her to the heart. 
And so — she awoke with a great scream and start. 

I.XXVIII. 

All this she told, with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionarj' gleams. 

I've known some odd ones which seem'd really plann'd 
Prophetically, or that which one deems 

A " strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things are settled now-a-days.'^ 

LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a little at the false alarm 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping eai. 
Ilie matron, loo, was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 
A nd chafed at poor Dudii, who only sigh'd, 
And said, that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

" I've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

Tho whole Oda from their beds at half-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too, the child's first nigh 
Within these walls, to be broke in upoH 

With such a clamor — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, Dudii, a good night's rest have known ; 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 



" Neir mezzo del' cammln' di nostra vita 

Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura," &c. — Inferno. 
One of the advocates employed for Queen Caroline in 



LXXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with large drops in her ov\n, 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should all be kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream. 
At least to dream so loudly as just now ; 

She wonder'd at herself how she could scream — 
'Twas foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low. 

And begg'd they would excuse her ; she'd get over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed. 

And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed 
When all around rang like a tocsin bell ; 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-ri-propots." 

LXXXV. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudu tum'd round 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast ; 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The color of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rapture of their rest ; 

All that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

LXXXVI. 

And so good night to them, — or, if you will, 

Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and Vglit 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill. 

And the mosque crescent struggled into sigh* 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 

Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height, 

That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 

Asia, where KaiF looks down upon the Kurds. • 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather gray of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

The nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail. 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

LXXXVIII. 

And that's the moral of this composition. 
If people would but see its real drift ; — 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle vrriters also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

the House jpf Lords spoke of some of the most puzzling J aa^ 
sages in the history of her intercourse with Bergan.;, as 
amounting to " cdd instances of strange coincidence."! 



Cjnto vt. 



DON JUAN. 



635 



LXXXIX. 

Rose the sultand from a bed of splendor, 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between love and 

So agitated was she with her error, [pride ; — 

She did not even look into the mirror. 

XC. 

Also arose about the self-same time, 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo 

XCI. 

Ho did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians liad good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty^ 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty 

XCII. 

And now he rose ; and after due ablutions 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers and other pious evolutions, 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 

Whose victories had recently increased 
In Catheriud s reign, wh )m glory still adores, 
As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But f>h> thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Tliine car, if it should reach — and now rhymes wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you bo 
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for ma 

XCIV. 

To call men love-begotteu or proclaim 
Tlieir mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 

Tiiat hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on: 

But people's ancestors are history's game ; 
And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 

All generations, I should like to know 

What pedigree tho best woulj" have to show ? 

XCV. 

Had Catherine and the sultan understood 

Their own true interests, which kings rarely kno V, 

Until 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 

Tlioro was a way to end their strife, although 



' [Motraye, in describing the interior of the Grand Signior's 
palace, into which he gained admission as the assistant of a 
watchmaker, who was employed to regulate the clocks, savs 
that the eunuch who received them at the entrance of the 
harem, conducted them into a hall, which appeared to be the 
most agreeable apartment in tlie edifice :— " Cette salle est 
incrust^e de porcelaine fine ; et le lambris dore et azurS qui 
ome le fond d'une coupole qui regae au-dessus, est des plus 



Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good, 

Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, 
And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCVI 

But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
His daily council upon ways and means 

How to encomiter with this martial scold. 
This modern Amazon and queen of queans ; 

And the perplexity could not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 

Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax 

XCY7I. 

Meantime Gulbcyaz, wlien her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet p ace 

For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone. 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 

Those gay recesses : — many a precious stone 
Sjiarkled along its roof, and many a vase 

Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 

Those caiJtive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIII 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble. 
Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 

And singing birds without were heard to warble ; 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair grot 

Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 
The true effect,^ and so we had better not 

Be too minute ; an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon'd Baba, and required 
Don Juan at his hands, and information 

Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired. 
And whether he had occupied their station ; 

If matters had been managed as desired, 
And his disguise with due consideration 

Kept up ; and above all, the where and how 

He had pass'd the niglitj was what she wish'd to know. 

C. 

Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 
To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 

More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 
His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 

But there seem'd something that he wish'd to hide. 
Which hesitation more betray'd than mask'd ; 

He scratch'd his ear, the infallible resource 

T) which embarrass'd people have recourse 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience. 
Nor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations ; 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones ; 
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 

Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and darkle 



riches. Une fontaine artificielle et jaillissante, dont le ba; sin 
est d'un pr6cieux inarbre vert qui m'a paru serpentin ou 
jaspi'!, s'elevoit dircctement au milieu, sous le dome. Je 
me trouvai la tete si pleine de soplias, de precieux pla 
fonds, de mfeubles superbes,en un mot, d'une si grande con- 
fusion de materiaux niaguifiques, qu'il seroit diflicile dVn 
doiuier un idije claire." — Voyages, torn. i. p. 220 ] 



686 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vi. 



CII. 

When Baba saw these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseecli'd she'd hear him tlirongh — 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Then out it came at length, that to Dudu. 

Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upc:^ whom 
The.discipline of the whole harem bore, 

As soon as they re-enter'd their own room. 
For Baba's function stopp'd short at the door. 

Had settled all ; nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 

He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure 
Juan had not betray'd himself ; in fact 

'Twas certain that his conduct had been pure, 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made him insecure, 
But ended in his being found out and sack'd, 

And thrown into the sea. — ^Thus Baba spoke 

Of all save Dudti's dream, which was no joke. 

CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 

And talk'd away — and might have talk'd till now, 

For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brov/: 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain v/hirl'd roimd, 
As if she had received a sudden blow. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 

Baba thought she would faint, but there he err'd — 

It was but a convulsion, which though short 
Can never be described ; we all have heard. 

And some of us have felt thus " all amort "^ 

When things beyond the common have occurr'd ; — 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express — then how should I ? 

CVII. 

She stood a moment as a Pythoness 
Stands on her tripod, agonizea, and full 

Of inspiration gather'd from distress. 

When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 

The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 

Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees. 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow. 

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair. 
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, 

A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 

Stirr'd up and down her bosom lika -, billow, 

Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check 

Its farther course, but must receive its wreck. 



1 [" How fares, my Kate 1 Vv^hat ! sweeting, fell amort ?" 
—Taming of the Shrew.] 

2 [" His guilty soul, at enn ^ty with gods and men, could 
find no rest ; so violently was his mind torn and distracted 



CIX. 

Her head himg down, and her long hau" in stooping 
Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 

And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping. 
White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 

Would that I were a painter I to be grouping 
All that a poet drags into detail ! 

Oh that my words were colors ! but their tints 

May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints 

ex. 

Baba, who knew by experience when to talk 
And when to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but silent still. 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye ; 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak — ^but pf.a°ed I 
And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 
By deep emotion ; — you may sometimes trace 

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 
By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 

By all the demons of all passions, show'd 

Their work even by the way in which he trode.' 

CXII. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba : — " Slave I 
Bring the two slaves !" she said in a low tone, 

But one which Baba did not like to brave. 

And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 

To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 

(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 

What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 

For fear of any error, like the late. 

CXIII. 

" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
The imperial bride — and added, " Let the boat 

Be ready by the secret portal's side : 

You know the reat." The words stuck in her throat, 

Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 
And of this Baba willingly took note. 

And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard, 

She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIV. 

" To hear is to obey," ho said ; " but still. 

Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 
But such precipitation may end ill. 

Even at your own imperative expense : 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case of any premature disclosure ; 

cxv. 

" But your own feelings. Even should all the rest 
B? hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 

Already many a once love-beaten breast 
Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 

You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 
And if this violent remedy be tried — 

Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you. 

That killing him is not the way to cure you." 



by a consciousness of guilt. Accordingly his countenance 
was pale, his eyes ghastly, his pace one while quick, 
another slow ; indeed, in all his looks there was an air ol 
distraction."— Sallust. ] 



Canto vii. 



DON JUAN. 



687 



CXVI. 

" 'What dost thou know of love or feeling ? — Wretch ! 

Begone !" she cried, with kindling eyes — " and do 
My bidding !" Baba vanish'd, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance farther he well knew 
Might end ir. acting as his own " Jack Ketch ;" 

And though he wish'd extremely to get throuo-h 
This awkward business without harm to others, '^ 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

cxvn. 

Awa.y he went then upon his commission, 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase 

Against all women of whate'er condition, 
Especially sultanas and their ways ; 

Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 

Their never knowing their own mmd two days, 

The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 

Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

cxvnr. 

And then he call'd his brethren to his aid. 
And sent one on a summons to the pair, 

That they must instantly be well array'd. 
And above all be comb'd even to a hair. 

And brought before the empress, who had made 
Inquiries after them with kindest care : 

At which DudCi look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 

But go they must at once, and will I— nill I. 

CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wherein whether 

Gulbeyaz sliow'd them both commiseration, 
Or got rid of the parties altogether, 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

May settle ; but far be't from me to anticipate 

In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present with good wishes, 
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrano-e 

Another part of history ; for the dishes " 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes change : 

And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
Although his situation now seems strange. 

And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 

The Mus will take a httle touch at warfare. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE SEVENTH 



O Love ! O Glory ! what are ye who fly 
Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 



„ '^.u^'^® seventh and eighth Cantos contain a full detail 
(like the storm in Canto second) of the siege and assault of 
Ismail, with much of sarcasm on those butchers in lar<^e 
business your mercenary soldiers. With these things arid 
these fel ows it is necessary, in the present clash of philos- 
ophy and tyranny, to throw away the scabbard. I know it 
IS against fearful odds ; but the battle must be fought • and 
VZrl ; eventually for the good of mankind, whatever it 
/I^r^^Aug^S J84"] ' ^^° "^^^ himself."— Byron Let- 

ri/v l!.'nf-^f.'"r}''~^ this additional page of life's log-book. One 
o^^ ^H AL"""", "^ 'V ^"^ "^ ">« ^-"^"f' ' which is besi , life 
es o A hl^?''' °"'y '>"2'^'' =^^ Socrates said to his Judg- 
fim^iM? c«„n^ 1^ VP °^-^^^ tribunal. Two thousand iea?s 
SLUce that sage's, declaration of ignorance have not enli-ht- 



There's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight. 

Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 
Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 

A thousand and a thousand colors they 

Assume, then leave us on our freezing way 

II. 

And such as they are, such my present tale ia, 
A nondescript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all a.re, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless I hope it » no crime 

To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a sJiow ? 

III. 

They accuse me — Me — the present writer of 
The present poem — of— I know not what — 

A tendency to underrate and scoiT 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God! I wonder what they would be at! 

I say no more than hath been said in Dante's 

Verse, and by Solomon and by CeiTantes ; 

IV. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 

'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so 

For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die, 

But which is best, you know no more than I. 

V. 

Socrates said, our only knowledge was* 

"To know that nothing could be known;" a 
pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Newton, (that proverb of the mind,) alas! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
That he himself felt only " like a youth 
Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth.'" 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, " that all is vanity" 

Most modem preachers say the same, or show it 

By their examples of true Christianity : 

In short, all know, or very soon may know it ; 

And m this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet. 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife. 

From holding up the nothingness of life ? 



jL 



ened us more upon this important pomt."— %ro7i Diary, 

3 [A short time before his death, Newton uttered this me- 
morable sentiment :— " I do not know what I ma^- appear 
to the world ; but to myself I seem to have been only like a 
boy pla>nng on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now 
and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than 
ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscover- 
ed before me."— What a lesson to the vanity and presumption 
ot philosophers ; to those, especially, who have never even 
found the smoother pebble or the prettier shell I What a 
preparation for the latest inquiries, and the last vie\vs of 
the decaying spirit,— for those inspired doctrines which 
alone can throw a light over the dark ocean of undiscovered 
truth.'— Sir David Brewster.] 



688 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vil. 



VII. 

Doers, or men !— for I flatter you' in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stops for the baying 

Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw one ray 

From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath ! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

" Fierce loves and faithless wars" — I am not siu-e 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter ; 

The fact's about the same, I am secure ; 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town" which did a famous siege endure, 

And was beleaguer'd both by land and water^ 

By Souvaroft", or Anglicfe Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 

IX. 

llie fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 

Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank,' 

With buildings in the Oriental taste, 
But still a fortress of the foremost rank. 

Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 

Which with your conquerors is a common prank : 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea. 

And measures round of toises thousands three.'' 

X. 

Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised along the height 

Upon the left, which from its loftier station 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright, 

So placed as to impede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's.* 

XI. 

This circumstance may sen^e to give a notion 
Of the high talent '. of this new Vauban : 

But the town ditch bolow was deep as ocean, 
The rampart higher than you'd wish to hang : 

But then there was a great want of precaution, 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang,) 

Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there,^ 

To hint at least " Here is uo thoroughfare." 



XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 

And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, 
Casemated' one, and t'other a " barbette/'^ 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two and twenty cannon duly set 

Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.^ 

XIII. 

But from the river the town's open quite, 
Because the Turks could never be persuaded 

A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ;-° 
And such thir creed was, till they were invaded, 

When it grevr \ ather late to set things right. 
But as the Danube could not well be waded. 

They look'd upon tho Muscovite flotilla, 

And only shouted, " Allah !" and " Bis Millah !" 

XIV. 

Tlie Russians now were ready to attack : 
But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 

How shall I spell the name of each Ccssacque 
Who were irpmortal, could one tell their story? 

Alas ! what to thtir memory can lack? 
Achilles' self was not more grim and goiy 

Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, 

Whose names want nothing but — pronunciation. 

XV. 

Still I'll record a few, if but to increase 

Our euphony : there was Strongenoff', and Strokonoff, 
Meknop, Serge Low, Arsniew of modem Greece, 

And Tschitsshakoft', and Roguenoff", and ChokenofF, 
And others of twelve consonants apiece ; 

And more might be found out, if I could poke enough 
Into gazettes ; but Fame, (capricious strumpet,) 
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme ; 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry drawling against time, 

Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin," " ifiskchy," " ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski," 



^, 



1 [See " Inscription on the Monument of a Newfound- 
land dog," ante, p. 549.] 

2 [" An. 1790. Le 30 de Novembre on s'approcha de la 
place ; les troupes de terres formaient un total de vingt 
miUe homines, ind6pcndamment de sept k huit mille Ko- 
zaks." — Hist, de la NouvcUe Russie, torn. ii. p. 201.] 

3 [" Isinaijl Of t situ6 sur la rive gauche du bras gauche 
du Danube."— ftiiZ.l 

4 [ " h peu pres a quatre-vingts verstes de la mer : 

elle a prus de trois milles toises de tour." — Ibid.'i 

6 [" On a compris dans ces fortifications un faubourg 
AIoldaTe, situ6 a la gauche de la ville, sur une hauteur qLii 
la domine : I'ouvrage a 6t6 termin6 par un Grec. Pour don- 
ner une id6e des lalens de cet ing6nieur ; il sufEra de dire 
qu'il fit placer les palissades perpendiculairement sur Ic 
parapet, de maniere qu'elles favorisaient les assjiigeans, et 
arretaisnt le feu des assiiigiis."— /ijd. p. 202.] 

[^" Le rempart en terre est prodigieusement tleve h 
cause de I'iminense profondeur du fosse : il est cependant 
absoluin°nt rasant ; il n'y a ni ouvrage avance, ni chemin 
convert."— /itrf p. 202.] 

J [Casemate is a work made under the rampart, Uke a 



cellar or cave, with loopholes to place guns in it, and is 
bomb-proof.— ilXt/if. Dict.'i . ..•,,» 

8 [When the breastwork of a battery is only of such height 
that the guns may fire over it without being obliged to znake 
embrasures, the guns are said to fire in barbet.— /Aid.] 

9 [" Un bastion de pierres, ouvert par une gorge tres- 
6troite, et doiit les murailles son fort tpaisse;;, u un battcrie 
casemat6e et une a barbette ; il defend la nve du Danuoe. 
Du c6t(> droit de la ville est un cavalier de quarante pieJs 
d'ed6vation & pic, garni de vingt-deux pieces de canon, ct 
qui defend la partie gauche."— Hisi. de la N. R. p. 20..] 

10 r" Du cotii du fleuve, la ville est absolumcnt ouverte ; 
les Turcs ne croyaient pas que les Russes pussent jamais 
avoir une flotille dans le Danube."— /Aid. p. 203.] 

n [" La premiere attaque 6tait compost^e de trois colon- 
nes, conim;md6es par leslieutenans-generaux PaiilPotiem 
kin Serge Lwow, les g^neraux-majors Lascy, Ihiodore 
Meknop. Trois autres coloiines avaient pour chets lo 
Cointe Samoilow, lesg6n6rauxElie de Bezborodko, Micliel 
Koutousow ; les brigadiers Orlow, Platow, Ilibaupieire. La 
troisie me attaque par eau iVavait que deux cc-onnes, sous 
les ordresdesg6nrraux-majors Ribas et Ars6niew. deatr;g- 
adiers Markofi' et Tch6p6ga," &c.—Ibid. p. 207 ] 



Canto vii. 



DON JUAN. 



689 



XVII. 

SclierematofF and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 
KocloCski, Kourakin, and Mo\iskin Ponskin, 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scotf 'd high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 

Little eared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XVIII. 

Then there were foreigners of much renown, 
Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 

Not fighting for their country or its crown, 
But wishing to be one day brigadiers : 

Also to have the sacking of a town ; 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 

'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith , 

Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Tliomson and Bill Thomson ; — all the rest 
Had been cidl'd " Jemmy" after the great bard : 

I. don't know whether they had arms or crest. 
But such a godfather 's as good a card. 

Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 
Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, 

Was he, since so renown'd " in country quarters 

At Halifax ;"^ but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills, 
But when I've added that the elder Jack Smith 

Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 

I've said all / know of a name that fills [smith," 

Three lines of the dispatch in taking " Schmaclc- 

A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 

He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 
May make up for a bullet in his body ? 

I hope this little question is no sin. 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting. 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay : 

But I'm tot' ^"eat a patriot to record 
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they betray 

Their country ; and as traitors are abhorr'd 
Who name the French in English, save to show 
/ How Peace should make John B ull the Frenchman's foe. 



1 [See the farce of" Love Laughs at Locksmiths "j 
" [" On s'6tait propos6 deux buts 6galement avantageux, 
par la constructiou de deux batteries sur I'ile qui avoisine 
Ismaiil : le premier, de bombarder la place, d'en abattre les 
principaux edifices avec du canon de quarante-huit, efFet 
d'autant plus probable, que la ville 6tantbatie en amphithe- 
atre, presque aucun coup ne serait perdu." — Hist, de la Nou- 
veUe Russie, p. ao.*}.] 

3 t"Le second objet Htat de profiler de ce moment 
d'alarme pour que la flotille, agissant en mf;me temps, put 
detruire celle des Turcs. Un troisieme motif, et vraisem- 
blement le plus plausible, 6tait de jeter la consternation par- 
ini les Turcs, et de les engager a capituler."— /iid. p. 203.] 



87 



XXIII. 

The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildmgs and the private too, 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape suggested this, 'tis -true ; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in.^ 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation. 

To attack the Turks' flotilla, which lay nigh 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ;' 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors. 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers 

XXV. 

A habit rather blameable, wh'eh is 

That of despising those we comoat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 

The cause* of killing TchitchitzkofF and Smith ; 

One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to " pith ;" 

But 'tis a name so spread o'er " Sir" and " Madam," 

That one would think the first who bore it " Adam." 

• XXVI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete, 

Because they were constructed in a hurry f 

Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May likewise put off for a time what story 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXVII. 

Wliether it was their engineer's stupidity, 

Their haste or waste, 1 neither know nor care. 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd. 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 

Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect : 

The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
Codid remedy this lubberly defect ; 

They blew up in the middle of the river, 

While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever." 

4 ["Un habitude blamable, celle de m^priser son ennemi, 
fut la cause."— Hist, ih la N. R. p. 203.] 

6 [. . ." du d6faut de perfection dans la construction des 
batteries ; on voulait agir promptement, et on n6gligea de 
donner aux ouvrages la solidite qu'ils esigaient." — Ibid p. 
203.] 

6 [" On calcula mal la distance ; la mfeme esprit fit man- 
quer I'effet de trois briilots ; on se pressa d'allumer la mfeche, 
ils briilerent au milieu du fleuve, et quoiqu'il fut six heures 
du matin, les Turcs, encore couchfes, n'en prlrent aucun om- 
brage."— /4iii. p. 203.] 



690 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vit. 



XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and survey'd 

The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 
'Twas nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 

Within a cable's length their vessels lay 
Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, 

Wliich was returu'd with interest, I may say, 
And by a fire of musketry and grape, 
And shells and shot of every size and shape.' 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submission, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blew up, a second near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks.'' 

XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire. 
Their Delhis^ mann'd some boats, and sail'd again. 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Connt Damas drove them back into the "water 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.'' 

XXXII 

" If" (says the historian here) " I could report 
All that the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short, 
And I shouid still have many things to say ;"^ 

And so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray ; 

The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.® 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what Fame is : 
For out of these three " prejix Chevaliers," how 

Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed ? (and they may live now 



1 [" ler Dec 1790. La rtotille R'.isse s'avanca vers les sept 
heures ; il en 6tait neuf lorsqu'elle se trouva a cinquante 
toises de la villed'tsmaiH ; elle souffnt, avecune Constance 
calme, un feu de mitraille et"de mousquetcrie . . ."—Hist, 
de la N. R. p. 204.J 

!"[..." pres de six heures : les batteries de terrc secon- 
daient la fiotille ; mais on reconnCit alors que les canon- 
nades ne suffisaieut pas pour r6duire la place, on fit la 
retraito a une heure. Un lancon sauta pendant Paction, un 
autre d6riva par la force du'courant, et fut pris par les 
Tares."— Ihid. p. 204.] 

3 [" Properly madmen : a species of troops who, in the 
Turkish army, act as the forlorn hope."— D'Herbelot.] 

■' f" Les Turcs perdirent beaucoup de monde etplusieurs 
vaisseaux ; il peine la retraite des Ivusses fut-elle remar- 
quee, que les plus braves d'entre les ennemis se jeterent 
dans de petites barques et essayerent une descente: le 
Comte de Damas les mit en fuite, et leur tua pkijieurs offi- 
cers et grand nombre de soldats."— i/t«;. dc la A. R. p. 204.] 

6 [" On netariraitpassion voulaitrapportertoutcequeles 
Russes firentde memorable dans cettejournee ; pourconter 
les hauls fails d'armes, pour particulariser toutes les actions 
d'6clat, il faudrait composer des volumes."— /ii7. p. 204.] 

6 [" Parmi les ^tranpers, le Prince de Ligne se distingua 
de maniere ameriterl'estime gen6rale ; de vrais chevaliers 
Francais, attires par I'amour de la gloire, se montrerent 
dignes d'elle : les plus marquans t^taient le jeune Due de 
Richelieu, les Comtes de Langeron et Damas."— 76id. p. 204.] 

7 f" Letters and Reflections of the Austrian Field-Mar- 
shal, Chnrles Joseph, Prmce ile Lignc!', edited by the Bar- 
oness de Stael Holstein," 2 vols. I8U9.] 



For aught we know.) Renown's all hit or miss ; 
There's fortune even in fame, wo must all%w. 
'Tis true, the Memoirs' of the Prince de Ligne* 
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions 

Their names are rarely fotuid, nor often souglil 
Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is cxtinguish'd sooner than she ought : 
Of all out modem battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 

Show'd that somewhere, somehoiv, there was a fault. 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault : 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate ; but I must halt, 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVL 

There was a man, if that he was a man. 

Not that his manhood could be call'd in question. 

For had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan. 
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted, 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 

XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin'" — a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great ; 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 



8 [Charles Joseph, Comte de Ligne, was born at Brus- 
sels. Being, in 1782, sent by the Emneror Joseph IL on a 
mission to Catherine, lie became "- great favorite with her. 
She appointed him iield-marshal, and gave him an estate in 
the Crimea. In 1788, he was sent to assist Potemkin at the 
siege of OczakofT. He died in 1814.] 

3 [" L'Admiral Ribas d6clara, en plein conseil, que ce 
n'etait qu'en donnant I'assant qu'on obtiendrait la place : 
cet avis parut hardi ; on lui opposa mille ra;.sons, auxquelles 
il r^poiidit par de meilleures " — Hist, de la N. R. p. 205.] 

11 [The following character of Prince Potemkin is from the 
pen of Count S6gur, who iived in habits of intimacy with 
him : — " In his person were collected the most opposite 
defects ana advantages of every kind. He was avaricious and 
ostentatious, despotic and obliging, politic and confiding, 
licentious and superstitious, bold and timid, ambitious and 
indiscreet ; lavish of his bounties to his relations, his mis- 
tresses, and his favorites, yet frequently paying neitlier his 
household nor his creditors. His consequence always de- 
pended on a woman, and he was always unfaithful to her. 
Nothing could equal the activity of Ins mind, nor the indolence 
of his body. IVo dangers could appal his courage ; no diffi- 
culties force him to abandon his projects. But the success of 
an enterprise always brought on disgust. 'Every tiling with 
him was desultory ; business, pleasure, temper, courage. His 
presence was a restraint on every company. He was morose 
to all that stood in awe of him, and caressed all such as ac- 
costed him with familiarity. None had read less than he; 
few people were better infr>i-med. One while he formed the 
project of becoming Duke of Courland ; at another he 
thought of bestowing on himself the crown of Poland, lie 
frequently gave intimation of an intention to make himself a 
bishop, or even a simple monk. He ouilt a superb palace, 



Canto vii. 



D.ON JUAN. 



691 



XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he nad cause to be content. 
In the mean time, the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly firod and answer'd in due order.' 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 

Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

A' well as dilettanti in war's art. 

By his dispatches couch'd in pithy phrase ; 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.''' 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws ; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause. 

Save for its stylo, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail at whatever price."^ 

XLI. 

" Let there be light! said God, and there was light !" 
" Let there be blood I" says man, and there's a sea ! 

The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night 
(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 

Summers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fluit ; 

For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends the Turks, who with loud " Allahs" now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat,* 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat, 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat,) 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

/ XLIIL 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 

In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacques 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs. 



and wanted to sell it before it was finished. In hi-s youth he 
had pleased Catherine by the ardor of his passion, by his 
valor, and by his masctUine beauty. Become the rival of 
Orloff, he performed for his sovereign whatever the most ro- 
mantic passion could inspire. He put out an eye, to free it 
from a blemish which diminished his beauty. Banished by 
his rival, he ran to meet death in battle, and returned with 
glory. He died in 1791, at the age of fifty-two."] 

I [" Ce projet, remis a un autre jour, 6prouva encore les 
plusgrandesdifficultes ; le courage de Ribas les surmonta: 
il ne s'agissait que de determiner le Prince Potiemkin ; il y 
reussit. Tandis qu'il se dt-menait pour rex6cution de projet 
agres on coustruisait de nouvelles b;Uteries ; on comptait, le 
12 Decembro, qualre-vingts pieces de canon sur le bord du 
Danube, el cette journ6e se passa en vives canonnades." — 
Histoire de la Kr^uvelle Russie, torn u. p. 205.] 

3 [" Mais le 13"?, uno partie des troupes 6tait embarqu6e ; 
on allait lever le siege : un courner arrive ; ce courrier an- 
nonce, de la part du Prince, que le MarSchal Souwarow va 
prendre le coinmandement des forces r^unies sous Ismael." 
SbiJ. p. 205.: 



For thero were but three shirts between the two ; 

But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 
Till, in approaching, were at length descried 
In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.^ 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now I" says some great fool, 
When London had a grand illumination, 

Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of color'd lamps are full, 
That Sage (said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLV. 

'Tis strange that he should farther " damn his eyes," 
For they are damn'd ; that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no farther prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both. 

Debt he calls wealth, and ta.xcs Paradise ; 

And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, 

Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLVI. 

But to the tale ; — great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Costiacquo, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp. 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, 
He flitted to and fro a dancing light. 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XLVIL 

But certes matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
Tho fleet and camp saluted with great g^ace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made now, prepared fascines,® 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XLVIIL 

'Tis thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind. 

Or roams the herd beneath the bull's prstection ; 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection 

By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victtial ; 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er httle. 



3 [" La lettre du Prince Potiemkin h Souwarow est tres- 
courte ; elle peint le caractere de ces deux personnages. 
La voici dans toute sa teneur : ' Vous prendrez Ismael a quel 
prix que ce soil '.' " — Hist, de la N. R. p. 205. J 

i [" Le courrier est t^moin des cris de joie (Allahs) du Turc, 
qui se croyait a la fin de ses mau.x.." — Ibid. p. 205.] 

5 [" Le IG", on voit venir de loin deux hommes courant A 
toute bride : on les pnt pour des Kosaks ; I'un 6tait Sou- 
warow, et I'autre son guide, portant un paquet gros comine 
le poing, et renfermant le bagage du gtnoral." — Ibid p. 205.] 

6 [" Les succcs multiplies de Souwarow, sabravoure a 
toute epreuve, la confidence que le soldat avail en lui, pro- 
duisirent un enthousiasme g6n6ral : une salve des batteries 
ducamp et de laflottecelebrerent son arriv6e, et I'espoir du 
succes ranima les esprits. Les choses prennent le mJnie 
jour une autre tournure ; le camp se rapproclie et s'etablit 
a la portee du canon de la place ; on prepare des fascines on 
consiruit des 6clielles, on 6tablit des batteries nouvelles."— 
Ibid. p. 206.] 



692 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vii. 



XLIX. 

The whole camp lung with joy ; you would have 
though 

That they were going to a mamage feast,, 
'This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught. 

Since there is discord after both at least :) 
There was not now a luggage boy but souffht 

Danger and spoil with ardor much increased ;' 
And why ? because a little — odd — old man, 
Stripp'd to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 



But so it was ; and every preparation ' 

Was made with all alacrity : the first 
Detachment of three columns took its station, 

And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
Upon the foe : the second's ordination 

Was also in tliree colimins, with a thirst 
For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: 
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water.^ 

LI. 

New batteries were erected, and was held 
A general council, m which unanimity, 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd,' 
As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 

And every difficidty being dispell'd. 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity. 

While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet-^ 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
In chief, in proper person deigu'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil ; 

Just as you'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch.* 

LIII. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men with turbans, cimeters, and dirks, 

And made them charge with bayonet these machines, 
By way of lesson against actual Turks f 

And when well practised in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which yoiu: wise men sneer'd in phrases witty '. 

Hs made no answer ; but he took the city. 

LTV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve , 

■ Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive ; 

Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin 
Are very silent when they once believe 

That all is settled : — there was little din. 
For some were thinking of their home and friends, 
And others of themselves and latter ends. 



1 [" L'ardeur de Somvarow, son incroyable activit6, son 
mfepris des dangers, sa presque certitude de r^ussir, son 
ame enfin s'est communiqu6e a l'arm6e ; ii n'est pas jusqu'au 
dernier goujat qui ne dfesire d'obtenir Thonneur de monter 
a Tassaut." — Hist, de la N. R. p. 206.] 

2 [" Lapremiere attaqiie 6tait compos6e de troiscolonnes— 
t.rois autres colonnes, destinies h la seconde attaque, avaient 
pour chefs, &c.— la troisieme attaque par eau n'avoit que 
deux colonnes." — Ibid. p. 207.] 

s [' On c jnstruisit de nouvelles batteries le 18e. On tint 



LV. 

Suwan-ow chiefly was on the alert, 

Sui-veying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering " 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering ; 
Now Mars, now Momus ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress. Harlequin in miiform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assavdt, while upon drill — 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal — 

Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round a hill, 
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall. 

One of whom spoke their tongue — or weU cr ill, 
'Twas much that he was understood at all ; 

But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner, 

They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

LVIL 

Whereon immediately at his request [qatrters ; 

They brought him and his comr&.ces to head- 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these were merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; which sometimes barters ■ 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It difficult to shmi some strange mistakes 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing, — 

For deeming human clay but common dirt. 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which to martial comprehension 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ; — 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacques and theur prey, tuni'd round and cast 
Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 

" Whence come ye?" — " From Constantinople last. 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. [pass'd 

"What are ye?" — " Wliat you see us." Briefly 
This dialogue ; for ho who answer'd knew 
To whom he spoko, and made his words but few. 

LX. 

"Your names?" — "Mine's Johnson, and my com 
rade's Juan ; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said, " I have hear 
Your name before, the second is a new one : 

To bring the other three here was absurd : 
But let that pass : — I think I have heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew remmeut?" — " The same." 



un conseil de guerre, on y examinales plans pour I'assaut 
lis reunirent tous les souffrages." — Hist, de la N. R. p. 21)8.] 

4 Fact : Suwaroff did this in person. 

5 [" Le 19" et le 20o, Souwarow exerca les soldats ; il leuj 
montra comment il fallait s'y prendre pour escalader<; i) en 
seigna aux recrues la maniere de donner le coup de baio 
nelle."— Ibid. p. 208.J 

6 [" Pour ces exercices d'un nouveau genre, il se servit dt. 
fascines disposiies de maniere a representer un Itic — 
Ibid. p. 208.] 



Canto vn. 



DON JUAN. 



693 



LXI. 

"You served at Widdin ?"— " Yes."— " You led the 
attack 1" 

" I did." — " What next ?" — " I really hardly know." 
" You were the first i' the breach ?" — " I was not slack 

At least to follow those who might be so." 
" What follow'd?" — " A shot laid me on my back, 

And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
'' You shall have vengeance, for the town surrounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 

"Where will you serve?" — "Where'er you please." 
— "I know 

You like to be the hope of the forlorn. 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 

After the hardships you've already borne. 
And this young fellow — say what can he do ? 

He with the beardless chin and garments torn?" 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

Lxm. 

" He shall if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 

Continued : " Your old regiment's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 

Or it may be to-night, the assault : I have vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or harrow 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

" So now, my lads, for glory !" — Here he turn'd 
And drijl'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn'd 

All earthly goods save tithes) and bade them push on 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXV. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favorite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess 

My debt in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost ; but if you'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. 

" Right ! I was buay, and forgot. Wliy, you 
Will join your fonnor regiment, which should be 

Now under anns. Ho ! KatskofF, take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew : 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 

The ladies, — who by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new. 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true. 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 

With flashiug eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their amis, as hens their wings about their young, 



LXVIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honor'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain. 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh, foolish mortals ! Always taught in vain ! 
Oh, glorious laurel ! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 

Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea, 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling : for however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Suwarrow. 

LXX. 

He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck tone, — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, uud seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 

lu fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives : 

Save wed a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

" May it please your excellency," thus replied 

Our British friend, " these are the wives of othara, 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp : I know that naught so bothers 

The hearts of the heroic ou a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 

" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape. 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 

To me this kind of life is not so new ; 

To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape. 

I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 

Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming oyes, 
Look'd on as if in doubt if they could tnist 

Tneir own protectors ; nor was their surprise 
Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 

To see an old man, rather wild than wise 
In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 

Stripp'd to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 

More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIV. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod. 

As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem. 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 



694 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Canto vii. 



LXXV 

John Jolinsoii, seeing their extreme dismay. 

Though little versed in feelings oriental, 
Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 

Don Juan, who was much more sentimental. 
Swore they should see him by the dawn of day, 

Or that the Russian army should repent all : 
And, strange to say, they found some consolation 
In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight kiseos, 
Tliey parted for the present — these to await. 

According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate — 

(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 
A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 

While their beloved friends began to arm. 

To bum a town which never did them harm. 

LXXVII. 

Suwarrow, — who but saw things in the gross. 
Being much too gross to see them in detail, 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 

And as the wind a wldow'd nation's wail. 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts sliould at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job,- 

What was't to him to hear two women sob ? 

LXXVIII. 

Nothing. — The work of glory still wi^ut on 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade. 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 

bullets ; 
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long ; all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Wliich now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 

To paint a siege, wherein more men were slaiii. 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow. 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow. 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which howe'er the Muse describes each act, 

There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em? 
Souls ol immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
To color up his rays from your dispatches. 



LXXXII. • 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded! 
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, sur- 
rounded ! 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries ! now impart, ye 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues. 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call " fading" martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year, 

And almost every day, in sad r^lity. 
Some sucking hero is competl'd to rear. 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 

Afiiicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

LXXXIV. 

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarltt, 
Are things immortal to immortal man. 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
A uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 

But Glory's glory ; and if you would find 

What that is — ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXV. 

At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 

Because he runs before it like a pig; 
Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 

Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 
A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 
The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 
Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXXVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold, dull night. 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank I 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The stars peep through the vapors dim and dank, 

AVhich curl in curious wreaths: — how soon the 
smoke 

Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful pause, dividing life from death. 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men. 

Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath ! 

A moment — and all will be life again ! 

The march I the charge ! the shouts of either faith ! 

Hurra ! and Allah ! and — one moment more- 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



Canto viii. 



DON JUAN. 



695 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE EIGHTH.' 



Oh bbod and thunder ! and oh blood and wounds ! 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem, 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet thus is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such tilings, since they are her theme, 
So be they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 

To wield them in their terrible array. 
The army, like a lion from his den, 

March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,— 
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 
Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 

History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross. 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of hoi.est fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare. 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
A higher title, or a loftier station. 

Though they may make Corruption gape or stare, 
Yet, in tae end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

V. 

And such they are, — and such thoy will be found : 
Not so Leonidas and Washington, 



Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone 

How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
While the mere victor's may appal or stun 

The servile and tlie vain, such names will be 

A watchword till the future shall bo free. 

VI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Naught to be seen save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud. 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same — ^ 

A mirrord hell ! the volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder ; for Heaven's flashes 

Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions ashes ! 

VII. 

The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises. 

When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 

Answering the Christian thuuc'ers with like voices : 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty noises ; 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 

The restless Titan hiccups in his den.^ 

VIIT. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah !"* rose 

In the same moment, loud as even the roar 
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 

Hurling defiance : city, stream, and shore 
Resounded " Allah !" and the clouds which close 

With thickening canopy the conflict o'er. 
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark ! through 
All sounds it pierceth, " Allah ! Allah ! Hu !"^ 

IX. 
The columns were in movement one and all. 

But of the portion which attack'd by water. 
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,' 

Though led by Arscniew, that great son of slaughter, 
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 

" Carnage" (so Wordsworth tells yon) " is God's 
daughter :'" 
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head,* which proves the head to bo 

Aristocratic as was ever seen, 



1 [This Canto is almost entirely filled with the taking of 
Ismail by storm. It would be absurd to attempt, in i>rose, 
even a feeble outline of the varied horrors which marked 
that celebrated scene of ruthless and indiscriminate carnage ; 
the noble writer has '^picted them with all that vivid and 
appalling fidelity, which, on such a theme, might be ex- 
pected from his powerful muse ; and, if any thing can add 
to the shuddering sensation we experience in reading these 
terrific details, it is the consideration that poetry, in this in- 
stance, instead of dealing m fiction, must necessarily relate 
a tale that falls short of the truth. — Campbell.] 

2 [" La nuit 6tait obscure ; un brouillard Opais ne nous 
permettait de distinguer autre chose que le feu de notre 
artillerie, dont Thorizon 6tait embrase de tous cotes : ce feu, 
partant du milieu du Danube, se r6fl6chissait sur les eaux, 
et offrait un coup d'ceil tres-singulier." — Hist, de la Nouvelle 
Russie, torn. iii. p. 209.] 

3 [" A peine eut on parcouru I'espace de quelques toises 
au-dela des batteries, que les Turcs, qui n'avaient point 
tir6 pendant toute la nuit s'apperf evant de nos mouvemens, 
commencerent de leur c6t6 un feu tres-vif, qui embrasa le 
reste de I'horizon: mais ce futbien autre chose lorsque, av- 
ances davantage, le feu dela mou.squeterie commen^a dans 
toute lY'tendue du rempart que nous appercevions. Ce fut 
alors que la place parut a nos yeux comme un volcai dont 
le feu sortait de toutes parties."— ZijVi. p. 209.] 



•' Un cri universel d' Allah ! qui se rep6tait tout autour 
de 1r ville, vint encore rendre plus extraordmaire cet in- 
stant, dont il est impossible de se faire une idee." — Hist, de 
la N. R. p. 209.] 

5 Allah Hu ! is properly the war-cry of the IMussulmans, 
and they dwell on the last syllable, which gives it a wild and 
peculiar effect. 

6 [" Toutes les colonnes 6taient en mouvement ; celles 
qui attaquaient par eau commandoes par le general Arse- 
niew, essuyerent un feu (ipouvantable, et perdirent avant le 
jour un tiers de leurs officiers." — Ibid.] 

' " But Thy* most dreaded instrument 

In working out a pure intent, 
Is man array'd for mutu.'ii slaughter , 
Yea, Carnage is thy daughtf.' .'" 

Wordsworth's Thanksgiving Ode. 

8 [" Le Prince de Ligne fut bless6 au genou ; le Due de 
Richelieu eut une balle entre le fond de son bonnet et sa 
tfite."— ifist. dela Nouvelle Russie, t. iil. p. 210.] 



* To wit, the Deity's: this is perhaps as pretty _a pedi- 
gree for murder as ever was found out by Garter King at 
Arms.— What would have been said, had any free-spoken 
people discovered such a lineage 1 



696 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto viii. 



Because it then received no injury 

More tliali tlie cap; in fact, the hall could mean 
-No harm unto a right legitimate head : 
" Ashes to ashes" — why not lead to lead ? 

XI. 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the prince 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near,— 
All common fellows, who might writhe and wince, 

And shriek for water into a deaf ear, 

The General Markow, who could'thiis evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.' 

XII. 
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic. 

And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.'^ 

Mortality I tlu.ni hast thy monthly bills ; 
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 

Like the death-watch, within our oars the ills 
Past, present, and to come ;— but all may yield 
To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony, 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may reo-ard— 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket,— these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May wm perhaps a riband at the breast ! 

XIV. 

Yet I love glory ;— glory's a great thing:- 

fhink what it is to be in your old ago 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king • 

A moderate pension shakes full many a saire, 
And iierocs arc but made for bards to sing, " 

Which is still better ; thus in verse to wacr© 
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying " 

Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 

XV. 
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 

To take a battery on the right ; the others, 
VV ho landed lower down, their landing done, 

Ilud set to work as briskly as thcir"brothers- 
lieuig grenadiers, they mounted one by one. 

Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers 
O er the uitrenchment and the palisade,' ' 

Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 

XVI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Ul olhccrs a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 

lo gentlemen engaged in the assault: 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault 



1 [" Le brigadier Markow, insistant pour n.i'on emnortit 
piea. —Hist, de la Nouvelle Russia, torn. iii. p. 210.] 

2 [" Trois jents bouches fi feu vomissaient "san* infovv,,^ 



XVII 

But here I leave the general conoern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame : 

He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heross, name by name, 

1 hough all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, * 

And what is worse still, a much longer story • 

Aiid therefore wo must give the greater number 
1 o the Gazette— which doubtless fairly dealt 
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 

^ In ditches, fields, or where'er they felt 
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ;— 
1 hrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 
111 the dispatcli : I knew a man whose loss 
Was printed Grove, altliough his name was Grose.* 

XiX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps, 

And fought away with might and main, not 
knowing 

The way which they had never trod before. 

And still less guessing where they might be going; 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er. 
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing. 

But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win. 

To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 

Of dead and dying thousands,— sometimes gaining 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them 
nigher 
To some odd angle for which all were strainino-- 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire, " 

Which really pour'd as if all hell were 'rainin<r 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore 

XXI. 

Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
1 he nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage docs not o-low 
So much as under a triumphal arch, " 

Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch. 

Which stiften'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day :— 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But what if he had ? I 

There have been and are heroes who begun 

With something not much better, or as bad: 
Frederic the Great from Mohvitz deign'd to run 

For the first and last time ; for, like a pad. 
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one 

Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, 

And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 



principalement compos6es des ^enadiers de Fanaeorie es- 
K lio" '"^"■^"'^''«^"'«n'' ^^ iapalissade."-//i,f^ deUN 

^r.1 \^^^ ■ f^^ ''I® Waterloo Gazettes. 1 recollect remark- 
ng at the time to a friend .—" TAcre is fame' a nan is 
killed, lus name is Grose, and they print it Grove " I was 
at college willi the deceased, wlio was a very ainiab^ and 
clever man and his society in great request for li-s wit 
gayely, and " Chansons a boire." ' 



Canto viii. 



DON JUAN. 



097 



XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her subKmo 
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic; — 

(The antiquarians' who can settle time, 

Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic, 

Swear that Pat's language sprang from the same clime 
With Hannibal, and wears tho Tyrian tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 

As any other notion, and not national ;) — 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child of song ; 

Now swimming iu *he sentiment of joy, 

Or tho sensation, (if that phrase seem wrong,) 

And afterward, if he must needs destroy, 
In faich good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always without malice : if he warr'd 

Or loved, it was with what ho call'd tho " best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack, when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 

'Tis pity " that such meaning should pave hell."" 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whether hell's pavement — if it bo so paned — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell, 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career. 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides 
Just at the close of the first bridal year. 

By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were" kill'd or wounded, 

And that tho rest had faced unto the right 

About ; a circumstance which has confounded 

Caesar himself, wiio, in tho very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, 

And rally back his Romans to the field.' 



1 See General Valancey and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 

2 The Portuguese proverb says that " hell is paved with 
good intentions."— [See ante, p. 528.] 

3 ["TheNervii marched to the number of sixty thousand, 
and fell upon Ca!sar, as he was fortifying his camp, and had 
not the least notion of so sudden an attack. They first 
routed lis cavalry, and then surrounded the twelfth aiid the 
seventh egions, and killed all the officers. Had not Cassar 
snatched a buckler from one of his own men, forced his way 
through the combatants before him, and rushed upon the 
barbarians ; or had not the tenth legion, seeing his danger, 
ran from the heights where they were posted, and mowed 



XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No CcBsar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps ho ought 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 

(Start not, kind read(M-, since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one :) — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, ho went upon his way. 

And, what was stranger, never look'd behind ; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like tlie day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray. 
He stmnbled on, to try if ho could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, tho greater part of which were corses 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more tho commandant 

Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear'd — tho gods know how ! (I can't 
Account for every thing which may look bad 

In history ; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad. 

In search of glory, should look on before. 

Nor care a pinch of snufi' about his corps :) — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — whore he knew not — single-handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An " ignis fatuus ;" or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake ; 

So Juan, following honor and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes, 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where ho was, nor greatly cared. 
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains, 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shalien 

By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon l" 

XXXIV. 

And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late tho second column, 

Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces 

And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. 



dowTi the ei.jmy's ranks, not one Roman would have sur- 
vived the battle."— Plutarch.] 

* [" N'appercevant plus le commandant du corps dont je 
faisais partie, et ignorant oii je devais porter mes pas, je cms 
reconnoitre le lieu ou le rampart tlait situ6 ; on y faisait un 
feu assez vif, que je jugeai fitre celui du Gen6ral-major de 
Lascy."— Hist, de la JV. R. p. 210.] 

6 Gunpowder is said to have been discovered by this friar. 
[N. B. Though P'riar Bacon seems to have discovered gun- 
powder, he had the humanity not to record his discovery in 
mtelligible language.] 



698 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto viii. 



XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 

Who had " retreated," as the plirase is when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying. 
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whoso 

More virgin valor nevsr dreamt of flying, 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like innocence relying [thews, — 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and 

Johnson retiied a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in " shadows of Death's valley." 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet. 

Rampart, wall, casement, house — for there was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil, as yet, — 

He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 

XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what's strange, they came 
Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from 

The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home ' 

Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 

And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds 

Makes men, Uke cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
We shall not see his likeness : he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 

Her steady breath, (which some months the same 
still is:) 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 

And could be very busy without bustle ; 

XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be rid so 
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Tliough their lids so 
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind. 

But when they light upon immediate death. 

Retire a httle, merely to take breath. 



1 iGIer.dower. " I can call spirits from the vasty deep. 
Hotspur. Why so can I, or so can any man : 

But will they come when you do call for 
them "—Benry IV.'\ 

a [ " the dread of something after death,— 

The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn 
No traveller returns."— i/am/e<. 

8 iTaZus,— the slope or inclination of a wall, whereby, re- 
clining at the top so as to fall withm its base, the thickness 
is graduaiy lessened according to the height.— Jiiii/ary Dic- 
tionary.} 



XLL 

But Johnson only ran off", to return 
With many other warriors, as we said. 

Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn. 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.^ 

To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern . 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living as on wire. 

And led them back into the heaviest firef 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff' 

Which fills a regiment (besides their pay. 

That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)— 

They found on their return the sch-ncme welcome. 

Which made some think, and others know, a hell come. 

XLIII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head, before their gims were cock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils. 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, 

That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd, 

Reach'd the mterior talus^ of the rampart.* 

XLV. 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin. 

Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below, 

So that you scarce coitld say who best had chosen, 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet. 

Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet 

XLVI. 

But those who scaled, found out that their advance 
Was favor'd by an accident or blunder : 

The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had palisado'd in a way you'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under) — 

Right in the middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set :° 



* [" Appellant ceux des chasseurs qui 6taient autour de moi 
en assez grand nombre, je m'avanrai et reconnus ne m'etre 
point troinp6 dans men calcul ; c'^tait en eifet cette colonne 
qui a rinstant parvenait au sommet iu rempart. Les Turcs 
de derriere les travers et les flancs les bastions voisins fa- 
saient sur elle un feu tres-vif de canon et de mousquetorie. 
Je gravis, avec les gens qui m'avaient snivi, le talus irt6- 
rieur du rempart." — Hist, de la JV. R p. 211.] 

6 [" Ce flit dans cet instant que je reconnus comhien I'ig- 
norance du constructeur des palissades etait importunte 
pour nous ; car, comme elles etaient placiis au milieu du 
parapet," &c.—Il/id. p. 211.] 



Canto viii. 



DON JUAN. 



699 



XLvir. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

^^^lo thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which farther aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.* 

XLVIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the fust, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations : 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulovv, Gneisenau, 

Aud God knows who besides in " au" and " ow," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe" 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions ; 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 



But never mind ; — " God save the king !" and kings i 
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer — 

I thiuk I hear a little bird, who sings 

The people by and by will be the stronger : 

The veriest jade will wince wliose harness wrings 
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 

Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 

At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then. 

Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant ; 

At last it takes to weapons such as men [pliant. 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts less 

Then comes the " tug of war ;" — 'twill come again, 
I rather doubt ; and I would fain say " fie on't," 

If I had not perceived that revolution 

Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first. 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 

Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed [one 
Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a new 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one, 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 



1 [" II y avait de chaque c6t6 neuf & dix pieds sur lesquels 

on pouvait marcher ; et les soldats, apres 4tre monies, avai- 

ent pu se ranger commod6ment sur I'espace extferieur, qui 

ne s"61eva aue d'a-peu-pres deux pieds au-dessus du niveau 

j dc la xene."—Hist. de la N. R. p. 211.] 

- [It has been a favorite assertion with almost all the 
French, and some English writers, that the English were on 
the point of being defeated, when the Prussian force came 
up The contrary is the truth. Baron Muffling has given 
the ;r,ost explicit testimony, " that the battle could have 
afforded no favorable result to tlie enemy, even if the 
Prussians liad never come up." The laurels of Waterloo 



LIIL 

And here he was — who upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confess'd. 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lever when he leaxes your arms ;" 

But Juan never left them, while they had charms, 

LIV. 

Unless compell'd by ate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But here ho was I — where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 

And he whose very body was all mind. 

Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance, 
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate. 

Or double post and rail, where the existence 
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight. 

The lightest being the safest : at a distance 
He hated cruelty, as all men hato 

Blood, until heated — and even then his own 

At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LVI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast. 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon. 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon. 
Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian,"^ 
(As Pistol calls it,) but a young Livonian.^ 

LVII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 

For seeing one with ribands, black and blue. 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 

Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 

He recognised an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language ; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer. 

There cannot be much conversation there. 



must be divided— the British won the battle, the Prussians 
achieved and rendered available the victory —Sir Walteb 
Scott.] 

3 [Pistol's " Bezonian" is a corruption of bisognoso—a needy 
man — metaphorically (at least) a scoundrel.] 

* ['• Le General Lascy, vOyant arriver un 'lorp^, s' a-propos 
a son secour, s'avanca vers I'officier qui I'avait conduit, 
et, le prenant pour un Livonien, lui fit, en AUemand, les 
complimens les plus flatteurs ; le jeune militaire (le Due de 
Richelieu) qui parlait parfaitement cette langue, y rfepondit 
avec sa modestie ordinaiie."— Hist, de la N. R p 211.' 



700 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto viii. 



LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 

Two long 03taves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen'd by the din. 

Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh eternity I — 

" God made the country, and man made the town," 
So Cowper says — and I begin to be 

Of his opinion, when I see cast down 
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 

All walls men know, and many never known ; 
Aid pondering on the present and the past. 
Til deem the woods shall be our home at last : — 

LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla' the man-slayer. 
Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the great names which in our faces stare, 

The General Boon, backwoodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest raaze.^ 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him — she is not the child 
Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, 

Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boon lived liimting up to ninety ; 

LXIII. 

And what's still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, 

Not only famous, but of that good fame. 
Without which glory's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame. 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of Nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

'Tis true he shrank from men even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees, — 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a station 
Where there were fewer houses and more ease ;' 

The inconvenience of civilization 

Is, tliat you neither can be pleased nor please ; 

But where he met the individual man. 

He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 



1 [See ante, p. 471.] 

» [" The wildest solitudes are to the taste of some people. 
General Boon, who was chiefly instrumental in the first set- 
tlement of Kentucky, is of this turn. It is said, that he is 
now, (1818,) at the af?e of seventy, pursuing the daily chase 
two hundred miles to the westward of the last abode of 
civilized man. He had retired to a chosen spot, beyond the 
Missouri, which, after him, is named Boon's Lick, out of 
the reach, as he flattered himself, of intrusion ; but white 
men, even there, encroached upon him, and, two years ago, 
he want back two hundred miles farther."— Bi>A6eci'« Notes 
on Amciica.'\ 

3 [" Such is the restless disposition of these backwoods- 
men, and so averse are their habits from tliose of a civihzed 
neighborhood, that nothing short of the salt, sandy desert 



LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase. 

Whose young, unawaken'd world was ever new. 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall, anactrong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 

Because their thoughvs had never been the prey 
Of care or gain ; the green woods were their portions; 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions ; 

Simple they were, not savage ; and their rifles. 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers. 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of ti.air toil ; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil ; 

The lust which stings, the splendor which encumbers, 
Witli the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 

So much for Nature : — by way of variety. 
Now back to thy great joys. Civilization ! 

And the sweet consequence of large society, 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation. 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety. 
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another ; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 

Clash'd 'gainst the cimeter, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid : — 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterward beat back 

(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 

It happen'd was himself beat back just now : 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe. 

Though life, and death, and victory were at stai^o ;* 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 



can stop them. The notorious Daniel Boon, who about fifty 
different times has shifted his abode westward, as civilization 
approached his dwelling, when asked the cause of his fre- 
quent change, replied, ' I think it time to remove, when I can 
no longer fell a tree for fuel, so that its top will lie within a 
few yards of my cabin.'" — Quarterly Review, voi xxix. 
p. H.] 

i [" Parmi les colonnes, une de celles qui souffnrent le 
plus 6tait commandee par le Gtneral Koutouzow, (aujour- 
d'hui Prince de Smolensko.) Ce brave militaire rtunit 
I'intr^pidite 4 un grand nombre de connaissances acquises , 
11 marche au feu avec la m§me gaietu qu'il va a une fete , 
il salt commander avec autant de sang froid qu'il diploic 
d'esprit et d'amabilit6 dans le commerce habituel de la vie.'' 
— Hist, de la Nouvelle Russie, torn. iii. p. 212.] 



Canto viii. 



DON JUAN. 



701 



LXXI. 

For having thrown himself into a ditcli, 
Follow'd in liasto by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears 

But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch, 
('Montrst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted,) for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again.' 

LXXII. 

And had it not been for some stray troops landing 
They knew not where, being carried by the stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding. 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream. 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain.'^ 

LXXIII. 

And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops, 

After the taking of the " Cavalier,"^ 
Just as Koutousow's most " forlorn" of " hopes" 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd " Kilia," to the groups'* 

Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud, 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 

The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques — 
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 

So that I do not grossly err in facts. 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been used to serve on horses' baclis, 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces.^ 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd 
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,® 

And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 
The city, without being farther hamper'd ; 

But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd — 
The Turks at first pretended to have scampei'd, 

Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,'' 

From whence they sallied on those Christian scornei^ 

1 [" Ce brave Koutouzow se jeta dans le foss(i, fut suivi 
des siens, et ne pen6 .'usq'i'a i haut du parapet qu'apres 
avoir 6prouv6 des difficultts incroyables. (Le brigadier 
Ribaupierre perdit la vie dans cette occasion : il avait fix6 
restime gen6rale, et Ji niort oceasionna beaucoup de re- 
grets.) LesTurcs acco i;arent en grand nombre ; cette mul- 
titude repoussa deux foisle giinfiral jusqu'au fosse." — Hist, 
de la Nouvelle Russie, p. 212.] 

2 [" Quelques troupes Russes, emport6es par le courant, 
n'ayant pu dabarquer sur le terrein qu'on leur avait pr6- 
scrit," &.c.—Ibid. p. 213.] 

3 CA " Cavalier" is an elevation of earth, situated ordina- 
rily in the gorge o-f a bastion, bordered with a parapet, and 
cut into more or fewer embrasures, according to its capa- 
city. — 3Iilit. Did.] 

* [. . " longerent le rempart, apres la pris6 du cavalier, 
el ouvrirent la porte dite de Kilia aux soldats du G6n6ral 
Koutouzow."— Hist, de la N. R. p. 213.] 

5 [" II Ctait reserve aux Kozaks de combler de Icar corps 
la partie du foss6 ou ils combattaient ; leur colonne avait 
6te divis6e entre 51M. Platow et d'Orlow . ."—Ibid. 
p. 213.] 

8 [. . "La premiere partie, devant se joindre a la gauche 
du G6n6ral Arsenieu, fut foudroy6e par le feu des batteries, 
et parvint n6anmoins au haut du rempart."— /iid. p. 213.] 

■J [" Les Turcs la laisserent un pen s'avancer, dans la 



LXXVI. 

Then being taKen by the tail— a taking 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — these 
Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — ■ 
But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses 
O'er which Lieuienant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March'd with the bravo battalion of Polouzki : — 

LXXVII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans,' who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

Tlie walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 

Which of the armies would have cause to mourn: 

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch. 

For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 

Lxxvni. 

Another column also suffer'd much :— 

And here we may remark with the historian. 

You should but give few. cartridges to such 

Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on 

When matters must be carried by the touch 

Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on, 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence. 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.'" 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 

(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 

Was made at length with those who dared to climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 

And though the Turk's resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear." 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 

Among the foremost, off'er'd him good quarter, 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 

He died, deserving well his countiy's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd : 

villa, et firent deux sorties par les angles saillans de bas- 
tions." — Hist, de la N. R. torn. ii. p. 213.] 

8 [" Alors, se trouvant prise en queue, elle fut 6cras6e ; 
cependant le Lieutenant-colonel Yesouskoi, qui comman- 
dait la reserve compos6e d'un bataillon du ri?giment de 
Polozk, traversa le foss6 sur les cadavres des Kozaks . . ." 
—Ibid. p. 212.] 

3 [. ■ . . " et extermina tons les Turcs qu'il eut en tete : ce 
brave homme fut tue pendant Taction." — Ibid. p. 213.] 

w [" L'autre partie des Kozaks, qu'Orlow commandait, 
souffrit de la maniere la plus cruelle : elle attaqua a maintes 
reprises, fut souvent repouss6e, et perdit les deux tiers de 
son monde. Et c'estici le lieu deplacerune observation, que 
nous prenons dans les m6moires qui nous guident ; elle fait 
remarquer combien il est mal vu de donner beaucoup de car- 
touches aux soldats qui doivent emporter un poste de vive 
force, et par consequent oii la ba'ionnette doit principale.ment 
agir : ils pensent no devoir se servir de cette derniere arme, 
que lorsque les cartouches sent 6puisees : dans cette persua- 
sion, ils retardent leur marche, et restent plus long-temps 
exposes au canon et alamitraillede I'ennemi."— ftVii p. 214.] 

11 [" La jonction de la colonne de Meknop — (le g6n6ral 
6tant mal second(^ fut tu6)— s'etant efFecluee avec cUe qui 
I'avoisinait, ces colonnes attaquerent un bastion, et 6prou- 
verent un resistance opiniatre ; mais bientot des oris de 
victoire se font entendre de toutes parts, et le bastion est 
emport6 : le sferaskier defeudait cette partie."— /iid. p 214.] 



702 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto viii. 



LXXXI. 

For all tho answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ;* 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steel and lead — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions : not a single head 

Was spared ; — three thousand Moslems perish'd hsre, 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.^ 

LXXXII. 

The city's taken — only part by part — 

And Death is drunk with gore : there's not a street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart, 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.' 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying Nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 'twere by this serpent's head 

Wliose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel ; 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled, 

And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, suatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 

(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through't 
He made the teetli meet, nor relinquish'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 'tis pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed. 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd : 

Tlie regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

WJiich was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact's a fact — and 'tis the part 

Of a true poet to escape from fiction 
Whene'er he-can ; for tliere is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 
Of trutli than prose, unless to suit tho mart 

For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction. 
And that outrageous appetite for lies 
Which Satan angles with for souls, lilie flies. 



1 C . . . "un offioier de marine Anglais, veut le fairs pri- 
sonnier, et recoil un coup de pistolet qui I'etend roide mort." 
—Hist, de la N. II. p. 214.] 

2 [" Les Russes passent trois mille Turcs au fil de Vip&e ; 
seize baionnettes percent a la fols le siiaskier. "—Jbid. 
p. 214.] 

s [" La ville estemport^e ; I'image de la mort et de la 
(lostructiop se reprfesente de tous les c6t6s ; le soldatfurieux 
n'ficouie plus la vois de ses officiers, 11 ne respire que le 



LXXfviI. 

The city's taken, but not render'd ! — No ! 

There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echo'd by his own. 

LXXXVIII. 

The bayonet pierces and tho sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are kyish'd everywhere. 

As the year closing whirls tho scark-t let;' cs 
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, • 

Shoni of its best and loveliest, and left bare • 

But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters 

LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 'tis not 

My cue for any tiine to be terrific ; 
For checker'd as is seen our human lot • 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike pro]-lic 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in tho midst of crimes 
Is " quite refreshing," in tho affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times. 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways. 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 

Of murder'd women, who had found their way 
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 

And shudder ; — while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amidst the bodies luU'd in bloody rest.* 

XCII. 

Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child 

With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with 
them, 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild ; 

And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 

Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects tj destroy ? 



carnage ; alti^r6 de sang, tout est indifferent pom lui '*— 
Hist, de la N. R.. p. 214.] 

4 [" Je sauvai la vie k une fiUe de dix ans, dont rim.ocence 
et la candeur formaient un contraste bien frappant avcc la 
rage de tout ce qui m'environnait. En arrivaiit sur le bas 
tion oil commenca le carnage, j'appercus un groupe de qua 
tre femmes ^gorg^es, entre lesquelles cat enfant, d'une fig 
ure charmante, cherchaiL un asile centre la fureur de deux 
Kozaks qui 6taient sur le point de .a ma.jsacrer." — Due us 
Richelieu. See Hist, de la Nouv. Russ. torn lii p 217 ] 



Canto vm. 



DON JUAN. 



703 



xcm. 

Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 

Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright, 

Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, 

I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solace " ears polite ;'" 

But what he did, was to lay on their backs, 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques. 

XCIV. 

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek, 

If there might be chirurgcons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited," and shriek 

Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 

Don Juan raised his little captive from 

The heap a moment more had made her tomb 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 

For the same blow which laid her mother here 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace. 
As the last link with all she had held dear f 

But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
Upon each other, with dilated glance, 

In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd 
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 

T^nto his protegee ; while hers, transfix'd 
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 

A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 

Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — • 

XCVI I. 

Up came John Johnson, (I will not say " Jack," 
For that were vidgar, cold, and common-place 

On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case :) 

Up Johnson came, with hiuidreds at his back, 
Excla'ming: — "Juan! Juan! On, boy ! brace 

Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar. 

That you and I will win St. George's collar.* 

XCVIII. 

" The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 

Of our artillery and his own : 'tis said 
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me !" — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve. 



1 [" But never menlion b ;11 to ears polite."— Pope J 

» [" Ce spectacle m'atti -a bientot, -et je n'h(5sit.-ii pas, 
oomme on pent le croire, a prendre entre mes bras cette in- 
fortunfee, que les barbares voulaient y poursuivre encore. 
J'eus Dien ue la peine a me retenir et a ne pas percer ces mi- 
terablcs du sabre que je tenais suspendu sur leur tete :— je 
me contentai cependant de les Eloigner, non sans leur pro- 
diguer les (joups et les injures qu'ils m6ritaient. . . " — 
RicnzLiEU ] 



And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 

A glance around — and shrugg'd — and twitch'd hia 
sleeve 
And black silk neckcloth — and replied, " You're right ; 
Poor thing ! whut's to be done ? I'm puzzled quite." 

C. 

Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be 

Done, I'll not q-jit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Quoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite ensure ; 

But at the least you may die gloriously." — 
Juan replied — " At least I will endure 

Whate'er is to be borne — but not resign 

This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine." 

CL 

Johnson said — " Juan, we've no time to lose ; 

The child's a pretty child — a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity ; — 
Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ; — 
I should be loth to march without you, but, 
By God ! we'll be too late for the first cut." 

CII. 

But Juan was immoveable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey ; 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 

That they should all be shot on the next day ; 

But if she were deliver'd safe and' sound, 

They should at least have fifty rubles round, 

CIIL 

And all allowances besides of plunder 

In fair proportion with their comrades ; — then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
AVliich thinn'd at every step their ranks of men: 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder. 
For they were heated with the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens everywhere each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 

CIV. 

And such is victory, and such is man ! 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — God 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan — 

Or " sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

CV. 

But flank'd by five brave sons, (such is polygamy. 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy,) 
He never would believe the city won 

While courage clung but to a single twig. — Am I 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither — but a good, plain, old, temperate man. 

Who fought with his five children in the van.' 



3 [" . . . J'eus le plaisir d'appercevoir que ma petite pri- 
sonniere n'avait d'autre mal qu'un'e coupure 16gtie que lui 
avait faite au visage le meme fer qui avail perc6 sa mere." — 
Richelieu.] 

* A Russian military order. 

6 [" Le sultan prrit dans Taction en brave homme, digne 
d'un meilleur destin ; ce f'.-t lui qui rallia les Turcs lorsque 
Tennemi ntnitra dans le Mace : ce sultan, d'une valeui 
^prouviif , surpassait en g6h6rasit6 les plus civilises de sa 



704 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto vin. 



CVI. 

To inlxe him was the pohit. — The truly brave, 
When they behold the brave opprcss'd with odds, 

Are toiich'd with a desire to shield and save ; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave, 
Nov/ moved with pity: even as sometimes noda 

The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 

•Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVII. 

But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.' 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender, 
As being a virtue, liKe terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear oat on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their Eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
So much less fight as might form an apology 

For them in saving such a desperate foe — 
Ho hew'd away, like doctors of theology 

When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 

Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 
Juan and Johnson ; whereupon they fell. 

The first with sighs, the second with an oath. 
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 

And all around were grown cxceedingwToth 
At such a pertinacious infidel. 

And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 

Which thejr resisted like a sandy plain 

ex. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd — 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth, most cherish'd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 

Tlie fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 

Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom. 

To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scorncr of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr. 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green. 
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and when once seen, 
Those houvis, like all other pretty creatures, 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young khan 
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 



nation: cin^de ses fils combattaient a ses c6t6s, il les en- 
courageait par son exemple."— /fiii de la N. R. torn. iii. 
p. 215.] 

1 [" At Ber.icr, after the fatal battle of Pultowa, Charles 
gave- a proof or that unreasonable obstinacy, which occa- 
sioned all his misfortunes in Turkey. When advised to wTite 
to the grand vizier, according to the custom of the Turks, 
he said it was beneath his dignity. The same obstinacy 



And that's the cause no doubt why, if we scan 

A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body. 
You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody. 

CXIII. 

Your houris also have a natural pleasure 
In lopping off your lately married men. 

Before the bridal hours have danced their measure 
And the sad, second moon grows dim again, 

Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 
To wish him back a bachelor now and then. 

And thus your hotiri (it may be) disputes 

Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight. 

Thought not upon the charms of four young brides, 

Btit bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our C stter faith derides, 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though there were one heaven and none be- 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven [sides, — 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

CXV. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes. 
That when the very lance was in his heart, 

He shouted " Allah !" and saw Paradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart: — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 

In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died : 

CXVI. 

But with a heavenly rapture on his face. 

The good old khan, who long had ceased to see 

Houris, or aught except his florid race 

W^ho grew like cedars round him gloriously — 

When ho beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree. 

Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 

A glance on that slain son, his first and last 

CXVII. 

The soldiei-s, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

Quarter, in case he bade them not '•' aroynt !" 
As he before had done. He did not heed 

Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint, 
And shook (till now imshaken) like a reed. 

As he look'd down upon his children gone. 

And felt — though done with life — he was alone." 

CXVIII. 

But 'twas a transient tremor : — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast lie flung. 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 

Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might WTing, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his yoiuig ; 

And throwing back a dim look on his sons, 

In one wide womid pour'd forth his soul at once. 



placed him necessarily at variance with all the ministers 
of the Porte." — Voltaire.] 

2 [" Ces cmq fils furent tous tu6s sous ces yeux : il ne 
cessa point de se battre, repondit pardes coups de sabre aux 
propositions de se rendre, et ne fut atteint du coup mortei 
qu'apres avoir abattu de sa main beaucoup de Kozaks des 
plus acharn6s & sa prise ; le reste de sa troupe fut massa- 
CI&."— Hist, de la N. R. p. 215 ] 



Canto viii. 



DON JUAN. 



705 



CXIX. 

'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 

Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through, 
And lay before them with his children near, 

Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 
Were melted for a moment : though no tear 

Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife, 

They honor'd such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post : 

Some twenty times he made the Russ retire. 
And baffled the assaults of all their host 

At length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 

And being told the latter, sent a bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way.' 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid. 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet lookhig 

With martial stoicism, naught seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosophy ; but gently stroking 

His beard, he pufF'd his pipe's ambrosial gales. 

As if he had throe lives, as well as tails.^ 

CXXII. 

The town was taken — whether he might jaeld 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now : 

His stubborn valor was no future shield. 

Ismail's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses 

All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses ; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses ; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell — mere mortals who their power abuse — 
Was here (ae heretofore and since) let loose.^ 



1 [" Quoique les Rus?3.5 fussent r^pandus dans la "ville, le 
bastion de pierre resistaj. encore ; il etait dtifendu par un 
vieillard, pacha a trois queues, et commandant les forces r6- 
unies a Ismael On lui proposa une capitulation ; il de- 
manda si le reste de la ville (itait conquis ; sur cette r6- 
ponse, il autorisa quelques-uns de ces officiers a capituler 
avec M. de Ribas. '—Hist, de la N. R. p. 215.] 

- [" Pendant ce colleque, il resta 6tendu sur des tapis places 
sur les ruines de la forteresse, fumant sapipe avec lameme 
tranquillity et la m6me indiff(ire.:.;3 que s"ii eut 6t6 etranger 
a tout ce qui se passait." — Ibid. p. 215.] 

3 [No man could describe the horrors which ensued. The 
ferocious victors, instead of being struck with admiration or 
respect by the noble defence of the brave garrison, were so 
enraged at the great slaughter of their fellows which had 
taken place, that no bounds could be prescribed to the excess 
of their fury. All order and command seem to have been 
entirely at an end during the horrors of that terrible night : 
the officers could neither restrain the slaughter, nor prevent 
tne general plunder, made by the lawless and ferocious sol- 
t'ers. Thousands of the Tarks, incapable of enduring the 
sight of the horrid scenes of destruction in which all that was 
dear to them was involved, rushed desperately upon the 
taycnets of the enemy, in order to shorten their misery ; 



CXXIV. ^, 
If here and there some transient traTcof pity 

Was shown, andsomemoro noble heart broke through 
Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty 

Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 
What's this in one annihilated city. 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew? 
Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris 1 
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 

Or if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be your own ui aftei imes. 

Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own he'arts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 

CXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 
A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! * 
Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, ' 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne — 
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty 
stone. 

CXXVII. 
But let me put an end unto my theme : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! ■ : 
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream, 

And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 

Rose still ; btit fainter were the thunders grown: 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall. 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent all !* 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing ne'ertheless 'tis fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashion nbw-a-days. 
And therefore worthy of commemoration : 

The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase — 

Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 

Li winter's depth, or want of rest and victual. 

Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very little. 



while those who could reach the Danube threw themselves 
headlong into it for the same purpose. The streets and pass- 
ages were so choked by the heaps of dead and dying bodies 
which lay in them, as considerably to impede the progress of 
the victors in their eager search for plunder. — Dr. Lau- 
rence, in Ann. Reg. for 1791.] 

4 [" On 6gorgea indistinctement, on saccagea la place ; et 
la rage du vainqueur se rfepandit comme un torrent furieux 
qui a renverse les digues qui le retenaient : persoiuie obtint 
de grace, et trente huit mille huit cent soisanle Turcs p6rirent 
dans cette journee de sang." — Hist, de la JVouv. Russie, torn. 
iii. p. 214. 

" Among those who fell were a number of the bravest, 
most experienced, and renovraed commanders in the Turkish 
armies. Six or seven Tartar princes, of the illustrious line 
of Gherai, likewise perished with the rest. A few hundreds 
of prisoners were preserved, to serve as melancholy record- 
ers and witnesses of the destruction which they had beheld. 
In consequence of an accurate inquiry set on foot by an Ot- 
toman commander of rank, it appears that the whole num- 
ber of Turks, who perished in the slaughter of Ismail, 
amounted to thirty-eight thousand eight hundred and six- 
teen." — Db. Laurence.] 



89 



706 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto viii. 



CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more phinder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line ; — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

But all the ladies, save some twenty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things from 

Occur, though rarely, when tiiere is a spark [haste 
Of light to save the venerably chaste : 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 

Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. 

CXXXI. 

But on the wholfKtV^ir continence was great ; 

So that some tfis^ppointment there ensued 
To those Vv^ho had felt the inconvenient state 

Of " single blessedness," and thought it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 

Were also heard to wonder in the din 
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 

" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin !" 
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 

There was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 
In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXXIII. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror — a match 

For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. [thatch 

While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like 
Blazed, and the cannon's roaT was scarce allay'd, 

With bloody hands he wrote his first dispatch ; 
And here exactly' follows what he said: — 

" Glory to God and to the Empress !"' {Powers 

Eternal ! such names mingled .') " Ismail's ours."' 

CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words. 
Since " Menfe, Menfe, Tekel," and " Upharsin," 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ so witty 

Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.^ 



1 In the original Russian — 

" Slava bogu ! slava vam ! 
Krepost Vzala y ia tam ;" 
a kind of couplet ; for he was a poet. 

s [Mr. Tweddell, who met with Suwarrow m the Ukraine, 
says — " He is a most extra'^'-dinary character. He dines 
every morning about nine. He sleeps almost naked; he 
affects a perfect indifference to heat ard cold ; and quits his 
chamber, which approa'-lies to suffocation, in order to review 
his troops, in a thm linen jacket, while the thermometer of 
Reaumur is at ten degrees below freezing. His manners 
correspond with his auniors. I dined with him this morn- 
ing. He cried to rr.e ain-oss the table,—' Tweddell :' (he 
generally addressed me by my surname, without addition,) 
• tne French have taken Portsmouth — i have just received a 



cxxxv. 

Ho wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it — 
For I will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones ; — • 

But ye — our children's children ! think how we 

Show'd ivhat things loere before the world was free ! 

CXXXVI. 

Tliat hour is not for us, but 'tis for you : 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 

You hardly will believe such things were true 

As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em ; 

But may their very inemorj' perish too ! — 

Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you *em 

More than you scorn the savages of yore. 

Who painted their hare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXVII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thrones. 
And those that sate upon them, let it be 

As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones. 

And W9ndcr what old world such things could see, 

Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stonti 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 

Guessing at what shall happily be hid. 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXVIII. 

Reader ! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first Canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow. 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 

Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing. 

But Flioebus lends mo now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What farther hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, • 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent oft" with the dispatch. 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.' 

CXL. 

This special honor was conferr'd, because 

Ho had behaved with courage and humanity — 

Which last men like, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

Ilis little captive gain'd him some fipplauso 
For saving her amidst the wild insanity 

Of carnage, — and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 



courier from England. The King is in the Tower ; and 
Sheridan, Protector.' A great deal ol his whimsiral man- 
ner is affected : he finds that it suits hia troops, and the peo- 
ple he has to deal with. I asked him, !l, after the m.assacre 
at Ismail, he was perfectly satisfied v.itii the conduct of the 
day. He said he went home and wcjit in his tent." — Re- 
mains, p. 135.] 

3 [" The ostentatious and fantastic display of the bloodv 
trophies taken at Ismail, which were some time after exhib- 
ited at Petersburgh, was unworthy the /ri'catness, the mag- 
nanimity, and the high character of the JCnipress Catherine. 
The tragedy should have closed at the conclusion of the last 
acton the spot. It was attributed more to a desire of grat- 
ifying the excessive vanity of Prince Prtcmidn. which w;i,s 
not easily satiated, than that of the empress lieitelf " — I)K 
Laurence ] 



Canto ix. 



DON JUAN. 



707 



CXLI. 

The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless ; all 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall: 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's call' 

To prayer was heard no more I — and Juan wept, 

And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.^ 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE NINTH. 



Oh, Wellington ! (or " Villainton"* — for Fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your great name 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 

You have obtaiu'd great pensions and much praise 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay. 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !"^ 

II. 

I don't think that yon used Kinnaird quite well 
In IMarinet's affair" — in fact, 'twas shabby, 

And like some other things won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell, 

Such talcs being for the tea-hours of some tabby ; 

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 

1 [See ante, p. 32.] 

2 [Cantos VI., VII., and VIII., if we except some parts of 
the assault of Ismail, contain a considerably less proportion 
of the higher elass of poetry, than was to be found in those 
which preceded them. But in the keen and pervading satire, 
the bitter and biting irony, which constitute the peculiar forte 
of Lord Byron, we perceive no falling off in these present 
cantos. Nor are they deficient in that vein of playful hu- 
mor, and that felicitous transition " from grave to gay, from 
lively to severe," so conspicuous in their predecessors. 
The execution, on the whole, we think quite equal to that 
displayed in the earlier parts of the poem. — Campbell.] 

3 [Cantos IX., X., and XI., were written at Pisa, and pub- 
lished in London, by Mr. John Hunt, in Aifeust, 1823. 
We extract the following specimer of contemporary criti- 
cism : — 

" That there is a great deal of what is objectionable in these 
three cantos who can deny 1 What can be u: ?re so than to 
attack the King, with low, vile, personal r„-ffooneries — 
bottomed in utter falsehood, and expressed in crawling 
malice ? What can be more exquisitely worthy of contempt 
than the savage imbecility of these eternal tirades against the 
Duke of Wellington ? What more pitiable than the state of 
mind that can (hid any gratification in calling such a man as 
Southey by nicknames that one would be ashamed of apply- 
ing to a coal-heaver ? What can be so abject as this eternal 
trampling upon the dust of Castlereagh ? Lord Bjron ought 
to know that all men, of all parties, unite in regarding all 
these things, but especially the first and the last, as insults 
to themselves, and as most miserable degradations of him. 

" But stiU Don Juan is, without exception^ the first of 
Lord Byron's works. It is by far the most original in point 
of conception. It is decidedly original in point of totte. It 
contains the finest specimens of serious poetry he has ever 
written ; and it contains the finest specimens of ludicrous 
poetry i hat our age has witnessed. Frere may have wnttesn the 
stanza eariier ne may have written it more carefullv, more 
musically, if y>-u will : but what is he to Byron ? Where is 
the sv.-eep, the pith, tlie soaring pinion, the lavish luxury of 
geiuus revelling in strength. No : no : Don Juan, say the 



III # 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 

You have repair'd Legitimacy's crutch, 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; 

And Waterloo has made the Vi^orld your debtoi, 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better.) 

IV. 

You are " tlie best of cut-throats C" — do not start ; 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied : — 
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art. 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part, 

The world, not the world's masters, will decide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
Save you and yours, have ^aiu'd by Waterloo? 

V. 

I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flattery : 
They say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder. 

He whoso whole life has been assault atrd battery, 
At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 

And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
May like being praised for every lucky blunder, 

Call'd " Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved. 

And " Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved.* 

VL 

I've done. Now go and dine from off" the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your gate 
A slice or two from your lu.Yurious meals •? 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels : — 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration. 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

canting world what it will, is destined to hold a permanent 
rank in the literature of our country. It will always be re- 
ferred to as furnishing the most powerful picture of that 
vein of thought (no matter how fnlse and bad) which distin- 
guishes a great portion of the thinking people of our time." 
—Blackwood.] 

* [" Faut qu' lord Villainton ait tout pris, 

N'y a plus d'argent dans c'gueux de Paris." — 

De Berangek.] 

5 Query, Ney 1 — Printer's Devil. 

s [The late Lord Kinnaird was received in Paris, in 1814, 
with great civility by the Duke of Wellington and the royal 
family of France', biit he had himself presented to Bona- 
parte during the hundred days, and intrigued on with those 
of that faction, in spite of the Duke's remonstrances, until 
the restored government ordered him out of the French ter- 
ritory in 1S16. In 1817, he became acquainted at Brussels 
with one Marinet, an adventurer mixed up in a conspiracy 
to assassinate the Duke in the streets of Paris. This fellow 
at first promised to discover the man who actually shot at his 
Grace, but, on reaching Paris, shufl^ed and would say noth- 
ing ; and Lord Kinnaird's avowed cause of complaint against 
the Duke was, that he did not protect this creature from the 
French police, who, not doubting that he had been one of 
the conspirators against his Grace's life, arrested him ac 
cordingly. He was tried along with the actual assassin, 
and both were acquitted by the Parisian jury.] 

'' [" Thou art the best o' the cut-throats."— Macbeth, act 
iii- sc. iii.] 

e Vide speeches in Parhament, after the battle of Wate: Joo. 

" " I at this time got a post, being for fatigue, with four 
others. We were sent to break biscuit, and make a mess 
for Lord Welliiifjion's hounds. I was very hungry, and 
thought it a good job at the time, as we got our own fiU. 
while we broke the biscuit, — a thing I had not gcu I: r some 
days. When thus engaged, the Prodigal Son was never 
once out of my mind ; and I sighed, as I fed the dogs, over 
my humble situation and my ruined hopes. "—JournaZ o/aiS'o'- 
dier of the Tlst Regiment during the War in Spain. 



708 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ix. 



VII 

I do I't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection : 

Tlie high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With modeni history has but small connection 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 

You need not take them under your direction ; 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I'm sure I mean no harm. 

VIII. 

Great men have alw^ays scorn'd great recompenses : 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 

Not lecving even his funeral expenses :^ 

George Washington had thanks and naught beside, 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 

And as a high-soul'd minister of state is 

Reiiowu'd for ruining Great Britain gratis." 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity. 

Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity 

Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore : 
And now — what is your fame ? Shall the Muse tune 
it ye? 

Noiv — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er 1 
Go ! hear it in your famish'd country's cries ! 
Behold the world I and curse your victories I 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats. 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 

Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
But which 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts. 
Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 

You did great things ; but not being great in mind, 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XI. 

Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 

With which men image out the unknown thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 

Whi&h still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring — 

Death laughs at all you weep for : — look upon 
This hourly dread of all ! whose threatened sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath : 

Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath ! 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles ; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle, (far more dear 
Than even the tailor's,) his incarnate skin. 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 



i [" In other illustrious men you will observe that each 
possessed some one shining quality, which was the founda- 
tion of liis fame : in Epammondas, all the virtues are found 
imited ; force of body, eloquence of expression, vigor of 
mind, contempt of riches."— Diod. Sic. hb. xv.] 

2 [Those persons who represent our statesmen as living 
and fattening upon the public spoil, must either be grossly 
ignorant, or wicked enough to employ arg\nnents which they 
know to be false. The emoluments of office, almost in ev- 
ery department of the state, and especialiy in all the high- 
est, are notoriously inadequate to the expenditure which 
the situation requires Mr. Pitt, who was no gambler, no 



XIII. 

And thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
But still it is so : and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothings whicli are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like hours T 

XIV. 

" To be, or not to be ? that is the question," 

Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fasliion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephajstion, 

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion 
Than Bonaparte's cancer: — could I dasn on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what were a good name ? 

XV. 

" Oh dura ilia messorum !'" — " Oh 

Ye rigid guts of reapers .*" I translate 
For the great benefit of those who know 

What indigestion is — that inward fate 
Which makes all Styx through one small ,^ver flow. 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 
Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, 
He who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XVI. 

" To be, or not to be ?" — Ere I decide, 

I should be glad to know that which is being. 

'Tis true we speculate both far and wide. 

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing : 

For my part, I'll enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death. 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

XVIL 

" Que scais-je ?"* was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians : 
That all is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favorite positions. 
There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 

As any of Mortality's conditions ; 
So little do we know what we're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be douliting. 

xvin. 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
Like Pyrrho,^ on a sea of speculation ; 

But what if carrying sail capsize the boat? 

Your wise men don't know much of navigation ; 

And swimming long in the abyss of thought 

Is apt to tire : a calm and shallow station [gathers 

Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and 

Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 



prodigal, and too much a man of business to have expensive 
habits of any kind, died in debt ; and the nation discharged 
his debts, not less as a mark of respect, than as an act of 

justice. — Sou THEY.] 

3 [" O, dura messorum ilia !" &c. — Hor.] 

4 [See Biographic TJniverselle, torn. xix. p. 434.] 

6 [Pyrrho, the philosopher of Elis, was in continual sus 
ponse of judgment : he doubted of every thing ; never ma/le 
any conclusion ; and when he had carefully exammed a 
subject, and investigated all its points, he concluded by gtiil 
doubting of its evidence.— Aui, Gel ] 



Canto ix 



DON JUAN. 



709 



XIX. 

" Bui neaven," as Cassio says, " is above all — ' 
No more of this, then, — let us pray I" We have 

Souls t3 save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 
Is special providence,"^ though how it gave 

Offence, we know not ; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh ! ye immortal Gods ! what is theogony ? 

Oh ! thou, too, mortal man ! what is philanthropy? 
Oh ! world, which was and is, what is cosmogony ? 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
And yet I know no more than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean ; lykan- 
I comprehend, for without transformation [thropy^ 
Men becoma wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
Ijike Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — 

And (though I could not now and then forbear 

Following the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — and here we'll pause. 

XXII. 

'Tis time wo should proceed with our good poem, — 

For I maintain that it is really good, 
Not only in the body but the proem, 

However littl* both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the Truth will show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours — ) 
Was left upon his way to the chief city 

Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors. 

Who still have showii themselves more brave than 
witty. 

I know its mighty empire now allure5 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's a pity. 

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 

Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words, (and — should 
My chance so happen — deeds,) with all who war 

With Thought ; — and of Thought's foes by far most 
rude, 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer ; if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXV. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 

Without 7n,¥, there are demagogues enough, 

And infidels, to pull down every steeple. 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff 



» See Othello 



[ " We defy augury : there s a special 

Providence in the fall of a sparrow."— /fam/e^.] 



Wliether they may sow skepticism to reap hell, 

As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 
I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 
As much from mobs as kings — from you as me 

XXVI. 

Tlie consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall ofl'end all parties : — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has naught to gain can have small art: ho 
Who neither wishes to be bound or bind. 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry. 

XXVII. 

That 's an appropriate simile, that jackal; — 
I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl* 

By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 

And scent the prey iheir masters would attack ali. 
However, the poor jackals are less foul 

(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 

Thau human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 'twill brush their web away, 
And without that, their poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 

The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make comm(5n cause : 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, 
Was left upon his way with the dispatch, 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water ; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 

Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the match 

Between these nations as a main of cocks. 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a kihitka he roll'd on, 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs. 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, aad on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt — and they were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no paver, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land. 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

3 ["A kind of madness, in which men have the qualities 
of wild beasts." — Todd.] 

* In Greece I never saw or heard these animals ; but 
among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. 
[See ante, p. 141.] 



710 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ik 



XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of wliat we used to cull 

<■' Gentlemen farmers" — a race worn ont quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all. 

And " gentlemen" are in a piteous plight. 

And " farmere" can't raise Ceres from her fall : 

She fell with Bonaparte — What strange thoughts 

Arise, vrhen wo see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

Bui Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 

Whom he had saved from slaughter — what a trophy ! 

Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy. 

Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 

To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner ! 

Because he could no more digest his dinner ;' — 

XXXIV. 

Oh ye ! or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect. 
That one life saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung •? 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus, Fdme is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh ! ye great authors luminous, volummous . 

Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!. 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine us ! 

Whether you're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 

Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's kibes," 
With clownish heel," your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation ; — 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors ! — " Apropos des bottes," — 
I have forgotten what I meant to say. 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots ; — 
'Twas something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 

Certes it would have been but thrown away, 

And that's one comfort for my lost advice, 

Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go : — it will one day be found 
With other relics of " a former world," 

When this world shall be former, xmderground, 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'c. 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or drown'd. 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of, and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic," ancient strain 

Of thmgs destroy'd and left in airy doubt ; 

1 He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had been 
exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree of insanity. 

8 [" One virtuous, or a mere good-natuved deed. 

Does all desert in sciences exceed." — Sheffield.] 

3 ["The age is grown so picked, that the toe of the 
peasant o.nes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his 
kiae."' — Hamlet.} 



Like to the notions we now entertain 
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should bo dug up 
How the new worldlings of the then- new East 

Will wonder where such animals could sup ! 
(For they themselves will bo but of the least : 

Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 
And every new creation hath decreased 

In size, from overworking the material — 

Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) 

XL. 

HoiD will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough, 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about, 
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about. 
Especially of war and taxing — how, 

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'cm, 

Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 

XLL 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint,'''' — and so am I ; 

I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical, 
And deviate into matters rather dry. 

I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 
Much too poetical : men should know why 

They write, and for what end ; but, note or text, 

I never know the word which will come next. 

XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and then nanating, 

Now pondering : — it is time wo should narrate. 

I left Don Juan, with his horses baiting — 

Now we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room. 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme,' 

Of yellow casimere we may presume, 
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk' 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set oiT the siUc ; 

XLIV. 

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor — 

That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns paler. 

Seeing how Art can make her work more grand, 
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailer,) — 

Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 

Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery. 



i [" The time is out of joint : — O cursed spite ! 

That ever I was born to set it tight."— Hamlet.] 

6 [A yellow-colored crj'stal, denominated from a hill in 
Inverness-shire, where it is found. This has been general 
ly called the Scottish topaz ; but it now gives place to smo- 
ther crystal of a far harder quality, found near InvercauJd 
— Jamieson.] 



Canto ix. 



DON JUAN. 



711 



XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulettes j his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever ; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like, that Psycho were more clever 
Than some wives, (who make blunders no less stupid,) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 

The empress smiled ; the reigning favorite frown' d — 

I quite forget which of them was in hand 

Just then ; as they are rather numerous found, 

Who took by turns that difhcult command. 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd : 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLVII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim. 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb. 

And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express, 

That though he look'd like one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi.* 

XLVHI. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or MomonofF, 

Or Scherbatoir, or any other off 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room 
enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough, 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that " high official situation." 

XLIX. 

O, gentle ladies ! should you seek to know 

The import of this diplomatic phrase. 
Bid Ireland's Londoncerry's Marquess^ show 

His parts of speech ; and in the strange displays 
Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 

Which none divine, and every one obeyo. 
Perhaps you may pick out some queer no meaning, 
Of that weak wordy harves; the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think I can explain myself without 

That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 
That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doub^ 

Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 
That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 

Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 
And here I must an anecdote relate. 
But luckily of no great length or weight. 



1 He was the grande passion of tlie grand Catherine. See 
hsr Lives under the head of " Lanskoi." — [" Lanskoi was a 
youth of as fine and interesting a figure as the imagination 
can paint. Of all Catherine's favorites, he was the man 
whom she loved the most. His education having been neg- 
lected, she took the care of his improvement upon herself. 
In 1784, he was attf.cked with a fever, and perished in the 
flower of his age, a. the arms of her majesty. When he was 
no more, Caihenne gave herself up to the most poignant 
grief, and remamed three months without going out of her 



LI. 

An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 

What were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Called " Cavalier servente?'" a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 'tis) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them, 

Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." 

LII 

And thus I supplicate your supposition. 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation, 

Of the imperial favorite's condition. 

'Twas a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station. 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders, 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LIIL 

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy. 
And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons which destroy. 

With beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond 

Parisian aspect, which upset old Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 

The history of divorces, which, though checker'd, 

Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIV. 

And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord,, 
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much. 

Admiring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. . 

LV. 

Oh thou " teterrima causa" of all " belli" — * 
Thou gate of life and death — thou nondescript ! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd 

In thy perennial fountain ; — how man fell, I 

Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
stripp'd 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LVI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for after all 

From thee we come, to thee we go, and why 
To get at thee not batter down a wall. 

Or waste a world? since no one can deny 

Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or would be, thou sea of life's diy land ! 



palace of Tzarsko-selo. She afterwards raised a superb 
monument to his memory, in the gardens of that imperial 
seat. Lanskoi's fortune was estimated atthree million rubles 
He bequeathed it to the empress, who returned it to the 
sisters of that favorite, reserving only to herself the right 
cf purchasing the pictures, medals, and library."— Tooke.] 
I This was written long before the suicide o''tnat persco 

3 [See ante, p. 158.] 

4 Hor. Sat. lib. i. sat. iii. 



712 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto ix. 



LVII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 

You please, (it causes all the things which be. 
So you may take your choice of this or that,) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With his dispatch, forgot to break the seal.^ 

LVIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 

Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious, 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.^ 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys : the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst. 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain : 

In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands ! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.' 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete, 
And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth : 

Tlie whole court look'd immediately most sweet. 
Like flowers well water'd after a long drouth • — 

But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 

A.most as much as on a new dispatch. 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
When wroth — while pleased, she was as fine a figure 

As those who like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 
Would wish to look on, while thev are in vigor. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with rigor 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 



1 [The union of debauchery and ferocity which character- 
ized Catherine, are admirably depicted in her manner of 
feeding her ambition with the perusal of the dispatch, and 
gratifying her rising passion with the contemplation of Juan ; 
who,, in spite of the jealousy and murmurings of rival ex- 
pectants and candidates, is fairly installed into the " high 
official situation" of Catherine's favorite.— Campbell.] 

2 t" Catherine had been handsome in her youth, and she 
preserved a gracefulness and majesty to the last period of 
her life. She was of a moderate stature, but well propor- 
doned ; and as she carried her head very high, she appeared 
rather tall. She had an open front, an aquiline nose; an 
agreeable mouth, and her cliin, though long, was not mis- 
shapen. Her hair wai auburn, her eyebrows black and rather 
thick, and her blue eyes had a gentleness which was often 
effected, b it oftener still a mixture of pride. Her physiog- 
nomy was aot deficient in expression ; but this expression 



LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient, 
Was not so necessarj' ; for they tell [lenient, 

That she was handsome, and though fierce look'd 
And always used her favorites too well. 

If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, 
Your " fortune" was in a fair way " to swell 

A man," (as Giles says ;■*) for though she would widow 

Nations, she liked man as an individual. [all 

LXIV. 

'What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
fc woman ! What a whirlwind is her head. 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her I Whether wed. 

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind : whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do ; — 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 

LXV. 

Oh Catherine ! (for of all interjections. 

To thee both oh .' and ah .' belong of right 

In love and war,) how odd are the connections 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight ! 

Just now yours were cut out in diff'erent sections: 
First Ismael's capture caught your fancy quite ; 

Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch : 

And thirdly he who brought you the dispatch ! 

LXVI. 

Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;"^ 

And some such visions cross'd Iter majesty. 
While her young herald knelt before her still. 

'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high. 

For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill [blessings 

Smooth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's 

With youth aad health all kisses are " lieaven-kissing." 

LXVII. 

Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up — 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 

His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 

Which makes one drunk at once, without the base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

LXVIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love. 
Fell into that no less imperious passion. 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 

Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove"* 
('Tis Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a rash 

For one especial person out of many, [one, 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

never discovered what was passing in the soul of Catherine, 
or rather it served her the better to disguise it." — Tooke.] 

3 [" Suwarrow is as singular for the brevity of his style as 
for the rapidity of his conquests. On the taking Tourtour 
kaya, in Bulgaria, he actually wrote no more to the em- 
press than two lines of Russ poetry : — 

' Slawo Bogon, Slawo bowam, 
Glory to God, glory to you, 
Tourtourkaya aviala, ia tam, 
Tourtourkaya is taken, here am I.' " — Tooke ] 

4 " His fortune swells him, it is rank, he's married." — 
Sir Giles Overreach; Massing ek's New Wai/ to pay Old 
Debts. 

6 [Hamlet, act. iii. so. iv.] 

6 [" Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove ; 
No ! make me mistress to the man I love." 

I'OPB : Eknsa ] 



Canto ix. 



DON JUAN. 



713 



LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that dehghted age 

Whicli makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lion's don, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt s.ea, or Thetis 

LXX. 

And Catherine, (we must say thus much for Catherme,) 
Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 

Whoso temporary passion was quite flattering, 
Because each lover look'd a sort of king. 

Made up upon an amatory pattern, 

A royal husband in all save the ring — 

Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 

Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

Ana when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes' or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

Napoleon's, Mary's,'-* (queen of Scotland,) should 
Lend to that color a transcendent ray ; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue. 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue) — 

LXXII 

Hor sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension. 

Her preference of a boy to men much bigger, 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension,) 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor. 

With other extras, which we need not mention, — 

All these, or any of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for love is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end, 
Exc<?pt where 'tis a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend : 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 

Of God, the love of se"Jtiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with dove, 
That good old steamboat which keeps verses moving 

'Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 
With rhyme, but alwaj's leant less to improving 

The sound than sense) — besides all these pretences 

To love, there are those things which words name 
senses ; 



1 [" Several persons who lived at the court affirm that 
Catherine had very blue eyes, and not gray, as M. Rul- 
hieres has sta'ed." — Tooke.] 

a [See ante, y. 671.] 
'3 ;:" Lnst, through certain strainers well refined, 

Is gentle love, and charms all womankind." — Pope.] 

« A Russian estate is always valued by the number of the 
slaires upon it. 

s [" Peter tho Third died in July, 1762, just one week after 
his deposition. The real manner in which he came by his 
death is one of those events over which, it is probable, there 
will be forever a veil impenetrable to human eyes, and known 



90 



LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 
Which make all bodies anxious to get out ' 

Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess. 
For such all women are at first no doubt. 

How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 
That fever which precedes the languid rout 

Of our sensations ! What a curious way 

The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay ! 

LXXVI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

^s that which may bo christen'd love canonical. 
Because tho clergy take tho thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle 
As flourishing in every Christian land, 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyze — our story must 
Tell for itself : the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flattor'd by her love, or lust ; — ' 
I cannot stop to alter words once written, 

And tho two are so mix'd with human ^ust. 

That he who names one,\>oi\\ perchance may hit on 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er ; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, Who was this very new young man. 

Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon, (though life is but a span.) 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can. 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribands, and some thousand peasants. 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far. 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war. 
And was not the best wife,' unless we call 

Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better 

That one should die, than two drag on the fetter) — 

only to that Being to whom the heart is open, and from whom 
no secrets are conccKled. The partisans that might have 
retained their attachment tn him after his fall ; the murmurs 
of the populace, who quietly permit revolutions to be effected, 
and afterwards lament those who have fallen their victims ; 
the difficulties arising from keeping in custody a prisoner of 
such consequence ; all these motives in conjunction tend to 
give credit to the opinion, that some hand of uncontrollable 
authority shortened his days. But the conduct of Catherine 
before that event, and especially for four and thirty years 
that she afterwards reigned, is of itself alone a sufficient 
refutation of so atrocious a calumny as would fix the guilt 
of it on her."— TooKE.] 



714 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto s. 



LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 

Wliose Evarice all disbursements did importune, 

If history, the grand liar, ever saith [shorten, 

The truth ; and though grief her old age might 
Because she put a favorite to death. 

Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, 

And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratulations. 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

It is to speculate on handsome faces. 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow. 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Tliough modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Nature had written " gentleman." He said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office : all the world look'd kind, 
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare. 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind,) 
As also did Miss Protasoff then there. 

Named from her mystic office " I'Eprouveuse," 

A term mexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With her then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nen'es and brain, 
To take a quie.t ride in some green lane. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



When Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that slight startle from his contemplation- 

'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 



1 L" The celebrated apple-tree, the fall of one of the apples 
Df which is SHid to have turned the attention of Newton to 
the subject of gravity, was destroyed by wind about four 
years igo. The anecdote of the falling apple is mentioned 



A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 

In a most natural whirl, called " gravitation;" 
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 
Since Adam, with a fall, or with au apple.' 

IL 

Man fell with apples, and with apples rose. 
If this be true ; for we mitst deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 

Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes : 
For ever since immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

III. 

And wherefore this exordium? — Why, just now, 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper. 

My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
And my internal spirit cut a caper: 

And though so much inferior, as I know. 

To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor, 

Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 

I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail ; but for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I have shunn'd the common shore, 
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity: the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 

But still sea-worthy skiff ; and she may float 

Where ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat 



We left our hero, Juan, in the hloom 

Of favoritism, but not yet in the hlush ; — 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
It is enough that Fortune found him flush 

Of youth, and vigor, beauty, and those things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 

" Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest !" 

And who that recollects young years and loves, — 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast. 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves [rather 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would much 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather ? 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink. 
Like Arno in the summer, to a sliallow. 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink. 

Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 

Such diff'erence doth a few months make. You'd think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys, 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 



neither by Dr. Stukeley nor by Mr. Conduit, and, as I have 
not been able to find any authority for it whatever, I did 
not feel myself at liberty to use it." — Brewster's lAfc of 
Newton, p. 344.] 



Canto x. 



DON JUAN. 



715 



VIII. 

But coug-hs will come when sighs depart — and now 
And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 

Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 
Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 

Of lifs reach'd ten o'clock : and while a glow, 
Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for clay, 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die, — how happy they I — 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favor of the moon 

Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Muit come 1 Much rather should he court the ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 

X. 

Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young : 

The former know what's what ; while iiew-fledgod 
chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 

In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence Love sprung. 

Some reckon women by their suns or years,. 

I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XI. 

And why? because she's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who find fault in haste. 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air :' 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself ; — if not, I must. 

XII. 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue— 'tis a point of honor ; 

And I know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIIL 

This were the woret desertion : — renegadoes, 
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, 

Would scarcely join again the " reformadocs,'"* 
Whon he forsook to fill the laureate's sty ; 



1 [See ante, p. 593. — " I have read the recent article of 
Jeffrey. I suppose tlie long and the short of it is, that he 
wishes to provoke me to reply. But I won't, for I owe him 
a good turn still for his kindness by-gone. Indeed, I pre- 
sume tliat the present opportunity of attacking me again was 
irresistible ; and I can't blame him, knowing what human 
nature is." — Byron Letters, June, 1822.] 

2 " Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The Baron Brad- 
wardine in Waverley is authority for the word. 

' Query, suit .?— Printer's Devil. 

< [This tribute to a former antagonist displays so much 
frankness, generosity, and manly feeling, that it must eradi- 
;at3 all latent remains of animosity from the bosom of any 
but che most rancorous and vindictive. In addition to these 
merits, the felicitous introduction of the poet's recollections 
of his boyish days renders this passage equal in poetical 
beauly to any that has proceeded from his pen. — Camp- 
bell.] 



And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, noi seir.o 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And naught remains unseen, but much untold. 

By those who scour those double vales of etrift. 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

The la\vyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XV. 

A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, 
And that's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 

The endless soot^ bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper. 
At least some twenty-nine io out of thirty, 

In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 

As Ccesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XVI. 

And all our little feuds, at least all 7nine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe, 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us tilings below,) 

Are over: Here's a health to " Auld Lang Syne !" 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul.^ 

XVII. 

And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne !" 
'Tis not addrcss'd to you — the more's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take my wine 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty. 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, — " 

XVIIL 

As " Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, 
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's llacJc vmll," 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring ; — floating past me seems 

My childhood in this childishness of mine : 

I care not — 'tis a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 



6 [" I don't like to bore you about the Scotch novels, (as 
they call them, though two of them are English, and the rest 
half so ;) but nothing can or could ever persuade me, since I 
was the first ten mmutes in your company, that you are not 
the man : to me these novels have so miich of ' AvM lans 
syne,' (I was bred a canny Scot till ten years old.) that I 
never move without them." — Lord Byron to Sir W. Scott, 
Jan. 12, 1822.] 

6 The brig of Don, near the " auld toun" of Aberdeen, 
with its one arch, and its black deep salmon stream below, 
is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though 
perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb whicli made me 
pause to cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish delight 
being an only son, at least by the mother's sic'" The say- 
ing as recollected by me was this, but I have r.ever heard 
or seen it since I was nine years of age : — 

" Brig of Balgounie, black's your wn', 
Wi' a wife's ae son, and a mear's ae foal, 
x)oun ye shall fa''!" 



716 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto x. 



XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit. 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit, 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early : 

I " scotched not kill'd" the Scotchman in my blood, 

And love the land of " mountain and of flood."' 

XX. 

Don .Tuan, who was real, or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the ones thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink. 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 'tis very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare. 
And know no more of what is here, than there ; — 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 

How we won't mention, why we need not say : 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honor: gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money. 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 

The favor of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

XXIII. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity — must make us selfish. 

And shut our souls up in us like a shell-fish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter. 

And wrinkles, the d d democrats, won't flatter 

, XXV. 

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great 

Gracchus of all mortality, who levels. 
With his Agrarian\s.\vs,^ the high estate 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels, 



[' Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 
Land of the mountain and the flood," &c. 

Lay of the Last Minstrel.^ 

2 Tiberius Gracchus, being tribune of the people, de- 

mimled in tteir name the execution of the Agrarian law ; by 



To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
Death's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 

Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter, 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry. 
Through all the " purple and fine linen," fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe : we would ' 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's " obscure wood,"* 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspec- 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier [tion 

Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 

XXVIII. 

I won't describe, — thut is, if I can help 
Description ; and I won't reflect, — that is. 

If I can stave off" thought, which — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips : — but, as I said, 

I wonH philosophize, and icill be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — 
A thing which happens rarely : this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valor ; much also to the blood he show'd. 

Like a racehorse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty off" in which he glow'd. 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; bu* m.jst 

He owed to an old woman and liis pos.. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations 
And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 

That with the addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother. Donna Inez, finding, too, 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker. 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, [chor, — 
He had brought his spendiug to a handsome aii- 

Replied, '• that she was glad to see him through 

Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker ; 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

which all persons possessing abc/e a certam number of 
acres were to be deprived of the surplus'for the benefit;, of 
the poor citizens. 

3 " Mi retrovai per un selva oscura." — .nfemo, Canto '■ 



Canto x. 



DON JUAN. 



717 



XXXII. 

'■ She also recommended him to God, 

And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother, 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd 
In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad ; 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

" She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopp'd all scandal, (now and then :) — 

At home it might have given her some vexation ; 
But where thermometers sunk down to ten. 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river ' 

XXXIV. 

Oh for ^. forty -par son power^ to chant 
Thy praise. Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt. 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim ! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 

Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint. 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul. 
But went to heaven in as sincere a way 

As anybody on the elected roll, 

\Vliich portions out upon the judgment day 

Heaven's freeholdi^, in a sort of doomsday scro U 
Such as the conqueror William did repay 

His knights with, lotting others' properties 

Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Enieis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 

Were their reward for following Billy's banners ;' 

And though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes,^ like tanners ; 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You'll deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like ofner plants call'd sensitive. 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from rhymes, 
Save such as South ey can afford to give. 

Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes 
In which the Neva's ice would cease to liv; 

Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty. 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty : 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek. 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 



1 A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power"' of a 
steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sydney Smith, 
sitting by a brother clergyman at dinner, observed after- 
wards tliat his dull neighbor had a " twelve-parson power" of 
conversation. 

2 [See Collins's Peerage, vol. vii. p. 71.] 



Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 

His bills in, and however we may storm. 
They must be paid : though six days smoothly run, 
The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 

At which the whole court was extremely troubled, 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines doubled. 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumors : 
Some said he had been poison'd by Potemkiu ; 

Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors. 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 

Some said 'twas a concoction of the humors. 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin ; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

" 'Twas only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
" Sodae sulphat. 3vj. 3fs. Mannoe optira. 

Aq. fervent, f. §ifs. 3ij. tinct. Sennse 

Haustus" (And here the surgeon came and cupp'd 
him) 

"^. Pulv. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanhoe" 

(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em.) 

" Bolus Potassce Sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 

XLIL 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artem : but although we sneer 

In health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus" 
To be fiU'd up by spade or mattock's near. 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie,* or soft Abernethy.* 

XLIIL 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit; and though death had threaten'd an ejection, 
His youth and constitution bore him through. 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was dehcate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-bom, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim. 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion. 

She then resolved to send him on a mission, 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

3 " Hyde." — I believe a hyde of land to be a legit'mate 
word, and, as such, subject to the tax of a quibble. 

i [For an account of Dr. Baillie's visit to Lord Byron, see 
ante p. 603.] 

5 [Both Dr. Bailhe and John Abernethy, the great surgeon, 
were remarkable for plainness of speech.] 



718 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto x 



XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to 
push on ; 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her roy.il splendor, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card. 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, 
Which show'd what great discernment was the donor's. 

xLvn. 

But she was lucky, and luck's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining. 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLvni. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last ; 

And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that nvnnber 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet slumber: — 
Not that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But always choosing with deliberation. 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

Whde this high post of lienor 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You'll mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh : the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair czarina's autocratic crest. 

When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 

Was given tc her favorite," and now here his. 



A bull -dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine. 
All private favorites of Don Juan ; — for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere vermin. 
Live animals : an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid : — 



1 The empress went to the Crimea, accompanied by the 
Emperor Joseph, in the year— I forget which.— [The Prince 
te Lignt'!, who accompanied Catherine in her progress 
through her southern provinces, in 1787, gives the follow- 
mg p;irticulars : — " We have been traversing, during seve- 
ral days, an immense tract of deserts formerly inhabited by 
hostile Tartar hordes, but recovered by the arms of her 
Slajesty, and at present ornamented from stage to stage 
•with magnificent tents, where we are supplied with break- 
fast, collation, dinner, supper, and lodgmg ; and our en- 



* LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossacqite sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse variee 
Her note, she don't forget the infant girl , 

Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LIL 

Poor little thing I She was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character. 

As rare in living beings as a fossile 

Man, 'midstthy mouldy mammoths," grand Cuvierl" 

111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must err: 

But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 

Was tranquil, though she knew not why or wherefore 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 

Parental feelings, and the other class, « 

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 

His bosom, — for he never had a sister: 

Ah ! if he had, how much ho would have raiss'd her! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
That he was not an ancient debauchee, 

(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, 
As acids rouse a donuant alkali,) 

Although Cticill happen as our planet guides) 
His youth was not the chastest that might bo, 

There was the purest Platonism at bottom 

Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved. 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation 

Through his means and the church's might be paveA 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, 
The little Turk refused to bo converted. 

LVI. 

'Twas strange enough she should retain the impression 
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
slaughter ; 

But though three bishops told her the transgression, 
She show'd a great dislike to holy water ; 

She also had no passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — no matter 

Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 

She still held out that Mahomet was a prnj)het. 



campments, decorated wth all the pomp of Apiatx spjen» 
dor, present a noble military spectacle. Tlie empress has 
left, in each town, presents to the amount of 100,000 rou 
bles. Each day of rest is marked by the gift of some 
diamonds, by balls, by fireworks, and by illuminations 
extending for leagues in every direction. During the 
last two months 1 have been daily employed in tnrow- 
ing money out of our carriage windows, and'have tlms dis- 
tributed the value of some millijns of livres."— ici/-"C* 
et Pensees.'} 



Canto x. 



DON JUAN. 



719 



LVII. • 

In fact, tlie only Christian she could bear 

Was Juan ; whom she seem'd to have selected 

In place of what her home and friends once were. 
He naturalhj]ovcd what he protected: 

And thus they forin'd a rather curious pair, 
A gjuardian green in years, a ward Connected 

In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; 

AnC yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

LVIII. 

They joumey'd on through Poland and through 
Warsaw, 

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Tlirough Courland also, which that famous farce saw 

Which gave her dukes the graceless name of "Biron."' 
'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars saw, 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren ! 
To lose by one month's frost some twenty years' 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let this not seem an anti-climax : — " Oh ! [clay. 

My guard ! my old guard !"^ exclaim'd that god of 
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill'd by snow ! 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame.^ 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Konigsberg the capital, wliose vaunt, 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant.* 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes v/ho spur more than their postillions. 

LXI. 

Aad thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like. 
Until ho reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 

Yo glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All phantasies, not even excepting mine ; 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike. 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hovei 

Upon their airy confine, half-seas-over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manneim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels^ frowns over like a spectre 



1 In the Empress Anne's time, Biren, her favorite, as- 
sumed the name and arms of the " Birons" of France ; 
which families are yet extant with that of England. There 
are still the daughtersof Coin-land of that name ; one of them 
1 remember seeing in England in the blessed year of the 
Allies (1814)— the Duchess of S.— to whom the English 
Duchess of Somerset presented me as anamesake. — ["Ernest 
John Biren, became so famous by his great advancements, 
and his not less extraordinary reverses of fortune, was born 
in Courland, cf a family of mean extraction. His grandfather 
had been head proom to James, the third Duke of Courland, 
and obtained from his master the present of a small estate in 
land. ... In 1714, he made his appearance at St. Petersburg, 
and solicited the place of page to the Princess Charlotte, 
wife of the Tzarovitch Alexey ; but being contemptuously 
rejected as a person of me.an extraction, retired to IMittau, 
where he chanced to ingratiate himself with Count Bestu- 
cheff, master of the household to Anne, widow of Frederic 
William duke of Covndand, who resided at Mittau. Being 
of a handsome figure and polite address, he soon gained the 
good will of the duchess, and became her secretary and 



Of the good feudal times forever gone. 

On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone. 

The greatest number flesh haih ever known.^ 

Lxni. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches. 

Where juniper expresses its best juice. 

The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use — 
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel. 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 

LXIV. 
Here he embark'd, and with a llowing sail 

Went bounding for the island of the free. 
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale ; 

High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the sea. 
And sea-sick passengers tum'd somewhat pale ; 

But Juan, season'd, as he well might be. 
By former voyages, stood to watch the skifiis 
Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cl.lTs. 

LXV. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sigiit of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of prido that he should be among 

Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from polo to pole. 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 
I'vfe no great cause to love that spot of earth. 

Which holds what might have been the noblest na- 
But though I owe it little but my birth, [tion ; 

I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 
For its decaying fame and former worth. 

Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 
Of absence lay one's old resentments level. 
When a man's country 's going to the devil. 

LXVII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout abhorr'd ; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword ; 
How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 

That worse than ivorst of foes, the once adored 
False friend, who held out freedom to mankind. 
And now would chain them, to the very mind : — 



chief favorite. On her bemg declared sovereign of Russia, 
Anne called Biren to Petersburg, and the secretary soon 
became Duke of Courland, and first minister or rather des- 
pot of Russia. On the death of Anne, which happened m 
1740, Biren, being declared regent, continued daily mcrensing 
his vexations and cruelties, till he was arrested, on the ISth 
of December, only twenty days after he had been appointed 
to the regency ; and at the revolution that ensued he was 
exiled to the frozen shores of the Oby." — Tooke.] 

2 [Napoleon's exclamation at the Elys6e Bourbon, June 
the 23d, 1815.] 

3 [" Hope for a moment bade the world farewell. 

And freedom shriek'd when Kosciusko fell."— Campb.] 

4 [Immanuel Kant, the celebrated founder of a new phil- 
osophical sect, was born at Konigsberg. He died m 1804.] 

6 [" The castled crag of Drachenfels 

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine," &c.— 

See ante, p, 44.1 
<^ St. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins wire still 
extant in 1816, and may be so yet, as much as ever. 



720 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto x. 



LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves ? The nations are 

In prison, — but tlio jailer, what is he? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar 

Is tho poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom? He's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Albion's earliest beauties. 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbor, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed. 

Thy long, long bills, whence nofliing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week. 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it, — 

(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, 

Before liim summ'd the awfal scroll and read it :) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration's worth the money. 

LXXI. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! [puddle ; 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash through 
Hurrah I how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Tlieir fare ; and also pause besides, to fuddle. 
With " schnapps" — sad dogs I whom " Hundsfot," or 

" Verflucter," 
Affett no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a huny, 

And merely for the sake of its own merits ; 
F:r the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm,' and Becket's bloody stone,'' 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral, 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
There's gloiy again for you, gentle reader ! All 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone,^ 
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias. 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 



1 [On the tomb of the prince lies a whole-length brass 
figure of him, his armor with a hood of mail, and a skull 
cap enriched willi a coronet, which had been once studded 
with jewels, bvit only the collets now remain.] 

2 [Becket was assassinated in the cathedral, in 1171.] 

s [The French inscription on the Black Prince's monu- 
luent is thus translated m the History of Kent :— 
" Whoso thou be that passest by 
Where these corps interred lie. 
Understand what I shall say. 
As at this time speak 1 may. 
Such as thou art, sometime was I. 
Such as I am, such shall thou be. 



.LXXIV. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed, 

And ask'd why such a structure had been raised : 

LXXV. 

And being told it wls " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, but only wonder'd how 

He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The true Believers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet sliould resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXVI. 

On ! on ! through mecdows, managed like a garden, 
A paradise of hops and high production ; 

For after years of travel by a bard in 

Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction ; 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices. 

Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 

LXXVII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer 

But I won't weep ! — and so drive on, postillions ! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of free millions; 

A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones. 

Who " kick against the pricks" just at this juncture, 

And for their pains get only a fresh puncture. 

LXXVIII. 

What a delightful thing's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail ; — but onward as we roll, 
" Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! 

LXXIX. 

Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! 

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 
purses. 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 

Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 

On that sweet ore which everybody nurses. — 
Kill a man's family, anC he may brook it. 
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket : 



I little thought on the hour of death 
So long as 1 enjoyed breath. 
Great riches here I did possess, 
Whereof I made great nobleness ; 
I had gold, silver, wardrobes, and 
Great treasures, horses, houses, land 
But now a caitiff poor am I, 
Deep in the ground, lo here I lie ; 
My beauty great is all quite gone, 
My flesh is wasted to the bone ; 
And if you should see me this day 
I do not think but you would say, 
That I had never been a man. 
So much alter'd now I am ''J 



Canto ki. 



DON JUAN. 



721 



LXXX. 

So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 

To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 
Just as the day began to wane and darken, 

O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn 
Toward the great city. — Ye who have a spark in 

Yoiu veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn 
According as you take things well or ill ; — 
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill !' 

LXXXI. 
The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 

A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well besecm'd the " Devil's drawing-room," 

As some have qualified that wondrous place ; 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 

As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t'other.^ 

LXXXII. 
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping. 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 

LXXXIII. 
But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke 

Appeard to him but as the magic vapor 
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 

The wealth of worlds, (a wealth of tax and paper :) 
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 

Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper. 
Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, 
Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 

Before they give their broadside. By and by, 
My gentle countrymen, we will renew 

Our old acquaintance ; and at least I'll try 
To tell you truths you will not take as true, 

Because they are so ; — a male Mrs. Fry,^ 
With a soft besom will I s;veep your halls, 
And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 
Oh Mrs. Fry ! Why go to Newgate ? Why 

Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 
With Carlton, or with other houses? Try 

Your hand a', harden'd and imperial sin. 



- ('■' Under his proucl survey the city lies. 
And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise, 
Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd, 
Seem at this distance but a darker cloud, 
And is, to him who rightly things esteems. 
No other in effect than what it seems ; 
Where, with like haste, tho' several ways they run, 
Some to undo, and some to be undone ; 
While luxury and wealth, like war and peace, 
Are each the other's ruin and increase."— De.nham.] 

s tindia ; America.] 

3 [The Quaker lady, whose benevolent exertions have ef- 
fected so great a change in the condition of the female pris- 
oners in Newgate.] 

■4 [This worthy alderman died in 1829.] 

•! [" O for a blast of that dread horn, 

On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King Charles did come. 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died."— jTfarniJon.] 



91 



To mend the people 's an absurdity, 

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 
Unless you make their betters better : — Fy . 
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore ; 

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; 
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more. 

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses ; 
Tell them Sir William Curtis^ is a bore, 

Too dull even for tho dullest of excesses. 
The witless FalstafFof a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all 

LXXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'Tig L^ot so to be good , and be it stated, 

The wortuiest kings have ever loved least state : 
And tell them But you won't, and I have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle 

Like Roland's horn'' in Roncesvalles' battle. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE ELEVE>fTH 



I. 

When Bishop Berkeley said " there was no matter,"® 
And proved it — 'twas no matter what he said 

They say his system 'tis in vain to batter. 
Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter 
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit, 

And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

IL 

Wliat a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 

Universe universal egotism, 
That all's ideal — all ourselves : I'll stake tho 

World (be it what you will) that that 's no schiiTn. 
Oh Doubt ! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which some take 
thee, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit ! 
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear it. 

6 [The celebrated and ingenious Bishop of Cloyne, in his 
" Principles of Hiynan Knowledge," denies, without any cer- 
emony, the existence of every kind of matter whatever ; 
nor does he think this conclusion one that need, in any de- 
gree, stagger the incredulous. " Some truths there are," 
says he, " so near and obvious to the mind, that a man need 
only open his eyes to see them. Such I take this important 
one to be, that all the choir of heaven, and furniture of earth, 
— in a word, all those bodies which compose the mighty 
frame of the world, — have not any subsistence without a 
mind." This deduction, however singular, was readily made 
from the theory of our perceptions laid down by Descartes 
and Mr. Locke, and at that time generally received in the 
world. According to that theory, we perceive nothing but 
ideas which are present in the mind, and which have no de- 
pendence whatever upon external things ; so that v,c have 
no evidence of the existence o^ any thing external to our 
minds. Berkeley appears to have been altogether in earnest, 
in maintaining his skepticism concerning llie existence of 
matter : and the more so, as he conceived tliis system to be 
highly favorable to the doctrines of religion, s'ince It re- 
moved matter from the world, which had alrea«ly been the 
stronghold of the Atheists.— Sir David BsEwsxEa.] 



722 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xi. 



III. 

Forever and anon comes Indigestion, 

(Not the most "dainty Ariel")' and perplexes 

Our soarings with another sort of question : 
And tnat which after all my spirit vexes, 

Is, that I find no spot where man can rest eye on. 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes. 

Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 

The world, which at the worst's a glorious blunder — 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it bo according 

To the old text, still better : — lest it should 

Turn out so, we'll say nothing 'gainst the worfing. 
As several people think such hazards rude. 

They're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and everybody one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

V. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 

Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 
If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 

Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair ; 
Tlie truth is, I've grown lately rather phthisical : 

I don't know what the reason is — the air 
Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 
Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 
f 

VI. 
The first attack at once proved the Divinity, 

(But tJiat I never doubted, nor the Devil ;) 
The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 

The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 
The fourth at once establish'd the whole Trinity 

On so uncontrovertible a level. 
That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, 
Ou purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme. — The man who has stood ou the 
Acropolis, 

And look'd down over Attica ; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople is, 

Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis, 

Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much o; London's first appearance — 
But ask him what he thinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; 

Sunset the time, the place the san\p declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where Loudon streets ferment in full activity ; 
While every thing around was calm and still. 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot he 
Heard, — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy hum 
Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wTapt in contemplation, 

Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit, 

And lost in wonder of so great a nation. 

Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 



I [ • P:^p. Why, that's my dainty Ariel : I shall miss thee , 
But yet thou shaft have {rcedom."— Tempest.] 

£ ['• Fahtaf Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, 



" And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen station 

Hero peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 
Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 



" Here are cnaste wives, pure lives; hero people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear, 

'Tis only that they love to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have a-year 

Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 

Traps for the traveller; every highway's clear: 

Here — " he was interrupted by a knife, 

With — " Damn your eyes ! your money or your 
life !"— 

XI. 

These freeborn sounds proceeded fi>'m four pads 
In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 

Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads. 
Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre, 

In which the heedless gentleman who gads 
Upon the road, imless he prove a fighter, 

May find himself within that isle of riches 

Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

xn. 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn!" 
And even that he had so rarely heard, 

Ho sometimes thought 'twas only their " Salam," 
Or " God be with you !" — and 'tis not absurd 

To think so : for half English as I am 
(To my misfortune) never can I say 
t heard them wish " God with you," save that way ; — 

XIIL 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 

And being somewhat choleric and sudden, 
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture. 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 

And roar'd out, as ho writhed his native mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
" Oh Jack ! I'm floor'd by that 'ere bloody French- 
man !" 

XIV. 
On which Jack and his train set off at speed. 

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance. 
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 

And offering, as usual, late assistance. 
Juan, v^'ho saw the moon's late minion'' bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages and lint. 
And wish'd ho had been less hasty with his fiint. 

XV. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow. 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to bo done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to .ie groaning on the road : 

So take him up ; I'll help you with the load." 



minions of tte moon : and let men say, we be men of good 
government , being governed, as tlie sea is, by our noble 
and chaste mistress the moon, under whose coui.tenanca 
we— steal." — Henry /F.] 



Canto xi. 



DON JUAN. 



723 



XVT. 

But etn they could perform this pions duty, 

The iyiiiff man cried, " Hold I I've got my gruel ! 

Oh ! for a glass of max ." We've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am !" And as the fuel 

Of life slirunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew ill 

His breath, — he from his swelling throat untied 

A kerchief, ciying, " Give Sal that I" — and died. 

XVII. 

The cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down 
Before Don Juan's' feet: he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown. 

Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy" upon town, • 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,^ 

Full flash,* all fanc)', until fairly diddled. 

His pockets first and then his body riddled. 

XVIII. 

Don Juan, havuig done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as " Crowner's quest"^ allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he should 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van. 
Booze in the ken,° or at the speJlken' hustle? 

\\ :i0 queer a flat ?^ Who (spite of Bow-street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice° so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on a lark," with black-eyed Sal, (his blowing,)" 

So prime, so swell," so nutty, '^ and so knowing?'* 

XX. 

But Tom's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing 'tis 
Not long before the most of them go home. 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 



1 [Gin or Hollands.] 

2 [A thief of the lower order, who, when he is breeched by 
a course of successful depredation, dresses in the extreme of 
vulgar gentility, and affects a knowingness in his air and con- 
versation, which renders him in reahtv an object of ridicule. 

—V DX.] 

3 [A.:y well-dressed person is emphatically called a swell, 
or a real swell. — P. Egan.] 

* [A fellow who affects any particular habit, as swearing, 
dressing in a particular manner, taking snuff, &c. merely to 
be noticed, is said to do it out oi jlask. — Ibid.l 
6 [" 2(2 Clown. But is this law % 

\st Clown. Ay marry is't? crowner's quest law."— 
HamUl.l 

6 [A house that harbors thieves is called a ien. — f The 
playhouse.— 9 To puzzle or confound a gull, or silly fellow. 
— 3 Robbery on horseback. — i" Fun or sport of any kind. — 
n A pickpocket's trull.— '2 So gentlemanly. See Slang 
Dictionary.^ 

13 [To be nucs upon, is to be very much pleased or gratified 
with any thing : thus, a person who conceives a strong incli- 
nation for another of the oppDsite sex is said to be quite 
nutty upon him or her. — Ihid.l 

" The advance of science and of language has rendered it 
imnccessary to translate the above good and true English, 
spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their 
p-ltrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was 
veiy popular, at least in my early days : — 

" On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle, 
In spite of each gallows old scout ; 
If you at the spellken can't hustle, 
You'll be hobbled in making a Clout 



That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons, 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; — 

XXI. 

Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 
(Like lucus from no light ;) through prospects 
named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing naught to please. 
Nor much to climb ; through little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 

With " To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd ; 

Through " Rows" most modestly call'd " Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ; — 

XXIL 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl 
Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 

Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl,'"* 
There mails fast flying off" like a delusion ; 

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 
In windows ; here the lainplighter's infusion 

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, 

(For in those days we had not got to gas — ;)'° 

XXIIL 

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach, 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream — 

Though hardly heard through multifarious " damme's." 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine where fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 

In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile — 

Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle." 



" Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty. 
When she hears of your scaly mistake. 
She'll surely turn snitch for the forty— 
That her Jack may be regular weight." 

If there be any gemman so ignorant as to require a traduc- 
tion, I refer him to my old friend and corprreal pastor and 
master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism ; who, I 
trust, still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of 
a form, together with his good humor, and athletic as well 
as mental accomplishments. 

15 [A kind of medicated malt liquor, in which wormwood 
and ar.imatics are infused.-^ToDD.] 

16 [The streets of London were first regularly lighted 
with gas in 1812.-] 

17 [" I very often,'- says Addison, " walk by myself in West- 
minster Abbey. When look upon the tombs of the great, 
every emotion of envy dies 'h me ; when I read the epitaplis 
of the beautiful, every iiioruiuate desire goes out ; when I 
meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart 
melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb of the parents 
themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom 
we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those 
who deposed them ; when I consider rival uits placed side by 
side, or the holy men that divided the world with their con- 
tests and disputes ; I reflect with sorrow ar.d astonishment 
on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. 
When I read the several dates of tlie tombs, of some that 
died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider 
that great day, when we shall allot us be contemporaries, 
and make our appearance together."] 



724 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xi. 



XXV. 

The Druids' groves are gone — so much the better: 
Stone-Henge is not — but what the devil is it ? — 

But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 
That madmen may not bite you on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or siuts fuU many a debtor ; 
The Mansion House too (though some people quiz it) 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey's worth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights too up to Charing Cross, 
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

Match'd with tlie Continent's illumination, 

Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation. 

And when tliey grew so — on their new-found lantern, 

luslead of wicks, they made a wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 

Suspended may illuminate mankind, 
As also bonfires made of country -scats ; 

But the old way is best for the purblind : 
The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 

A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 
Wliich, though 'tis certain to perplex and frighten, 
Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But London's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
Could recommence to hunt his honest man, 

And found him not amidst the various progenies 
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 

'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
Yet uiidiscover'd treasure. What / can, 

I've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 

But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling up Pall Mall, 

Through crowds and carriages, but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst dims, and to an early dinner 

Admitted a small party as night fell, — 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner. 

Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels, 

St. James's Palace and St. James's " Hells."^ 

XXX. 

They reac4i'd the hotel : forth stream'd from the front 
A tide of well-clad waiters, and around [door 

The mob stood, and as usual several score 
Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 

In decent London when the daylight's o'er ; 
Commodious but immoral, they are found 

Useful, ike Malthus, in promoting marriage. — 

But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 

XXXL 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 
For those whom favor or whom fortune swells, 

And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 
There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells, 

(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie,) 
Until to some conspicuous square they pass. 
And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 



1 " Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may now 
be in this Ufe, I know not. Before I was of age I knew them 
pretty accurately, both " gold" and " silver." I was once 
ncai ly called out by an acquaintance, because when he asked 



XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission. 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er, 

'Twas merely known, that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore. 

Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was said 

(In whispers) to have tuni'd his sovereign's head. 

XXXIII. 

Some rumor also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters. 
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the -excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves. 

Ho found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which sen'es our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then 'tis in the head ; 

Yet as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart instead, 

What after all can signify the site 

Of ladies' lucubrations? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which you start. 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential ; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential. 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth face. 
Thought (what in state alfairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster. 

As hawks may pomice upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we'll talk of that ; and if we don't, 

'Twill be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'Tis but 
The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow of true Truth would shut 
Up annals, revelations, poesy. 

And prophecy — except it should be dated 

Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy ? 

She rings the world's " Te Deum," and her brow 
Blushes for those who will not : — but to sigh 

Is idle ; let us Idie most others bow. 
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty. 

After the good example of " Green Erin,'" 

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wenrirg 

me where I thought that his soul would be found hereaftei 
I answered, " In sdver flell." 

2 [See the Irish Avatar, ante, p. 585.] 



Canto xi. 



DON JUAN. 



725 



XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration — 

I don't know which was more admired or less : 
One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 

AVhich Catherine in a moment of " ivresse" 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) 

Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 

Who must bo courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their royal riddle's fully read. 

The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or the house of office, fed 

By foul corruption into streams, — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 

XLI. 

And insolence no doubt is what they are 
Employ'd fof, since it is their daily labor. 

In the dear offices of peace or war ; [neighbor. 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your next 

When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied, (a grief and a bore,) 

If he found not this spawn of taxborn riches. 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLIL 

But Juan was received with much " empressement :" — 
These phrases of refineinent I must borrow 

From our next neighbors' land, where, like a chess- 
«nan, 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow. 

Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man 
In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough, 

More than on continents — as if the sea 

(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIII. 

And yet the British " Damme" 's rather Attic, 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent. 

And turn on things which no aristocratic 

Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't anent' 

This subject quote ; as it would be schismatic 
In politesse, and have a sound affronting in't : 

But " Damm:; ' 's quite ethereal, though too daring — 

Platonic blasphemy the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
Yon leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 'tis no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, liko this of mine. 



1 " Anent" was a Scotch phrase meaning " concerning" — 
"with regard to ;" it has been made English b" the Scotch 
novels ; and, as the Frenchman said, " If it be' not, ought to 
be Engiish." 

• 2 [ " Oh, these flaws, an i Starts, 

(Impostors to true fear,) would well become 
A woman's story," &c. — Macbeth.] 

8 " Drapery Misses." — This term is probably any thing 
now but a mystery. It was, however, almost so to me when 
I first returned from the East in 1811—1812. It means 
a pretty, a liigh-born, a fashionable young female, well 
instructed by her friends, and furnished by her milliner 



XLV. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty. 

But to sit up while others lie in bed. 

And look down on the universe with pity, — 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVL 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 

Of import both to virgin and to bride, 
The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 

And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 
'Tis also of some moment to the latter : 

A rib's a thorn in a wed gallant's side. 
Requires decorum, and is apt to double 
The horrid sin — and what's still worse, the trouble. 

XLVII. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and 
had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and eourd be sad 
Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts,'"* 

Just at the proper time ; and though a lad, 
Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLVIII. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 

Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 
For both commodities dvs'ell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims. 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse ; 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery Misses"* 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is. 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation. 

Not to be overlook'd — and gave such credit, 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and paid it 

L. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sonnets, 
And with the pages of the last Review 

Line the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue : 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian ? 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilioa? 



with a wardrobe upon credit, to be repaid, when married, 
by the husband. The riddle was first read to me by a 
young and pretty heiress, on my praising the "di apery" 
of the " untochered" but " pretty virginities" (like Mrs. Anne 
Page) of the then day, which has now been some years 
yesterday : she assured me that the thing was common 
m London ; and as her own thousands, and blooming 
looks, and rich simplicity of array, put any suspicion 
in her own ease out of the question, I confess I gave 
some credit to the allegation. If necessary, authori- 
ties might be cited ; in which case I could quote both 
" drapery" and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it 
is now obsolete. 



726 



SYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto si. 



LI. 

Juan, who was a little superficial, 

And not in liteiaturo a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 

Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer : 

His duties warlike, loving or official, 
His steady application as a dancer. 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

JJI. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 

And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy. Miss iVraminta Smith, 

(Who at sixteen translated " Hercules Furens" 

Into as furious English,) with her best look. 

Set down his sayings in her common-place book. 

LIII. 

Juan knevvT several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in time 
To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) intd sublime : 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss RliEvia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIV. 

However, he did pretty well, and v.'as 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coterieS; and, as in Banquo's glass. 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral ; 
Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 

LV. 

In t\%ice five years the " greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

I? call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, — 

Was reckou'd a considerable time, 

The grand Napoljcn of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 

My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean seems Cain :' 
" La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero. 

Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again : 
But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 

Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
Or to some lonely isle of jailers go. 
With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 

LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
Before and after ; but now grown more holy. 



1 [See ante, p. 349.] 

2 [Some Reviewer had bestowed the title of " a Moral 
Byron" on Mr. Bryan Procter, author of "Dramatic 
Sketches," &i <S;c all pullished under the name of " Barry 
Cornwall.'-J 

8 [See ante, p. 525.] 

* [The Biographical Dictionary says,—" Being in delicate 
health, Le was induced to try the climate of Italy, where he 



The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly ; 

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley 

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 

A modern Ancient Pistol — by the liilts ! 

Lvin. 

Still he excels that artificial hard 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though the vine 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 

That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine ; 
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ; 

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line : — 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The howling Hebrews of Cybelo's priest. — 

LIX. 

Then there's my gentle Euphucs ; who, they eay, 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me ;^ 
He'll find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both, or either, it may ^e. 
Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 

And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
And that deep-mouth'd BcEotian " Savage Landor" 
Has taken for a swan rogue Scmthey's gander 

LX. 

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late. 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak.* 
Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate f 

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle ^ 

Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 

His last award, will have the long grass grow" ' 

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ; — they're too nimierous, like the thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

LXII 

This is the literary lower empire. 

Where the praetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers samphire,"* 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter. 
With the same feelings as you'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire 
I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show thera what an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or two, would turn 

Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth my while. 

With such small gear to give myself concern : 
Indeed I've not the necessary bile ; 



arrived in November, 1820, and died in the following De-' 
cember. IJis death has been attributed to the attacks of 
critics ; but it was, in fact, owing to a consumptive corr. 
plaint of long standing." Compare, however, ante, p 684 ] 

6 " DivinjB particulum aurse." 

6 [ " Half-way down 

Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadfu. trade !" 

Lear.1 



Ca-nto XI. 



DON JUAN. 



727 



My natural temper's really aught but stem, 

And even my Muse's worst reproof's a smile ; 
And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, 
And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 

LXIV. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With some small profit through that field so stehie. 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 

And henceforth found himself more gayly class'd 

Amongst the higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 

LXV. 

His morns he pass'd in business — which dissected. 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,* 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should. 

LXVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

Li riding round those vegetable puncheons [flower 
Call'd " Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
But after all it is the only " bower,"^ 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

LXVII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then 
roar 
Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd 

Like haruess'd meteors ; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are twirl'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly paradise of " Or MMu." 

LXVIIi. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 

With the three-thousandth curtsy ; there the waltz, 

The only dance which teaches girls to think,' 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to cliinb. 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 

Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that's in or boudoir out of the way. 

Where he may fix himself like small " Jack Honi-jr," 

And let the Babel round run as it may. 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator, 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 



» " ILita Nessco tibi texta veneno."— Ovid. Epist. ix. 

s> f ' Come to me, love, I've wander'd far, 

'Tis past the promised hour ; 
Come to me, k>ve, tlie twilight star 
Shall guide thee to my bovver." — Moore.] 



Must steer with care Ihrough all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to where 

He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air. 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill. 

Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride. 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste: impatience is a blundering g'uiJe, 

Amongst a people famous for reflection. 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXII. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper 
Or, if forestall'd, get opposite and ogle . — 

Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 
In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,'' 

Which sits forever upon memory's crupper. 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vog\io 111 

Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 

Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

Lxxin. • 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue. 

And watch, and ward ; whose plans a word too much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 

Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new. 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense, 

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long since. 

LXXIV. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom, 
Before ho can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and " rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is anticipated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou ; 
Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 

Their cash cciv.es froiii, their wealth goes to a Jew; 
Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew ; 
And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and whored, 
The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXVI. 

"Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty — * 
" Where 

The world in which a man was born ? Alas ! 
Where is the world of eight years past ? ' Twas therc~- 

I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of, glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 



3 [See ante, p. 466.] 

4 Scotch for goblin. 

s [Young was more than eighty years old when he pufc 
lished his poem, entitled " Resignation," &,c.] 



728 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xi. 



LXXVII. 

^Vhere is Napoleon the Grand? God knows: 
Where litllo Castlereagh ? The dovil can tell : 

Whore Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound "the bur or senate in their spell? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved well ? 

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents?' 

And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's Bnimmel? Dish'd. Where's Long Polo 
Wellesley? Diddled. [the Third? 

Where's Whitbread ? Romilly ? Where's George 
Where is his will?" (That's not so soon unriddled.) 

And where is " Fuin" the Fourth, our " royal bird?"^ 
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
" Caw me, caw thee" — for six months hath been 

hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And where my Lady That? 

The Honorable Mistresses and Misses? 
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, 

Married, unmarried, and remarried: (this is 
An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London hisses? 
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where 
My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dances is, — 

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies [nels ? 

Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those chan- 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Continent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, 
Have taken up at length with younger brothers ; 

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks : 

Some maids have been made wives, some merely 
• mothers ; 

Others have lost their frcsli and fairy looks : 
In short the list of alterations bothers. 

There's little strange n: this, but something strange is 

The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXXIL 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 

I have seen more changes, down from monarchs to 



L 



1 [" I am ready to accept the, or almo^ any mortgage, any 
thing to get out of the tremulous Funds of these oscillatory 
times. There will be a war somewhere, no doubt— and 
wherever it may be, t,he Funds will be affected more or less ; 
so pray get us out of them with all proper expedition. It 
has been the burden of my song to you three years and bet- 
ter, and about as useful as better counsels." — Lord Byron to 
Mr. Kinnaird, Jan. 18, 1823.] 

a [The old story of the will of George I., said to have been 
destroyed by George II. No such calumny was ever heard 
of as to George III.] 

3 fSee Moore's " Fum and Hum, the Two Birds of Roy- 
ally," appended to his " Fudge Family."] 

* [The Congress at Verona, in 1822. See ante, p. 540.] 

• [" If I had a thousand sons, the first numan principle 
I would teach tliem shciildbe to forswear thin potations, and 
addict themselves to sa ;k."— Shaksp. Henri/ IV.'i 

£" Corpe diem, quam minimum credulapostero."— Hon.] 



The humblest individual under heaven, 

Than might suffice a moderate century through. 

I knew that naught was lasting, but now oven 

Change grows too changeable, without being new: 

Naught's permanent among the human race, 

Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

LXXXIIL 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupltei, 
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 

(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
If that can well be, than his wooden look. 

But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 
And sail for a new theme : — I have seen — and shook 

To see it — the king hiss'd, and then caress'd ; 

But don't pretend to settle which was best 

LXXXIV. 

I have seen the le.idholdcrs without a rap — 
I have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen — 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 
I have seen a Congress* doing all that's mean — 

I have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses, 

Kick off" their burdens — meaning the high classes. 

LXXXV. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not etenial — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land — 
I Irave seen the country gentlemen turn squeakers — 

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 

By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchanged for " thin potations"^ by John Bull — 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe !"" 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

" Life's a poor player," — then " play out the play/ 
Ye villains !" and above all keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say . 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, bo 
Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero in the land. 
Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country ? But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis f 

But 'tis as well at once to understand, 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 



' [" Out, you rogue ! play out the play."— Henry IV.l 
8 [See the " New Atalantis, or Memoirs and Manners of 
several Persons of Quality,"— a work in which the au- 
thoress, Mrs. Manley, makes verv free with many distin- 
guished characters of her day. vVarburton calls it "a fa- 
mous book, full of court and party scandal, and written in a 
loose effemin.'icy of style and sentiment, which well suited 
the debauched taste of the better vulgar." Pope also al- 
ludes to it in the " Rape of the Lock," — 

" As long as Atalantis shall be read. 
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed. 
While nymphs take treats or assignations give, 
So long my honor, name, and praise shall i.%e • 
And Swift, in his ballad on " Corinna :" — 
" Her common-place book all gallant is ; 
Of scandal now a cornucopia — 
She pours it out in Atalantis, 
Or memoirs of the New Utopia."] 



Canto xii. 



DON JUAN. 



729 



LXXXVIII. 

What Jiiaii saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 

Tliough every scribe, in some slight turn of diction, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when I speak, I doriH hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 

Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess, 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling Earth, 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock fount is, — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages, 

For being too excursive in his homages, — 

XC. 

Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
. For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is black. 
So much the better ! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE TWELFTH.' 



Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man : it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know justly what we would bo at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what wo were ; — 

II- 

Too old for youth, — too young, at thirty-five, 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good threescore, — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 
But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

1 [Cantos XII., XIII., and XIV. appeared in London, in 
November, 1623.J 

2 In an unpublishea letter to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, dated 
Genoa, Jan. 18, 1823, we find the following passage : — " I will 
economize and do, as I have partly proved to you by my 
surplus revenue of 1822, whichalmostequals the ditto of the 
United States of America, (vide President's report to Con- 
gress ;) and do you second my parsimony by judicious dis- 
bursements of what is requisite, and a moderate liquidation. 
Also make an investment of any spare moneys as may ren- 
der some usance to the owner ; because, however little, 
' every little makes a mickle,' as we of the north say, with 
more reason than rhyme. I hope that you have all receipts, 
<tc. &c. &,c., and ackjiowledgments of moneys paid in liquid- 
ation of de' '.s, tj prevent extortion, and hinder the fellows 
from coming twice, of which they would be capable, partic- 
ularly as my absence would lend a pretext to the pretension. 

^ — You will perhaps wonder at this recent and furious fit of 
accumulation and retrenchment ; but it is not so unnatural. 
I am not naturally ostentatious, although once careless, and 
expensive because careless : and my most extravagant, pas- 
sions have pretty well subsided, as it is time they should, on 



92 



Love lingers still, although 'twere late to wive ; 

And as foi other love, the illusion's o'er ; 
And money, that mo.st pure imagination, 
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.* 

III. 

O Gold ! Why call we misers miserable?^ 
Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 

Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable 
Which holds fast other pleasures great and small 

Ye who but see the saving man at table. 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 

And wonder how the wealtliy can be sparing, 

Know not what visions spring from each cheese-paring. 

IV. 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker ; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss ; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 

And adding still a little through each cross, 
(Which will come over things,) beats love or liquor, 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's dross. 
O Gold ! I still prefer thee vmto paper. 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapor. 

V. 

Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal? 

Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain?* 

(That make old Europe's journals squeak and gibber 
all.) 

Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure? Who make politics run glibber all? 

The shade of Bonaparte's noble daring ? — 

Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, Baring- 

VI. 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. • Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit ; 

Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change ; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VIL 

Why call the miser miserable ? as 

I said befoie : the frugal life is his, 
Which in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise ; a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause. 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
Because, you'll say, naught calls for such a trial ; — 
Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 



the very verge of tliirty-five. I always looked to about thirty 
as the barrier of any real or fierce delight in the passions, 
and determined to work them nut in the younger ore and 
better veins of the mine ; and I flatter myself (perhaps) that 
I have pretty well done so, and now the dross is coming, 
and I loves lucre : for we must love something. At any rate, 
then, I have a passion the more, and thus a feeling. How- 
ever, it is not for myself; but I should like, God willing, to 
leave something to my relatives more than a mere name ; 
and besides that, to be able to do good to others to a greater 
extent. If nothing else will do, I must try bread and wa- 
ter : which, by the way, are very nourishing and sufficient, 
if good of their kind."] 

3 [BoswELL. " I have heard old Mr. Sheridan maintain, 
with much ingenuity, that a complete miser is a happy 
man : a miser w^ho gives himself wholly to the one passion 
of saving."— Johnson. " That is flying in the face of all the 
world, who have called an avaricious man a miser, because 
he is miserable. No, sir ; a man who both spends and 
saves money is the happiest man, because he has both en 
joyments." — Boswell, vol. vii. p. 174 , edit. 1835.] 

^ The Descamisados. 



730 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CjiNTO XII 



VIII. 

He ia your only poet ; — passion, pure, 

And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays. 

Possess' d, the ore, of which viere hopes allure 
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays 

Flash lip in ingots from the mine obscure ; 
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 

While iho mild emerald'.s beam shades down the dies 

Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side arc his : the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay,^ unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 

While he, despising every sensual call. 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 

X. 

Perhaps ho hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race,^ 

A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 

Some dome surmounted by his meager face : 

lerhaps ho fain would liberate mankind 

Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 

Perhaps he would he wealthiest of his nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action. 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 

What is his own ? Go — look at each transaction. 

Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more ease 
Than the mero plodding through each " vulgar 
fraction?'' 

Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser! 

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who's wiser ? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(No*, of old victors, .ill whose heads and crests 
AVeigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, 

But) of fine unclipp'd gold, where dully rests 

S)me likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp : — 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 



1 [Chma.] 

2 [" Die, and endow a college, or a cat."— Pope.] 

3 [" Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 

And m"n below, and saints above, 

And love is heaven, and heaven is love." 

Lay of the Last Minstrel.'} 
■4 [Mr. Malthus tells us, that the way to reduce our poor- 
rates is to persuade the lower orders to continence ; to dis- 
courage them, as much as possible, from marrying ; to preach 
wedding sermons to them, if they will marry, upon the im- 
li.orality of breeding,— that being a luxury reserved only for 
thole who can afford it ; and if they will persist in so im- 
piroper and immoral a practice, after so solemn and well- 
timed a warning, to leave them to the punishment of severe 
want, and rigidly deny all parish assistance. No public 
relief is to be given to the starving infant ; it is worth nothing 
to society, for its place will be presently supplied, and socie- 
ty, thereiore, has no further business than to hang the mo- 
thar, if she should shorten the sufferings of her babe rather 
than see it die of want. The rich are to be called upon for 
no sacrifices ; nothing more is required of them, than that 
tUey should harden tiieir hearts. That we may not be sus- 
pected of exaggerating the detestable hard-heartedness of 
his system, we present it in liis own language. — Southey.] 



XIIL 

" Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, — for 
love 

Is heaven, and heaven is love :"^ — so sings the bard ; 
Which it were rather difficult to prove, 

(A thing with poetry in general hard.) 
Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 

At least it rliymes to " love :" but I'm prepared 
To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 
If " courts" and " camps" be quite so sentimental. 

XIV. 

But if Love don't, Cash does, and Cash alone : 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides : 

Without cash, camps wore thin, and courts were none ; 
Without cash, Malthus tells you — " take no brides."* 

So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as virgin Cynthia swaj's the tides: 

And as for " Heaven being Love," why not say honey 

Is wax ? Heaven is not Love, 'tis Matrimony. 

XV. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt. 

After a sort ; but somehow people never [out : 

With the same thought the two words have help'd 

Love may exist ivith marriage, and should ever, 
And marriage also may exist without ; 

But love sans bans is both a sin and shame. 

And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

Now if the " court," and " camp," and " grove," be 
Recruited all with constant married men, [not 

Who never coveted their neighbor's lot, 
I say that line's a lapsus of the pen ; — 

Strange too in my " buon camerado" Scott, 
So celebrated for his morals, when 

My Jeftrey held him up as an example^ 

To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVIL 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that's enough ; succeeded in my youth. 

The only time when much success is needed : 
And my success produced what I, in sooth, 

Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 
Whate'cr it was, 'twas mine ; I've paid, in truth. 

Of late, the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn'd to wish it any less. 

6 ["Wehavenonotionthat LordByronhad any mischievous 
intention in these publications, and readily acquit him of any 
wish to corrupt the morals, or impair the happiness of his 
readers ; but it is our duty to say, that much of what he has 
published appears to us to have this tendency. How oppo- 
site to this is the system, or the temper, of the great author 
of Waverley. With all his unrivalled power of invention and 
judgment, of pathos and pleasantry, the tenor of his senti- 
ments is uniformly generous, indulgent, and good-humored: 
and so remote from the bitterness of misanthropy, that he 
never indulges in sarcasm, and scarcely, in any case, carries 
his merriment so far as derision. Eiit the peculiarity by 
which he stands most broadly and proudly distinguished from 
Lord Byron is, that beginning, as he frequently does, with 
some ludicrous or satirical theme, he never fails to raise out 
of it some feelings of a generous or gentle kind, and to end 
by exciting our tender pity, or deep respect, for those very 
individuals or classes of persons w ho seemed at first to be 
brought on the stage for our mere sport and amusement ;— 
thus making the ludicrous itself subservient to the cause of 
benevolence— and inculcating, at every l\irn, and as the true 
end and result of all his trials and experiments, the love of 
our kind, and the duty and delight of a cordial and genuine 
sympathy with tlie joys and sorrows of every condition ol 
men." — Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Revi^ewfo- 1822.1 



Canto xn. 



DON JUAN. 



731 



XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons plead 

In an appeal to the nnborn, whom they, 
In the faith of their procreativo creed. 

Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
To nie seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To lean on for support in any way ; 
Since odds are that posterity will know 
Nc more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 
Wiy, I'm posterity — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remember? Not a Iftrndred. 
Wore every memory written down all true, 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but 
blunder'd ; 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few, 

And 'j^aiiist those few your annalists have thunder'd ; 
And Mitford' in the nineteenth century 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.'' 

XX. 
Good people all, of every degree, 

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers. 
In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be 

As serious as if I had for inditers 
Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set free 

The Negroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 
While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, 
And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he writes. 

XXI. 
I'm serious — so are all men upon paper ; 

And why should I not form my speculation. 
And hold up to the sun my little taper?' 

Mankind just now seem wrapp'd in meditation 
On constitutions and steam-boats of vapor ; 

While sages write against all procreation. 
Unless a man can calculate his means 
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 
That's noble ! That's romantic ! For my part, 

I think that " Philo-genitiveness" is — 
(Now here's a word quite after my own heart, 

Though there's a shorter a good deal than this, 
If that politeness set it not apart ; 

But I'm resolved to say naught that's amiss — ) 
I say, methinks that " Philo-genitiveness"* 
Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 

XXIII. 
And now to business. — O my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place, 
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'Tis true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 



'- See Mitford's Greece. " GrEBcia Vfra,r." His great 
pleasure consists in praising tyrants, abusing Plutarch, spell- 
ing oddly, and writing quaintly ; and what is strange, after 
all, his is the best modern history of Greece in any language, 
and he is perhaps the best of all modern historians whatso- 
ever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to state his vir- 
tues—learning, lijbor, research , wrath, and partiality. 1 call 
the latter virtues in a writer^because they make him write 
in earnest. 

2 [" It has been, injuriously for him, too extensively held 
among modern writers, that Plutarcli was to be considered 
as an liistorian whose authority might be quoted for matters 
of fact with the same confidence as that of Thucydides or 
Xenophon, o; Csesar, or Tacitus. Sometimes, indeed, he un- 
dertake 5 historical discussion, or, relating different reports, 
leaves judgiT.jnt on them to his reader. When truth thus 
appears Jiis objecf, liis matter is valuable for the historian. 



XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. 
All countries ha'*e their " Lions," but in theo 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXV. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

" Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skater glided : 
When tired of play, ho flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have prided 
Themselves on innocent tanfalization. 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 
But these are few, and in the end they make 

Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
That even the purest people may mistake 

Their way through virtue's primj ivo paths of snows ; 
And then men stare, as: f a new ass spake 

To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'ertlows 
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 
With the kind world's amen — " Who would have 
thought it ?" 

XXVII. 
The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, 
(Which saw all western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people of condition. 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition,) 
Her charming figure and romantic history 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIIL 
The women much divided — as is usual 

Amongst the sex in little things or great. [all — 

Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse you 

I have always liked you better than I state : 
Since I've grown moral, still I must accuse you all 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Amongst you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled — and 

You had reason ; 'twas that a young child of grace, 

As beautiful as her own native land. 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Howe'er oui friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 



But generally to do justice to his great work, his Lives, 
ajiparently it should be considered that, next at least to 
p; negyric of his nation, example, political and moral, was 
his purpose, more than historical information. Little scru 
pulousas.he has shown himself about transactions the most 
public, concerning which he often contradicts, without re- 
serve or apology, not only the highest authorities, but even 
himself it can hardly be supposed that he would scrutinize 
with great solicitude the testimonies to private anecdotes, 
if even he does not sometimes indulge his invention."— 

MiTFORD.] 

3 [" Thus com'nentators each dark passage shun. 

And hold their farthing candles to the sun "— YovNn ] 

■* [Philo-progenitiveness. Spnrzhcim and Gall discovoi 
the organ of thio name in a bump behind the cars, and say 
it is remarkably developed in the bull.] 



732 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xn. 



XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition, 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition; 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition ; 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 

XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring up the little girl, and " out," — 
For that's the phrase that settles all things now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes tJieir first season, (mostly if they have money.) 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honorable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy. 

The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters, 
(Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where " 'tis gold that glisters," 
Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy 

Buzz roLU7d " the Fortune" with their busy battery, 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
" Tantcene !"^ Such the virtues of high station. 

Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet's " Dover !" 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 

'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 

(Friends of the party,) who begin accusals, 
Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray, 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXV. 

" Why? — Why? — Besides, Fred really was attach'd; 

'Twas not her fortune — he has enough without ; 
The time will come she'll wish that she had snatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
But the old marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout: 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray did you see her answer to his letter ?" 

XXXVI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, mitil her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives ; 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 

Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 



I [" T antacne animis ccelestibus irae !" — Vieg.] 



XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued/ at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure" 

(If 'tis not vain examples to recall} 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See naught more strange in this than t'other lottery. 

XXXVIII. 

I, for my p«t — (one " modern instance" more, 

" True, 'tis a p.ty — pity 'tis, 'tis true") 
W^as chosen from out an amatory score. 

Albeit my years were less discreet than fev/ ; 
But though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon Vi^ere to be two, 
I'll not gainsay the generous public's voice, 
That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 

Peruse ! 'Tis always with a moral end 
That I dissert, like grace before a feast. 

For like an aged aunt or tiresome friend, 
A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 

My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
All people, at all times, and in most places, 
Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I'm going to be immoral ; now 

1 mean to show things really as they are. 
Not as they ought to be ; for I avow. 

That till we see what's what in fact, we're far 
From much improvement with that virtuous plough 

Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 
Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 
Only to keep its corn at the old price. » 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 

For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows. 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
Like many people everybody knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
(I wish thst others would find out the same ;) 

And rather wisu'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 

So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 

Consulting " the Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIIL 

Olden she was — but had been very young ; 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe ; 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 

That but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that's wrong : 

In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve, 
As that abominable tittle-tattle. 
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

2 This Hne may puzzle the commeriatois a..cie than the 
present generation 



Canto xii. 



DON JUAN. 



733 



XLIV. 

Moreover I've remark'd, (and I was once 

A slight obsen'er in a modest way,) 
And so may every one except a dunce, 

That ladies in their youth a little jray, 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray. 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the wo 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLV. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 

Or, what's still worse, ^o put you out of fashion, — 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court you, 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLVI. 

Now whether it be thus, or that they are stricter. 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you'll find from many a family picture. 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture. 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 

Thau those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
As who has not, if female, j'oung, and pretty? 

But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about ; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty, 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about : 
Then she was given to charity and pity. 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIIL 

High in high circles, gentle in her own. 
She was the mild reprover of the young. 

Whenever — which means every day — they'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 
Or at the least would lengthen out my song : 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her, which mcreased. 

XLIX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her, 

Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 

V/hicli was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew whither : 
Though this might ruin others, i^ did not him, 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 

For when they happen at a riper age, ' 
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth. 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 



1 C" The sair.3 feeling that makes the people of France 
wish to keep the pictures and statues of other nations, must 
naturally make other nations wish, now that victory is on 
their side, to return those articles to the lawfyl owners. 
According to my feelings, it would not only be u"just in the 



Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage. 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty. 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so weighty 

LI. 

How far it profits is another matter. — 

Our hero gladly saw his little charge 
Safe with a lady, whoso last grown-up daughter 

Being long mixtried, and thus set at large. 
Had left all the accomplishments she ta\ight her 

To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge, 
To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
More Muse-like — like to Cytherea's shell. 

LII. 

I call such things transmission ; for there is 
A floating balance of accomplishment, 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their Ininds or backs are bent. 

Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics ; others are content 

With music ; the most moderate shine as wit,s : 

While others have a genius turu'd for fits. 

LIII. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theologj'-, fine arts, or finer stays. 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days. 
The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with the same praise 
Of " elegant" et catra, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, aiad yet bent on matches. 

LIV. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'Tis 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new. 

That from the first of Cantos up to this 

I've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what's called success, or not succeeding: 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have 
chosen; 
'Tis a " great moral lesson'" they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off", about two dozen 
Cantos would do ; but at Apollo's pleading. 

If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 

I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LVI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
Yclept the Great World ; for it is the least. 

Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased. 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts. 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 

Must still obey the high° — which is their handle. 

Then: moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing caudle. 



Allied Sovereigns to gratify the French people, but the sac- 
rifice they would make would be impolitic, as it v.ould de- 
prive them of tlie opportunity of giving tii« French nation 
a great moral lesson." — Wellington, Paris, 1815. j 
2 [" Enliapartouclabonne society r6gle tout." — Volt.ubb.] 



734 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xii. 



LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, and was 
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 

Of friendship whicTi you may accept or pass. 

It does nor good nor harm ; being merely meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 
And draw them nightly when a ticket's sent : 

And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 

For tho first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 

A young unmarried man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 

For good society is but a game, 

" The royal gq»iio of Goose,"' as I may say, 

Where everybody has some separate aim, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits : 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lut3S 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

And you may get the wedding dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you'll have a letter from the mother, 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd ; 

Perhaps you'll have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What " your intentions are ?" — One way or other 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand : 

And between pity for her case and yours. 

You'll add to Matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 

I've known a dozen weddings made even tJiiis, 

And some of them high names : I have also known 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they aiever dream'd to have 

Yet neither frighten'd by a female fuss, [shown — 
Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 

And lived, :>.' did the broken-hearted fair, 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXII. 

There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage. 

But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 

It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 

" Couleiur de rose," who's neither white no"- scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say " No," 
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing 

On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow — ■ [scoffing. 
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward 



1 [This ancient game originated, I believe, in Germany, 
and is well calculated to make young persons ready at 
reckoning the produce of two given numbers. It is 
called the game of the goose, because at every fourth 



This works a world of sentimental wo. 

And sends new Werters yearly to their cofiin ; 
But yet is merely innocent flirtation. 
Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

" Ye gods, I grow a talker !" Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it sternent , 
Is when, without regard to " church or state," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou leanicst)— 
But in old England, when a young bride errs, > 

Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 

LXV. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the same ages 

Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it. 
Then there's the vulgar trick of those d — d ciamages ! 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it 1 — 
Forms a sad climax to romantic homages : 

Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders. 

And evidences which regale all readers. 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are '•."w beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid siiiners, 

The loveliest oligarcVis of our gyuocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dimiers, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy. 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
x\_;id all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVIL 

Jua.i, who did not stand in tho predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For ho was sick no, 'twas not the word sick 1 

meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before. 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But this much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stockings, 

Tithes, taxes, iluns, and doors with double knockings. 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes romantic. 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Passion, 

And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 
Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 

Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation : 

Besides (alas! his tasle — forgive and pity .') 

At first he did not thii.k the u-omeu pretty. 

* LXIX. 

I say at first — for he found out at last, 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

Than the more glowing dames whose lot is east 
Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 

A further prooi we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 

To taste : — tho truth is, if men would confess, 

That novelties please less than they impress. 



and fifth compartment of the table in succession a gfose 
is depicted ; and if the cast thrown by the player falls up- 
on a goose, he moves forward double the number of luc 
throw.— Stbutt.] 



Canto xii. 



DON JUAN. 



735 



LXX. 

Tliough travell'd. I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place 'Timbuctoo, 

Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to — 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger :" 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that black is fair.' 

LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eye-sight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You'll attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I'm right ; 

Or if I'm wrong, I'll not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics. 

Those bright moths fluttering round a dying flame ; 

And this reflectiou brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame. 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes ; — 

Not that there's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows'^ 
A.re they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious : 

They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIV. 

But this has naught to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think tiiem pretty 
At the first blusli ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning. 

Nor wear as gr^.^efully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye xVusonia's glance is burning ; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras, (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy, 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily :) — 

LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that ofF-hand and dashing style 



1 [Major Denham says, that when he first saw European 
women after his travels in Africa, they appeared to him to 
have unnatural sickly countenances.] 

3 The Russians, as is well known, run out from their hot 
baths to plunge into the Neva ; a pleasant practical antithe- 
sis, wliich it seems does them no harm. 

" t" A Gaulish or German soldier sent to arrest him, over-* 



Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 

Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 
Nor settles all things in one interview, 

(A thing approved as saving time and toil ;) — 
But though the soil may give you time and trouble, 
Well cultivated, it will render double. 

LXXV II. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande pasaion," 

It is a very serious thing indeed : 
Nine times in ten 'tis but caprice or fashion. 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead. 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there's no saying what they will or may do 

LXXVIII. 

The reason's obvious ; if there's an eclat. 

They lose their caste at once, as do the Parias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law 

Have fiU'd theii vipers with their comments various, 

Society, that china \v About flaw, . 

(The hypocrite !) will banish them like Marius, 

To sit amidst the ruins of fheir guilt ■? 

For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should bo ; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven :" — but upoij this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 
An erring woman finds an opener door 

For her return to Virtue — as they call 

That lady, who should be at home to all. 

LXXX 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it. 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 
And care but for discoveries and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you'll never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads. 

But aggravate the crime yon have not prevented, 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 

Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 
Besides, he had not seen of several hundred 

A lady altogether to his mind. 
A little " blase" — 'tis not to be wonder'd 

At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 
And though not vainer from his past success, 
No doubt his sensibihties were less. 

LXXXIL 

He also had been busy seeing sights — 
The Parliament and all the other houses ; 

Had sat beneath the gallery at nights. 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 



awed by his aspect, recoiled from the task ; and the people 
of the place, as if moved by the miracle, concurred in aiding 
his escape. The presence of such an exile on the ground 
where Carthage had stoo'd was supposed to increase the 
majesty and the melancholy of the scene. ' Go,' he said to 
the lictor wlio brought him the orders of the praitor to de- 
part, ' tell him that you have seen Blarius sittinjj on the 
ruins of Carthage.' ''--Ferguson.] 



736 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiii. 



The world to gaze upon those northern lights, 

Which fiash'd as far as where the musk-bnll 
browses ;' 
He had alsj stood at times behind the throne — 
But Grey' was not arrived, and Chatham gone.' 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session, 

That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 

Though despots know it not — till the progression 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'Tis not meri) splendor makes the show august 

To eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may bo now) 
A Prince, the jirince of princes at the time,* 

With fascination in his very bow, 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A fiuish'd gentleman from top to toe.^ 

LXXXV. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : — 
The talent and good humor he display'd. 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air. 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, and why. 

Is not to be put hastily together ; 
And as my object is morality, 

(Whatever people say,) I don't know whether 
I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings, till they wither, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos.' 

LXXXVII. 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. When the body of the book 's begun, 

You'll find it of a different construction 

From what some people say 'twill be when done : 

The plan at present '& simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 



> For a description and print of tljf s inhabitant of the polar 
region and native countryof the Aurora; Boreales, see Parry's 
Voyage in search of a Northwest Passage. [See ante, p. 527.] 

2 [Charles, second Earl Grey, succeeded to the peerage 
in 1607.] 

3 [William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham, died in May, 1778, 
after having been carried home from the House of Lords, 
where he had fainted away- at the close of a remarkable 
speech on the American war.] 

i [" Nature had bestowed uncommon graces on his figure 
and person. Convivial as well as sociarin his temper, des- 
titute of all reserve, and atTable even to familiarity in his re- 
ception of every person who had tlie honor to approach him , 
endued with all the aptitudes to profit of instruction, his mind 
had been cultivated with great care ; and he was probably the 
only prince in Europe, heir to a powerful monarahy, com- 
petent to peruse the Greek as well aS-lhe Pvoman poets and 
hi.storians in their own language. Humane and compassion- 
ate, his purse was open to every application of distress ; nor 
was it ever s\t\ii against genius or merit."— Wraxall, 1783.] 
s [" Waiving rliyself, let me talk to you of the Prince Regent 
He ordered me lo be presented to him at a baU ; and after 



That's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 
Should neither court neglect^^ nor dr^ad to bear it. 

LXXXVIII 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader! you have had before. 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles, 
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows what 
else : 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon " political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake, 

It grows an act of patriotic charity, 

To show the people the best way to break. 

Ml/ plan (but I, if but for singularity, 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime, read all the national-debt sinkers. 

And tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. 
I. 

I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-daj's is deem'd too serious 

A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious: 

Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime, 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a coluimi. 

II. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees, by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound» 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 



some sayings peculiarly pleasing from royal lips, as to my 
own attempts, he talked to me of you and your immort.ahlies ; 
he preferred you to evei-y other bard past and present. He 
spoke alternately of Homer and yourself, and seemed well 
acquainted with both. All thi'j was conveyed fti language 
which would only sutfer by my attempting'to transcribe it, 
and with a tone and taste which gave me a very liigh idea of 
his abilities and accomplishmeni. j, which I had hitherto con- 
sidered as confined to inanne."! certainly superior to those of 
any living gentleman." — Lord B. to Sir Walter Scott, July, 1812.] 

s A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue of 
Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a river in 
his pocket, with various other similar devices. But Alexan- 
der's gone, and Athos remains, I trust ere long to look over 
a nation of freemen. — [" Strasicrates, an engineer in the ser- 
vice of Alexander, oflfered to convert the whole mountain 
into a statue of tliat prince. The enormous figure was to 
hold a city in its left hand, containing ten thousand inhabi- 
tants, and in the right, an immense basin, whence the col- 
lected torrents of the mountain should issue in a flighty 
river. But the project was thought to be too extravagant, 
,eyen by Alexander."— Beloe.] 



Canto xiii. 



DON JUAN. 



737 



III. 

I'll not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 

I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter, so .'tis in request, 
'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man, 
Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman. 

IV. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon's no more at full. 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 

Our passions, ai d we walk in wisdom's ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

V. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 

F^ -■ they have pass'd life's equinoctial line: 
Bu* then they have their claret and Madeira, 

/£o irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
y»nd county meetings, and the parliament. 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion, and reform. 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the " Na- 
Tlie struggle to be pilots in a storm ? [tion ?" 

The landed and the money'd speculation ? 
The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 

Instead of love, that nere haHucination ? 
Now hatred is by far tue longest pleasure ; 
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, *'ie great moralist, profess'd, 
Right honestl;-, " he hked an honest hater !" — ^ 

The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much m the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ;" 

VIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 'twas v.ot once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less. 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes. 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such eflbrts fail. 



1 [" Sir, I love a good hater." — See Boswell's Johnson, 
vol. ix. p. 30, edit. 1835.] 

2 [Mephistopheles is the name of the Devil in Goethe's 
Faust.] 

3 [" Mr Spence, the author of the late ingenious Tour m 
Spain, seems to believe, what I should have supposed was 
entirely exploded, that Cervantes wrote his book for the pur- 
pose of ridiculing knight-errantry ; and that, unfortunately 
tor his country, his satire put out of fashion, not merely the 
absurd misdirection of the spirit of heroism, but that sacred 
Spirit itself. But the practice of knight-errantry, if ever there 
was such a thing, had, it is well known, been out of date long 
before the age in which Don Quixote appeared ; and as for 



93 



IX. 

Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad. 
Because it makes us smile : his hero 's right, 

And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 

His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry s.glit ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who ha\o thought. 

X. 

Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitill; 

Opposing singly the united strong. 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless native : — 

Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song. 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 

A jest, a riddle. Fame through thick and thin sought! 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had lieroes. While Romance could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done sucli harm, 
That ail their glory, as a composition. 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.' 

XII. 

I'm " at my old lunes"^ — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundcvillo ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net, 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will,) 
And caught ithem ; — what do they not catch, methinks? 
But I'm not ffidipus, and life's a Sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum !"* 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, 

Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that's fair ; 
Whose charms made all men speak, and women 

The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, [dumb 

And since that time there has not been a secoud. 

XIV. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation. 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 

Though apt to act with fire upon occasion. 
Proud of himself and her : the world could tell 

Naught against either, and both seem'd secure — 

She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

the spirit of heroism, I think few will sympathize with the 
critic who deems it possible that an individual, to say nothing 
of a nation, should have imbibed any contempt, either for 
that or any other elevating principle of our nature, from the 
manly page of Cervantes. One of the greatest triumphs of 
his skill is the success with which he continually prevents 
us from confounding the absurdities of the knight-errant with 
the generous aspirations of the cavalier. For the last, even 
in the midst of madness, wc respect Don Quixote himself " 
— LocKHART : Preface to Don Quixote, 1823.] 

4 [" Your husband is in his old lunes again.' —Merry 
^Y^ves of Windsor.2 

6 [" Davus sum, non CEdipus."— Ter.J 



738 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiii. 



XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 

Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 
By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience, 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. . . 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 

Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men — when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

Had all the pertinacity pride has. 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow, 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its own good pleasure hath decided 

xvri. 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions, 
Tliough oft well founded, which confirm'd but more 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 

And Modes, would ne'er revoke what went before. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians. 
Of common likings, which make some deplore 

What they sliould laugh at — the mere ague still 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'Tis not in mortals to command success :* 

But do you more, Sempronius — dorCt deserve it," 

And take my word, you won't have any less. 
Be wary, watch the time, and ahvays serve it ; 

Give gently way, when there's too great a press ; 
And for your conscience, only learir to nerve it ; 

For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 

'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also lOied to be superior. 
As most men do, the little or the great ; 

The very lowest find out an inferior. 

At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, 

WTiich mortals generously would divide. 

By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same — 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Heni-y was a great debater, 

So that few members kept the house up later 

XXL 

These were advantages : and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that which he had been taught, 
Aud greatly shone whenever there had been a stir ; 

And Teconciied all qualities which grace man. 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 



1 [" 'Tis not in mortals to command success; 

Bu* we"ll do more, Sempromus — we'll deserve it." — 
Ccto.] 



XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honor'd him for his docility. 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity, 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive noi the first crop — 
For then they are very difficult to stop 

XXIII. 

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places : 

Where people always did as they were bid. 

Or did what they should not with foreign graces. 

Of coursers also spake they : Henr^ rid 

Well, like most Englishmen', and loved the races ; 

And Juan, like a true-born Andulusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noLle routs. 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 

As in freemasonry a higher brother. 
Upon his talent Henry had no doubts ; 

His manner show'd him sprung from a high mother ; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding matches with his quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square ; — for we will break no squares 
By naming streets: since men are so censorious, 

And apt to sov/,ari author's wheat with tares. 
Reaping allusions private and inglorious. 

Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs. 
Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 

That therefore do I previously declare. 

Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Squara 

XXVI. 

Also there bin^ another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares. 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

xxvn. 

'Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly. 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one where nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart: 

Such are but I have lost the London Chart. 

XXVIII. 

At Henry's mansion then, hi Blank-Blank Square, 
Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest. 

As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest ; 

Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 
Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 

Recommendation ; and to be well dress'd 

Will very often supersede the rest. 



" With every thing that pretty bin. 
My lady, sweet, arise." — Suakspeabe. 



Canto xni. 



DON JUAN. 



739 



XXIX. 

And since " there's safety in a multitude 

Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 
Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood ; — 

Indeed we see the daily proof display'd 
In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 

Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
Which is the only cause that we can guess 
Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ; — 

XXX. 

But as " there's safety" grafted in the number 
" Of counsellors," for men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber ; 

Or should it shake, the choice will more perplex-— 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shocks some's 

Self-love, there's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 

Which judged mankind at their due estimation ; 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery couvey'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle, genial courtesy of mind. 
To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious ; 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upou the shades of those distinguish'd men, 
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
On the most favor'd ; and amidst the blaze 

Of sunset haloes o'er the laurel-brow'd, 

What can ye recognise ? — a gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

Tliere also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which nature would express ; 

Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess, 

That any thing he views can fifreatly plonse. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chinese — 

XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace: his '• Nil adinirari"^ 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ;" 

An art oti which the artists greatly vary, 
And hava not yet attain'd to much success. 



1 [See ante, p. 671.] 

2 i" Tlie creed of Zoroaster, which naturally occurs to un- 
assisted reason as a mode of accounting for the mingled ex- 
istence of good and evil in the visible world,— that belief 
which, in one modification or another, supposes the co- 
existence of a benevolent and malevolent principle, which 
contend together v.ithout either being able decisively to pre- 
vail o;:r his antagonist, — leads the fear and awe deeply 
imiiressed on the human mind to the worship as well of the 



However, 'tis expedient to be ■« ary : 

Indiff'ereuce certes don't produce distress : 
And rash enthusiasm in good society 
Were nothing but a moral ir.ebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indiff'erent : for 

(Now for a common-place !) beneath the sncw, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — et catera. Shall I go on ? — No . 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, 
So let the often-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others. 

It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 

XXXVII. 

I'll have another figure in a trice : — 

What say you to a bottle of chanripague? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain. 

Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
About a liquid glassful will remai:; ; 

And this is stronger than the stronget: grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

'Tis the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 

And such are many — though I only meant her 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 

On which the Muse has always sought to enter. 
And your cold people are beyond all price. 
When once you have broken their coufoimded ice. 

XXXIX. 

But after all they are a Northwest Passage 

Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 
And as the good ships sent upon that message 

Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole, 
(Though Parry's eff'orts look a lucky presage,) 

Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal 3 
Fc if the Pole's not open, but all frost, 
(A cnance still,) 'tis a voyage or vc«ssel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 

While those who are not beginners should have sense 
Enough to make for port, ere time shall summon 

With his gray signal-flag ; and the past teiise, 
The dreary " Fuiimts" of all things human. 

Must be declined, while life's thin thread's spuii out 

Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted ; its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind: 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian,^ 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 

author of evil, so tremendous in all the effects of which cre- 
dulity accounts him the primary cause, as to that of his great 
opponent, who is loved and adored as the father of all that is 
good and bountiful. Nay, such isthc timid servilityof human 
nature, that the worshippers will neglect tlie altar of the 
Author of good, rather than that < f Arimanes ; trusting with 
indifference to the well-known mercy of the one, while they 
shrink from the idea of irritating the vengeful jealousy of the 
awful father of evil."— Sir W . Scott : Demono'.ogy, p. 88.] 



740 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiii. 



XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July, 

To recommence in August — now was done. 

'Tis the postillion's paradise : wheels fly ; 

On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son. 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than knowledge. 

XLIII. 

Tlie London winter's ended in July — 

Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 
' Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 

For parliament is our barometer : 
Let radicals its other acts attack. 
Its sessions form our only almanack. 

XLIV. 

When its quicksilver's down at zero, — lo! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage ! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Solio, 

And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow with dust ; and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age ; 
And tradesmen, with hmg bills and longer faces, 
Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 

XLV. 

They and their bills, " Arcadians both,'" are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 

What hope remains? Of hope the full possession, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 

At a long date — till they can get a fresh one — 

Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ; 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 

XLVI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, 
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 

Away ! away ! " Fresh horses !" are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee ; but ere the water'd wheels may hiss hence. 

The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 

XLVIL 

'Tis granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen : 

AIf3o my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, — " Cosi viaggino i Ricchi .'"^ 
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then. 

If but to show I've travell'd ; and what's travel. 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil?) 

XLVIIL 

The London wintet and the country summer 
Were well nigh over. 'Tis perhaps a pity, 

When nature wears the gown that doth become her. 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city. 

And wait mitil the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty, 



1 "Arcades ambo." 

2 [" Thus the rich travel."] 

' [Byron was too good by nature for what he wished to be 
—he could not drain the blood of the cavaliers out of his 
veins— he could not cover the coronet all over with the red 



Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 
But there's no shooting (save grouse) till September 

XLIX. 

I've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand, for whom earth was made, 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade. 
As many guests, or more ; before whom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily, laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 

Departed like the rest of their compeers, 

The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 
The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 

None than themselves could boast a longer line. 

Where time through heroes and through beauties 

And oaks as olden as their pedigree [steers ; 

Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame 

'Tis pity that it takes no farther hold 

Than an advertisement, or much the same ; 

When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
The Rlorning Post was foremost to proclaim — 

" Departure, for his country seat, to-day, 

Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 

" We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; [correct, 

Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion dech'd ; 
Also a foreigner of high condition. 
The envoy of the secret Russian missio)> " 

LIIL 

And thus we see — who doubts the Morning Post? 

(Whose articles are like the " Thirty-nine,'! 
Which those most swear to who believe them most) — 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host. 

With those who. Pope says, "greatly daring dine." — 
'Tis odd, but true, — last war the News abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded ',-~ 

LIV. 

As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand dinner ; 

Present, Lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column ; date, " Falmouth. There has lately been here 

The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame ; 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are fiU'd up — see Gazette." 

LV. 

To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, — 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Still older mansion,' — of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 



night-cap :— hence that self-reproaching melancholy which 
was eternally crossing and unnerving him,— hence the dark 
heaving of soul with which he must have written, in his 
Italian villeggiatura, this glorious description of nis ovni .est 
ancestral seat.— Lockhakt, 1824.] 



Canto xiii 



DON JUAN. 



741 



Few specimens yet left us can compare 

Withal :' it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind.'' 

LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with L"road arms 'gainst the thunder- 
stroke ; 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke, 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd. 
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.' 

LVII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,"* 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents inrough the calmer water spread 

Around : the wild-fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LVIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade. 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding. 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet ; and thus allay'd. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blue, 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear' d — a loss to art : 
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart. 
Which mouru'd the power of time's or tempest's 
In gazhig on that venerable arch. [march, 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone ; 



1 [" The front of Newstcad Abbey has a most noble and 
majestic appearance , oeing j jilt in the form of the west end 
of a cathedral, adorned with rich carvings and lofty pin- 
nacles." — Art. Newstead, in Beauties of England, vol. xii.] 

2 [" How sweetly in front looked the transparent watei-, 
and the Ught of religious remains, (equalled by no architj-^ 
ture scarcely in the kingdoir, except that of York cathedral,^ 
Dacked by the most splendi . field beauties, diversified by the 
swells of the earth on which they were rooted !"— Thoko- 
TON's Nottinghamshire.] 

3 [" The beautiful park of Newstede, which once was 
richly ornamented with two thousand seven hundred head of 
deer, and numberless fine-spreading oaks, is now divided 
and subdivided into farms." — Ibid.'i 

« [See ante, p. 483 :— 

" I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 

By the old Hall, which may be mine no more : 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 

The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore ; 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere thai or thou can fade these eyes before." — 

Epistle to Augusta.1 

« See ante, p. 388.] 
f " In the bow-window of the Hall there are yet the arms 
of New^ttdc Priory, viz. England, with a chief azure, in 



But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from his 
throne, 

When each house was a fortalice — as tell 
The annals of full many a line undone, — 

The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 

For those who knew not to resign or reign.' 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd. 
The Virmi Mother of the God-born Child," 

With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, 
Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine 

LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings. 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could ei ier, 
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter. 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
Is musical — a dying accent driven 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 

Back to the night wind by the waterfall, 

And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape, or form 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue,' warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this gray ruin, ^vitll a voice to charm : 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps over tree or tower ; 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 

The fact: — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much.® 



the middle whereof is the Virgin Mary with Babe or." — 
Thoroton.] 

' [The history of this wonderful statue seems to be simply 
this : — Herodotus, when he went into Egypt, was shown the 
fragments of a colossus, thrown down some years before by 
Cambyses. This he calls Memnon ; but says not a syllable 
respecting its emitting a vocal sound ; a prodigy which ap- 
pears to have been an after-thought of the priests of Thebes. 
The upper part of this statue has been covered by the sand 
for many ages ; it is that which yet remains on its pedestal 
which performs the wonders mentioned by so many travel- 
lers. — In a word, the whole appears to have been a trick, 
not ill adapted to such a place as Egypt, where men went, 
and still go, with a face of foolish wonderment, predisposed 
to swallow the grossest absurdities. The sound, (for some 
sound there was,) I incline to think, with De Pauw, pro- 
ceeded from an excavation near the plinth, the sides of 
which might be struck, at a preconcerted moment, with a 
bar of sonorous metal. • Even Savary, who saw nothing but 
prodigies in Egypt, treats this foolish affair as an artifice of 
the priests. So much for the harp of Memnon 1 — Gifford 
See also Sir David Brewster's Natural Magic, p. 234.] 

8 [" Next to the apartment called King Edward the Third's 
room, on account of that monarch having slept there, is the 
sounding gallery,— so called from a very remarkable echo 
which it possesses."— Art. Newstead, m Beauties <:f Eug'jind, 
vol. xii.] 



742 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiii. 



LXV. 

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain playd,* 

Symmetrical, hut deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent [made, 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
With more pf the monastic than has been 
Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable, 

"The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 
An exquisite small chapel had been able. 

Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene f 
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 
And jpoke more of the baton than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
By no nuiie lawful marriage of the arts. 

Might shock a connoisseur ; but when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 

At least of those whose eyes are iu their hearts ; 

Wo gaze upon a giant for his stature, 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation : 
And Lady Marys blooming into girls, 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station : 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whoso drapery hints we may admire them freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges in very formidable ermine 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
Tlie accused to think their lordships would determine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right: 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight. 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the " Star Chamber" than of " Habeas Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of the old 

And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Hugcr than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision. 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories. 



» [" From the windows of the gallery over the cloisters, 
■we see the cloister court, with a basin in the centre, used as 
a stew for fish, &c."— Art. Newstead, in Beauties of England, 
vol. xii.] 

» [" The cloisters exactly resemble those of "Westminster 
Abbey, only on a smaller scale ; but possessing, if possible, a 
more venerable appearance. These were the cloisters of 
the ancient abbey, and many of its ancient tenants now lie 
in silent repose urLder the flagged pavement. The ancient 
Ctapel, too, is still entire ; its ceiling is a very handsome 



There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's :' 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
Li Vcrnet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brusla with all the blood of all the sainted. 

Lxxn. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light. 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 
But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain. 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight: 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish* 
Or Dutch with thirst — What, ho ! a flask of Rhenibli 

LXXHL 

reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know, 
'Tis not enough to spell, or even to read. 

To coristitute a reader ; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning ; — (though 
That clause is hard ;) and secondly, proceed ; 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 

In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 
But, reader, thoti hast patient been of late. 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were so from their earliest date. 

By Homer's " catalogue of ships" is clear ; 
But a mere modern must be moderate — 

1 spare you then the furniture and plate 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket: — lynx-like is his aim ; 

Full grows his bag, and wonder/wZ his feats. 

Ah, nut-brown partridges ! Ah, brilliant pheasants ! 

And ah, ye poachers ! — 'Tis no sport for peasants. 

LXXVI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines. 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song. 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, wo can tell her, 

The very best of vineyai'ds is the cellar. 

LXXVII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day appear 

As if 'twould to a second spring resign 
The season, rather than to winter drear, — 

specimen of the Gothic style of springing arches." — Art 
Newstead, in Beauties of England, vol. xii.] 

3 Salvator Rosa — 

[" Whate'er Lorraine light touch'd with softening hue, 
Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew." 

Thomson's Castle oj Inddcrxc] 

4 If I err not, " your Dane" is one of lago's catalogL'e of 
nations " exquisite in their drini'og." 



Canto xiii. 



DON JUAN. 



743 



Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 

The sea-ooal fires, the "-*arliest of the year;'" 
Without doori, too, she may compete in mellow, 
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVIII. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatur.i — [chase. 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she hath the 

So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race ; 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,' 
And wear the Melton jacket^ for a space : 

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 
. Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the pas — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke ; the Countess Crabby ; 
.Tlie Ladies Scilly, Busey ;— Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich baiJier's squaw : 

Also the honorable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep : 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — ^but rank ; 

At once the " lie" and the " elite" of crowds ; 
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank. 

All purged and pious from. their native clouds ; 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 
The " pass^e" and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station ; 

And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 

Thee, witch ',"* or each Medea has her Jason ; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

" Omne tulit jjunctinn, quae miscuit utile dulci." 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
Which hsfth a little leaning to a lottery. 

I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie ; 

Also u so-so matron boldly fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria^ of the spheres. 

Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I hnve seen more than I"ll say: — but wo will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 



• C" Gray's omitted stanza — 
' Here scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year. 

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found ; 
The redbreast loves to build and warble here, 
AnC httle footsteps lightly print the ground.' 
le as fine is any in the Elegy. I wonder that he could have 
the heart to omit it."— JSyron Diary Feb. 1821.] 

2 In Assyria 

3 [For a graphic account of Melton Mowbray, the head- 



By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly. 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had uewly 

Come out and glimmcr'd as a six weeks' star. 
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great freethinker ; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — duke, 
" Ay, every inch a" duke ; there were twelve peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever them mistook. 

There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty dears ! 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXVL 

There were four Honorable Misters, whose 

Honor was more before their names than aftei ', 

There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse, [here, 
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft 

Whose chiefly hannless talent was to amuse ; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter. 

Because — such was his magic power to please — 

The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. 

LXXXVII. 

There was Dick Dtibious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 

Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner ; 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 

LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman. 

Who ate, last war, more YaiJvees than he kill'd. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies Hards- 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, [man,* 

That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

LXXXIX 

Good company's a chess-board — there are kings, 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the world's 
a game ; 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings. 
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : — were she but a hoinet, 

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

quarters of the English chase, see Quarterxy Review, vol. 
xlvii. p. 216.] 

* V' Aroint thee, witch', the rump-fed ronyon cries." — 
Macbeth.^ 

6 Siria, i. e. bitch-star. 

" [George Hardinge, Esq., M. P.. one of the Welsh judges, 
died in 1816. His works were collected, in 1818, by Mr. 
Nichols.] 



744 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiii. 



XC. 

I had forgotten — ^but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly transgression 
Upon debate : the papers echo'd yet 

With his debut, which made a strong impression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display'd — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

XCI. 
Proud of his " Hear hims !" proud, too, of his vote 

And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning, (just enough to quote,) 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote. 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a stoiy. 
Graced with some merit, and with more effrontery, 
" His country's pride," he came down to the comitry. 

XCH. 

There also were two wits by acclamation, 

Longbov^ from Ireland, Strongbow from the Tweed,' 

Both lawyers and both men of education ; 

But Strongbow's wit was of more polish'd breed : 

Longbow was rich in an imagination 
As beautiful and bounding as a steed. 

But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — [Cato. 

While Strongbow's best things might have come from 

xcni. 

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord ; 

But Longbow wild as an ^Eolian harp. 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord, 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word : 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIV. 

If all these seem a heterogeneous mass 

To be assembled at a country seat, 
Yet think, a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum t6te-&,-t6te. 
The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Congreve's fool could vie with Moli6re's hete : 
Society is smooth'd to that excess. 
That manners hardly differ more than dress- 

XCV. 

Our ridicules are kept in the background — 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is naught to cull 
Of folly's fruit : for though your fools abound. 

They're barren, and not worth the pains to pull 
Society is now one polish'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

XCVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning. 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

1 [Cunan and Erskine.l 

« " Mrs Adams answered Mr. Adams, that It was blas- 
pftemous to talk of Scripture out of church." This dogma 
was b--oached to her husband— the best Christian in any 
tx>0k — See Joseph Andrtws. 



Farther I'd quote, but Scripture intervening 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 
" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies*^ 

XCVIL 

But what we can we glean m this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, 

Who, in his common-place book, had a page 

Prepared each morn for evenings. " List oh 
list !"— 

" Alas, poor ghost !" — What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bon-mots ! 

XCVIIL 

Firstly, they must allure the convert&tion, 
By many windings to their clever clinch ; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 
Nor bate (abate) their hearers of an inch, 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to tho test, 

But seize the last word, which no doubt's the best 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts ; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests 
There table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.* 



Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and honey," 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites ; 
To this we have added since, the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would lose thee? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee 

CL 

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 

Or hunt : the young, because they liked the sport- 

The first thing boys like, after play and fruit ; 
The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 

For cnmii is a growth of English root. 

Though nameless in our language : — we retort 

The fact for words, and let the French translate 

That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate. 

cn. 

The elderly walk'd through the library. 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures. 

Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously, 

And made upon the hot-house several strictures. 

Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 
Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 

Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix. 

Longing at sixty for the hour of six. 



3 [" A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of any 
thing than he does of his dinner ; and if he cannot get tha 
well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other 
things."— JoHNSCM.] 



Canto xiv. 



DON JUAN. 



745 



cm. 

But none were " gen6 :" the E^reat hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their owii time — or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

When, where, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIV. 

The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode, 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale, 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, 
And settled bonnets by the newest code. 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter. 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

CV. 

For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle. 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal. 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But fall of cunning as Ulysses' whistle. 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CVI. 

Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but no dice ; — 
Save in the clubs no man of honor plays ; — 

Boats when 'twas water, skating when 'twas ice, 
And the hard frost destroy'd the scenting days : 

And angling, too, that solitary vice. 
Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : 

The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 

Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.' 

CVII. 

With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione ; the duet. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine, 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet.) 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necfis,. white hands and arms. 

CVIII. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days. 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display'd some sylph-like figures in its maze ; 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 

Of charms that should or should not be admired. 

The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly — at ten. 



1 It would have taught him humanity at least. This sen- 
timental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the 
novelists) to show their sympathy for innocent sports and 
old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs 
by ;\'ay of experiment, in addition to the art of angling,— tlie 
cruelest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. 
I'aey may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler 
merely thinks of his dish of fish ; he has no leisure to take his 
eyes rom off the streams, and a single bite is worth to him 
more ;han all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite 
best oJi a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny fish- 



CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres : 
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art. 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those wlio would be smart, 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years, 
Before they find an hour to introduce it ; 
And then, even then, some bore may make them lose it. 

ex. 

But all was gentle and aristociatic 

In this our party ; polish'd, sn ooth, and cold. 

As Phidian forms cut out of marole Attic. 
There now are no Squire Wei lerns as of old ; 

And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 
But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 

We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom Jones, 

But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's noon: 
But in the country ladies seek their bower 

A httle earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower — 

May the rose call back its true color soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters. 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 



If from great nature's or our own abyss 

Of thought we could but snatch a certainty. 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss^ 
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In Ueu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast. 
And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast. 
After due search, your faith to any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the best one. 

Nothing more true than not to trust your senses ; 

And yet what are your other evidences ? 



ery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them ; even net 
fishing, trawling, &c. are more humane and useful. But 
angling ! — no angler can be a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew, — as humane, delicate- 
minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the 
world,— was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies, 
and would have been incapable of the extravagancies of I. 
Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading over 
the MS. — " Audi alteram partem." — 1 leave it to counter- 
balance my own observation. 



94 



746 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiv. 



III. 

For mo, I know naufrht ; notliing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn ; and what know ynu, 

E.vcejjt perhaps that you were born to dio? 
And both may after all turn out untrue. 

An ajjo may come, Font of Eternity, 
When notbiiifr sliall bo either old or now. 

Deatli, 60 call'd, is a thing which makes men weep, 

And yet a third of life is pass'd iu sleep. 

IV. 

A Bleep without dreams, after a rougii day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay ! 
The very Suicide that pays his debt 

At once without instalments (an old way 
Of paying debts, which creditors re^'rot) 

Lets out impatiently his rushing breath. 

Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

V. 

'Tis round him, near him, here, there, everywhere ; 

And there's a courage which grows out of fear, 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will daro 

The worst to know it : — when the mountains rear 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 

You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute, 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

VI. 

'Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with terror. 
Retire : but look into your past impression ! 

And you will find, though shuddering at the mirror 
Of your own thoughts, iu all their self-confession, 

The lurking bias, bo it truth or error. 

To the iiiiki)own ; a secret prepossession, 

To plunge with all your fears — but where? You 
know not. 

And that's the reason wliy you do — or do not 

VII. 

But what's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation. 
For which my solo excuse is — 'tis my way, 

Sometimes ivith and sometimes wiUiout occasion 
I write what's uppermost, without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration. 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 
To build up common things with common places. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Baco» saith, 
" Fling up a straw, 'twill sliow the way the wind 
blows ;" 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A pliadov which the onward soul behind throws: 

And mine's a bubble, not olown up for praise, 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before mo — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for mo to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, I have ))rovcd enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind. 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame ; 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I faiily knock'd it up with rhyme. 



I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other: that's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid tlieir thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few. 

And yet I can't help scribbling onco a week, 
Tiring old roL.uers, nor discovering new 

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because I feel it growing dull. 

XI. 

But " why then publish?'" — There are no rewards 
, Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. 
I ask in turn, — Why do you play at cards? 

Why drink? Why read? — To make some hour 
less dreary. 
It occupies mo to turn back regards 

On what I've seen or jjonder'd, sad or cheery j 
And what I write I cast upon the stream, 
To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 

I think that were I certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line : 
So long I've battled either more or less. 

That no defeat can drive mo from the Nine. 
This feeling 'tis not easy to express. 

And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing — 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction 

She gathers a repertory of facts. 
Of course with some reserve and sliglit restriction, 

But mostly sings of human tilings and acts — 
And that's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And wore her object only what's call'd glory. 
With more ease too she'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild. Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have ^laught else, here's at least satiety. 

Both in performance and in preparation ; 
And though these lines should only line portmanteaus. 
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

XV. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 

Is one of which there's no description rocont : 
The reason why, is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
Tlioro is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 

With much to excite, there's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'cr it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any 

I [" But why then publish? — Granville, the polite 

And knowing Walsh, would tell me 1 could write' 

I'OPK 



Canto xiv. 



DON JUAN. 



747 



XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 

Tliey break their ranks and gladly leave tlio drill ; 

lint then the roll-call draws them bick afraid. 
And they must be or seem what they were . still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

B.it when of the first sight yon have had your fill; 

It pal'.s — at least it did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed oiu- gaming, 
Drcss'd, voted, shone, and, may be, something moro ; 

AVith dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; 
Scon beauties brought to market by the score, 

Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 
There's little left but to bo bored or bore. 

Witness those " ci-devant jeurif.s homines'' who stem 

The stream, nor leave the world which leavcth them. 

XIX. 

'Tis said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

Th» mondo, exactly as they ought to paint : 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint. 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 

And that their books have but one style in common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau mondo a part potential : 

I've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as inditers 

Of what they deem themselves most consequential, 

Tlio real portrait of the highest tribe? 

'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe. ^ 

XXI. 

" Hand ignara loqrior ;" these are Niicrtt, " quarum 
Pars parva /(/?'," but still art and part. 

Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, 

Than these things ; and besides, I wish to spare 'em, 
For reasons which I choose to keep apart. 

" Vetaho Cereris sacrum qui vulgarit" — ' 

Which means that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 

Lowcr'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons ; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 

As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand arcanum 's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; 

And there is much which could not be appreciated 

la any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world (as, since that history, less polite 

Tlian true, hath been a creed so strictly held) 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compeli'd, 

Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Condomn'd to childbed, as men for their sins 

Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

> [Hor. Carin. 1. iii. od. 2.] 



XXIV. 

A daily plague, which in the aggrcg;ito 

May average on the whole with parturition. 

But us to women, who can penelrato 

The real sufferings of their she condition ? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness, and moro suspiciou. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education. 

But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation 

XAV. 

All this were very well, and can't bo better; 

But even this is difilcult. Heaven knows, 
So many troubles from her birth beset hei. 

Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter. 

That but ask any woman if she'd choose 

(Take her at th;-ty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? u tchoolboy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 

Which even those who obey would fain bo thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 

But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, 

By varic lis joltings of life's hackney coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity. 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored. 

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard. 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — ■ 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day. 

With a sirocco, for example, blowing. 
When even the sea looks dim with all its spray. 

And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing. 
And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 

The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 
'Tis pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant 

XXIX. 

Wo left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs. 

Though certainly more diflicult to rhyme at. 
Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines, 

Mountains, and all wo can be most tublime at. 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 

XXX. 

An in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out of door hath showers, and mists, and fclfcct, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Fmbarrass'd somewhat botli with fire and water 



748 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiv. 



XXXI. 

Juan — ill tliis respect, at least, like saints-^ 
Was all thintrs unto peoplo of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints. 
In camps, in ships, in cottaf^es, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints, 
And mingline; modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could bo most things to all Vomeu, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunl to a foreigner is strange ; 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger: 
But Juan bad been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that bis horse, or cbargcr, hunter, hack, 
Knew that ho had a rider on his back 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new Held, w'th some applause, 
lie clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post, and rail, 

And never craned,^ and made but few ^' faux pas," 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 

Rodo o'er tbo bounds, it may be, now and then, 

And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But on the whole, to general admiration 

lie acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 

MarvcU'd at merit of another nation ; 

The boors cried " Dang it I who'd have thought 
it '!" — Sires, 

The Nestors of the sporting generation, 

Swore praises, and recall'd tboir former fires ; 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield. 
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' brushes ; 

Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 

Ho thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes, 

And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 

Ask'd next day, " If men ever hunted twice ?"^ 

XXXVI. 

Ho also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase. 
Who wake in winter cro the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
A quality agreeable to woman. 

When her soft, liquid words run on apace. 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner ; 



L 



1 Cranina: — " To crane" is, or was, an expression used 
to denote a gentleman's strctcliinffout his neck over a hedge, 
" to look before he leaped ;"— a pause in liis " va.ilting am- 
bition," which in llie Held doth occasion some itelay and 
exeeration in those who may be immediately ehind the 
equestrian skeptic. "Sir, if you don't choose to take the 
leap, "et me '."—was a phrase which generally sent the as- 
pira, on again ; and to good purpose : for though " the horse 
and rider" might fall, they m;ike a gnp through which, and 
ovei him and Ids steed, Uie field might follow. 



XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on tbo alert, 
And slioiio in the best part of dialogue, 

By humoring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 

Now grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer*— 

In short, there never was a better hearer 

XXXVIII 

And then he Janced ; — all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of pantomime ; — bo danced, I say, right well, 

With emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A iliing in footing indispensable ; 

He danced without theatrical pretence. 
Not like a Itallet-master in the van 
Of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each rent within duo bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled u'er his figure ; 

Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground. 
And rather held in than put forth his vigor ; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound. 
Which might defy a crotchet critic';i rigor. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified Bolero * 

XL. 

Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, 
In Guido's famous fresco,'' which alone 

Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 

Remnant were (here of tbo old world's sole throne. 

The " tout ensemble" of his movements wore a 
Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, » 

And ne'er to bo described ; for to the dolor 

Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favorite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoil'd, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much inspired. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " tracaa- 

scrie,"'' 
Began to treat him with some small " agacerie. ■ 

XLH. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 

Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 

I'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides, there :. light be falsehood in what's stated 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Flantagenet. 



n See his Letters to his Son. 

3 [ " as she skimm'd along, 

Her flying feet unbalh'd on billows hung ' — DnvoKN s 
Virfril.'i 

* [A Spanish dance noted for its liveliness.] 

' [Guide's most celebrated work, in the palaces of Rome 
is his fresco of the Aurora, in the Palazzo Rosp'gliosi — 
Bkyant.] 



Canto xrv. 



DON JUAN. 



749 



XLIII. 

ThiH noI)lo ])orsona<Tri bcgau to look 
A liltio black upon tliis now flirtation ; 

But such small licoiises must lovers brook, 
Mero freedoms of tbo female corporation. 

Wo to tlio man who ventures a rebuke ! 
'Twill but prcci])itate a situation 

Extremely disagreeable, but common 

To calculators wlien they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The circle Bmiiod, then whisper'd, and tlicn sneer'd ; 

The Misses bridled, and tho matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped thinrrs might not turn out as they foar'd ; 

Some would not deem such women could bo found ; 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they hoard ; 

Some look'd pcri)lex'd, and others look'd profound : 
And several pitied with sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagcnot. 

XLV. 

But what is odd, none ever named tho duke, 

Wlio, one might think, was somothing in the affair: 

True, ho was absent, and, 'twas rumor'd, took 
But small concern about tho when, or whore, 

Or wliat his consort did : if ho could brook 
Her gayctics, none had a right to staro : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 

XLVI. 

But, oh ! that I should ovor pen so sad a line ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, / 
My Dian of tlio Eiihcsians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to thiiiJc the duohess' conduct free ; 
Regretting much that slie had chosen so bad a hno, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve thoir sensibility. 

XI,VIT. 

There's naught in this bad world like sympathy : 

'Tis so becoming to tho soul and face, 
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh. 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — " Would you had thought twice ! 
Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advico !" 

XLVIIL 

Job! you had two friends: one's quite enough, 
Especially when wo are ill at case ; 

They are but bad pilots when tho weather 's rough, 
Doctors loss famous for their euros than fees. 

Let no man grumble when his friends fall off. 
As they will do like loaves at the first breeze : 

When your affairs come round, ono way or t'other. 

Go to the coffee-house, and take another.' 

XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been, [not — 

Some heart-aches had been spared me : yet I care 

1 would not be a tortoise in his screen [not. 
Of stubborn sliell, which waves and weather wear 



1 In Swift's or Horace Walpolc's letters I tliink it is men- 
tioned tliat somebody, roKrcttiiif,' the loss of a friend, was 
answered by a universal I'ylades : " Wlien I lose one, I go 
to the Saint James's CofTee-liouso, and lake another." I rc- 
coLsct having licard an anecdote of tho same kind. — Sir W. 
D. WUJ6 a grejt gamester. Cominginoneday to the Clubof 



'Tis better on tho whole to have felt and seen 

That which huin;uiity may bear, or bear not ; 
'Twill teach discerniuent to tbo sensitive, 
And not to pour their ocean in u sieve. 

T-. 

Of all tho horrid, liideous notes of wo, 

Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, 

Is that portonfous [)hras(>, " I lold you so," 
Uttcrd by friends, those projjlKits of tho past, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do, 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last. 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " lionos iiwres,'" 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LL 

The I>ady Adelino'.'i .soreno severity 

Was not confined to fueling for her friend. 

Whoso faino she rather doubled with ])ost(n'ity, 
Unless her habits should Ix^gin to mend : 

But .Tuan also shared in her auslerily. 

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'rt: 

His inexj)erienco moved her gentle ruth. 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LIL 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 

And hers were those which can face calculation, 

Boldly referring to tho list of [)eers 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration — 

Gave her a right to have maternal fears 
For a young gentleman's fit education, 

Though she was far froin that lea|) year, whooti loup, 

In female dates, strikers Time all of a lieiip. 

LIT I. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere l)eforo thirty- 
Say Boven-aiul-tvventy ; for I never knew 

Tlio strictest in chronology and virtue 

Advance beyond, while thf^y could pass for iiou 

O Time ! why dost not i)ause? Thy scythe, so diily 
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew 

Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

IJV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age. 
Whose ripoiess is but bitter at the best: 

'Twas rather her oxporienco made her sago, 
For sho had seen tho world and stood its test. 

As I have said in — I forget what jiage ; 

My Muso desjiises reference, as you have guess'd 

By this time ; — but strike six from scven-and-twcnty, 

And you will find her sum of years in plojity. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 

She put all coronets into commotion : 
At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 

Willi tho new Venus of their brilliant ocean: 
At eighteen, though below lier feet still j)antod 

A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 
Sho had consented to create again 
That Adam, call'd " The happiest of men." 



which he was a member, he was observed to look mcian" 
clioly. " What is tho matt(;r. Sir William V cried Hare, of 
facetious memory. "Ah!" rejilied Sir \V., "1 liave .iust 
losl poor Lady D."—" Lost ! What at? Quinzc or llazard'i" 
was the consolatory rejoinder of the querist. 



750 



BYRON'S WORKS, 



Canto xiv. 



LVI. 

Since then she had sparkled throngh three glowing 
Admired, adored ; but also so correct, [winters, 

That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters. 
Without the apparel of being circumspect: 

They could not even glean the slightest splinters 
From off the marble, which had no defect. 

She had also snatch'd a moment since her marriage, 

To hear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her. 
Those little glitterers of the London night ; 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound her — 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhans she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A woman, so she's good, what does it signify? 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive like a lingering bottle 

Whicli with the landlord makes too long a stand, 
Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 

Especially with politics on hand ; 
I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand ; 
I hate it as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

LIX. 

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things. 

They are so much intertwisted with the earth ; 

So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth ; 

But this is not at present my concern, 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 

LX. 

With the kina ,'jew of saving an eclat, 

Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 
The Lady Adeline, as soon's she saw 

That Juan was unlikely to resist — 
(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 

In England ranks quite on a different list 
From those of other lands unbless'd with juries. 
Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is ; — ) 

LXI. 

The Lady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best impede 
The farther progress of this sad mistake. 

She thoiiglit with some simplicity indeed ; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake. 

And simple in the world, and doth not need 
Nor use tliose palisades by dames erected. 
Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXIL 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst; 

His Grace v.-as an endunng, married man, 
And was not likely all at once to burst 

Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 



Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 

The magic of her Grace's talisman. 
And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 
With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet 

LXIII 

Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, 
And somewhat mechantc in her amorous sphere, 

One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to mahe a quarrel, when they can't 
Find one, each day of the delightful year: 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go : 

LXIV. 

The sort of thing to turn a young man's head. 
Or make a Werter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead. 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

'Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a " bonne fortune" be really " bonne." 

LXV. 

And first, in the overflowing of her heart. 

Which really knew or thought it knew no guile , 

She call'd her husband now and then apart. 
And bade him counsel Juan. "With a smile 

Lord Henrj' heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing flf it 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
In anybody's business but the king's :" 

Next, that " he never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reason, of those sort of things :" 

Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than beard. 
And was not to be held in leading strings ;" 

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 

" That good but reirely came from good advice." 

LXVII. 

And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
At least as far as bienseance allows : 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 

That opposition only more attaches — 

But here a messenger brought in dispatches : 

LXVIII. 

And being of the council call'd " the Privy," 
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 

To furnish matter for some future Livy 
To tell how he reduced tl 3 nation's debt ; 

And if their full contents I do not give ye. 
It is because I do not know them yet ; 

But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 

To come between mine epic and its index. 



1 The fuinons Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on 
the laUer expressing Ins surprise upon the great effects aris- 
ing from p'/.ty oaiises in the presumed mystery of politics : 
" Yoii bee ov this, my son, with how little wisdom the king- 
doms I'l t.ie world are governed."— [The true story is ;— 



young Oxenstiern, on being told he was to proceed or scce 
diplomatic mission, expressed his doubts of his own fitnoes 
for such an office. Tlie old Chancellor, laughing, answered, 
— " JVescis, mi fill, quantula scienti4 gubernalLr micidus "J 



Canto xiv. 



DON JUAN. 



751 



LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 

Another gentle common-place or two, 
Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint. 

And pass, for want of better, though not new 
Tlien broke his packet, to see what was in 't. 

And having casually glanced it throngh, 
Retired ; and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 
Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honorable man. 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thing ; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van •• 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string ; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul. 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war, 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I've said — 

That nndefiuable " Je ne srais quoi," 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed ; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaiis : — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much perplexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 

By turns the difference of the several sexes ; 

Neither can show quite how they would be loved. 

The sensual for a she.-*, time but connects us — 
The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

But both together form a kind of centaur, 

Upon whoso back 'tis better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 

Is that for which the sex are always seeking : 

But how to fill up that same vacant part ? 

There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart, [ing ; 

They run before the wind through high seas break- 

And when they have made the shore through every 

'Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. [shock, 

LXXV. 

There is a flower call'd " Love in Idleness," 

For which see Shakspeare's ever blooming garden ; — 

I will not make his great description less. 

And beg his British godship's humble pardon. 

If in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 

I touoh a single leaf where he is warden ; — 

But though the flower is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " Voild la Pervenche .'"* 



1 See '• La Nouvelle Hfeloisc.''" 



LXXVI. 

Eureka ! I have found it ! What I mean 

To pay is, not that love is idleness. 
But Liiat in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labor's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXXVII. 

" Beatus ille procul .'" from " vegotiis,"^ 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet 's wrong ; 

His other maxim, " Noscitur a sociis," 
Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company be kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth whate'er their stale or station. 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXVIII. 

Adam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing, 
Eve made up millinery with fig leaves — 

The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing. 
As far as I know, that the church receives : 

And since that time it need not cost much showing. 
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves. 

And still more women, spring from not employing 

Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 

Bards may sing what they please about Content; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd ; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment. 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 

Would some believe that such a tale had been : 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

LXXXL 

" An oyster may be cross'd in love,"' — and why 1 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell. 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And d-propos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

O Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown. 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say. 

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, 
Thou moral Washington of Africa! 

But there's another little thing, I own. 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights ; [whites. 

You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up the 



3 Hor. Epod. Od. ii. a [See Sheridan's " Critic "1 



752 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xiv. 



LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coot' bully Alexander ! 

Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that " sauce for croose is sauce for gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall ? 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis, (since the pay's out small ;) 
Shut up— no, not the King, but the Pavilion,'^ 
Or else 'twill cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route, 

As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 

Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
But till that point d'appui is found, alas I 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

Her heart was vacant, though a splendid mansion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 

As she had seen naught claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wreck'd, 

Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch one ; 
But when the latter works its own vmdoing, 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 

Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil. 
The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 

Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 
She had nothing to complain of, or reprove. 

No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 
Tlieir union was a model to behold, 
Serene and noble, — conjugal, but cold. 

Lxxxvn. 

There was no great disparity of years. 

Though much in temper ; but they never clash'd : 
They moved like stars united in their spheres. 

Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wasli'd. 
Where mingled and yet separate appears 

The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 
Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 
Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep.' 

Lxxxvni. 

Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best, 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run like growing water 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen. 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women. 

Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed : — 

And 'twill perplex the casuist in morality 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

' [The bald-coot is a small bird of prey in marshes. The 
Emperor Alexander was baldish.] 
* [The King's palace at Brighton.] 



XC. 

Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

It had been firmness ; now 'tis pertinacity : 

Must the event decide between the two? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true ; 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity : 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 

She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger, — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a strangei, 

XCII. 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied filoiidship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be. 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

XCIIL 

No doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also in the ties of blood,' 

An innocent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship checks 
And your true feelings fully understood, 

No friend hke to a woman earth discovers. 

So that you have not been nor will bfe lovers. 

XCIV. 

Love bears within its breast the very germ 

Of change ; and how should tliis be otherwise! 

That violent things more quickly find a term 
Is shown through nature's whole analogies;* 

And how should the most fierce of all be firm? 
Would you have endless lightning in the skies? 

Methinks Love's very title says enough : 

How should " the tender passion" e'er be tough 7 

XCV. 

Alas ! by all expenence, seldom yet 

(I merely quote what I have heard from many) 
Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 
I've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives. 
Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI. 
I've also seen some female friends ('tis odd. 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad 

At home, far more than ever yet was Love — 
Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 

Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my battles. 
Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 

3 [See ante, p. 46.] 

4 [" These violent delights have violent ends, 

And in their triumph die." — Romeo and Juliet.} 



Canto xv. 



DON JUAN. 



753 



XCVII. 

Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or any otlier sense, 
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine : 

At present I am jtjlad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense: 
The surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether they rode, ov walk'd, or studied Spanish, 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish ; ^ 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd " small, 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next Canto ; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 
XCIX. 
Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter : 
They'll only make mistakes about the fair, 

And Juan too, especially the latter. 
And I shall take a mut h more serious air, 

Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

C. 
But great things spring from little :— Would you think. 

That in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion. 
As few would ever dream -could form the link 

Of such a sentimental situation ? 
You'll never guess, I'll bet you millions, milliarda — 
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CI. 
'Tis strange,— but true ; for truth is always strange ; 

Stranger than fiction ; if it could be told. 
How miTch would novels gain by the exchange ! 
How differently the world would men behold ! 
How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
The new world would be nothing to the old, 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CII. 
What " antres vast an t deserts idle'" then 
Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men. 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
Ciesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. 



All !— What should follow slips from my reflection ; 
^^Hiatever follows ne'ertheless may be 



As a.-propos of hope or retrospection. 

As though the lurking thought had foUow'd free. 
All present life is but an interjection. 

An " Oh !" or " Ah !" of joy or misery, 
Or a " Ha ! ha !" or " Bah !"— a yawn, or " Pooh -^ 
Of which perhaps the lattsf is most true. 

II. 

But, more or less, the whole 's a syncop^ 
Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 

The grand antithesis to great ennui. 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 

That watery outline of eternity. 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 

Wliich ministers unto t?ie soul's delight. 

In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 

But all are better than the sigh suppress'd. 
Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 

Making the countenance a masque of rest, 
A nd turning human nature to an art. 

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best 
Dissimulation always sets apart 

A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 

la that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can teA 1 Or rather, who cannot 
Remember, wivhovit telling, passion's errors? 

The drainer of obKvion, even the sot, 

Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand, 

V. 

And as for love— O love ! We will proceed 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read. 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There's music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had ears : 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VL 

The Lady Adeline, right honorable, 

And honor'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 

In their resolves — alas ! that I should say so ! 

They differ as wine differs from its label. 

When once decanted; — I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear : yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration. 

VII. 

But Adel-ne was of the purest vintage. 

The unmingled essence of the grape ; and yet 
Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage. 

Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 
A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which Nature might forego her debt- 
Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 
The luck of finding everybody solvent. 



1 lOthello, Act 1, So. iii.] 



95 



2 [Cantos XV. and XVI. were pubUshed in London, ia 
March, 1824.] 



754 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xv. 



VIII. 

O Death ! thou dimnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely, 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap, 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom.'" 

IX. 

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from duty. 

The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand I with whole nations for your booty. 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases. 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 



Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested, (as was said,) 

Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — (points we need not now discuss) — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 

For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumor, 
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 

She had heard ; but women hear with more good 
Such aberrations than we men of rigor : [humor 

Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigor ; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease." 

XII. 

His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 

And *.eem to say, " Resist us if you can" — 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 

They are wrong — that's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told th) truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone ; 
Sincere he was— at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arro\y for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 

By nature soft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion : though not timid, his regard 

Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 

To shield himself than put you on your guard ; 



I LRansom, Kinnaird,and Co. vs^ere Lord Byron's bankers.] 

s I. See Mitford's Greece, vol. iii.] 

« [Raphael's masterpiece is called the Transfiguration.] 

< As it IS necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say 
that I mean, by " Diviner still," Christ. If ever God was 
man — or man God— ne was both. I never arraigned his 



Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 

But modesty 's at times its own reward. 
Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
Will go much farther than there's need to mentiou. 

XV. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; ^ 
Proud wilh the proud, yet courteously proud. 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs : — witliout a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 

XVI. 

That is, with men: with women he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for ; and tlieil 

Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
So that the outline 's tolerably fair, 

They fill the canvass up — end " verbum sat." 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful. 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael.' 

XVII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a coloring from her own : 

'Tis thus the good will amiably err. 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher. 

But saddest when his science is well known ; 

And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon T 
Great Socrates? And thou. Diviner still,'* 

Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken. 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 

Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 
How was thy toil rev/arded ? We might fill 

Volumes with similar sad illustrations. 

But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amidst life's infinite variety : 
With no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
I rattle on exactly as I'd talk 
With anybody in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultorj' rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility. 

Which may round off" an hour upon a time. 

Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility 
In mine irregularity of chime. 

Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary. 

Just as I feel the " Improvvlsatore." 

creed, but the use— or abuse— made of it. Mr. Canning one 
day quoted Christianity to sanction negro slavery, and Mr. 
Wilberforce had little to say in reply. And was Christ cru- 
cified, that black men might be scourged ' If so, he had 
better been born a Mulatto, to give both colors iM ecuai 
chance of freedom, or at least salvation. 



Canto xv. 



DON JUAN. 



755 



XXI. 

" Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
Et bene, die neutruin, die aliquando male."^ 

The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 

rhe third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily : 

The whole together is what I could wish 

To serve in this conimdrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my feeble : — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short. 

But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ', — but I was born for opposition 

XXIII. 

But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side ; 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride 

Were shaken down, and " dogs had had their day,'"* 
Though at the first I might perchance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows. 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'dmy brows, 
Nor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 

Nor worn the motley mantle of a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it.' 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing. 
Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 

The difiiculty lies in coloring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And reud'ring general that which is especial. 

XXVI. 

The difference is, that in the days of oid 

Itlen made the manners ; manners now make men — 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth besides of ten. 

Now this at all events must render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their common-place costume. 



1 [" Thou finely wouldst say all? Say something well : 

Say sometliing ill, if thou wouldst bear the bell." — 
Elphinston.] 

2 [" The cat w ill mew ; the dog will have his day." — 
Hamlet.] 

2 [The reader has already seen in what style the Edin- 
burgh Reviewers dealt with Lord Byron's early performance, 
(uni'f, p. 429,) — the eflect. which that criticism produced on 
him at tlie time— and how he felt the more favorable treat- 
ment which he received from the Monthly Review, (p. 430.) 
WV sliould not. however, in the page last referred to, 
hav? forgotten to observe, that the young poet was not less 
couv;ei(i.sly and encouragmgly welcomed in another publi- 
cation. V'e allude loan article on the " Hours of Illeness," 
tiy J. H. Markland, Esq., the learned Editor of the Chester 



XXVII. 

We'll do our best to make the best on 't : — INIarch ! 

March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet flutter; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research : 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage. 
While yet America was in her non-age.' 

XXVIII. 

When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation. 
Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence. 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole. 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice. 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis. 

For which small thanks are still the market price. 
Even where the article at highest rate is: 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice. 
And morally decided, the best state is 

For morals, marriage ; and this question carried,- 

She seriously advised him to get married. 

XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference. 

He had a predilection for that tie ; 
But that, at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference. 

Or that of her to whom he might apply: 
That still he'd wed with such or such a lady. 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself. 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin. 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf. 
There's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general : 'tis no sin 

Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 

Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 
Or wed already, who object to this) 

Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 
Some drama. of the marriage unities. 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed. 
As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 
They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 



Mysteries, which concluded in these terms : — " We heartily 
hope that the illness and depression of spirits, which evi 
dently pervade the greater part of these effusions, are en- 
tirely dispelled ; and are confident that ' George-Gordon 
Lord Byron' will have a conspicuous niche in every future 
edition of ' Royal and Noble Authors.'"— See Gentleman's 
Mag. vol. Ixxvi. p. 1217.] 

4 [Three small vessels were apparently all that Columbus 
had required. Two of them were light barques, called ca- 
ravels, not superior to river and coasting craft of more oiod- 
ern days. That such long and perilous expeditions int 3 un- 
known seas, should be undertaken in vessels without checks, 
and that they should live through the violent tempests by 
which they were frequently assailed, remain among the sin- 
gular circumstances of those daring voyages. — Washington 
Irving.] 



75G 



BYRON'S WORKS 



Canto xv. 



XXXIIl. 

They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, [end 

Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might 

A line, and leave posterity undone, 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals : and besides, 

Tliey have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select. 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect. 
For t'other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject. 

Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty ; 

A second for her excellent connections ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage* 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough a^et without miscarriage. 

Because it breeds no more mouths than it nourishes, 

Without those sad expenses which disparage 
What nature naturally most encourages) — 

Why call'd he " Harmony" a state sans wedlock? 

Now here I've got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly. 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection 's to his title, not his ritual. 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favor, malgre Malthus, generation — 

Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation ; 

Which after all at such a desperate rate runs. 
That half its produce tends to emigration, 

That sad result of passions and potatoes — 

Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline reai Malthus? I can't tell; 

I wish she had his book 's the eleventh command- 
ment. 
Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," unless well : 

This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 
'Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell, 

Nor canvass what so " eminent a hand" meant ;" 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

1 This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the " Sha- 
kers" do ; but lays such restrictions upon it as prevents more 
than a certain quantum of births withm a certain number of 
years ; which births (as Mr. Hulme observes) generally ar- 
iive " in a little flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all with- 
in the same month perhaps." These Harmonists (so called 
from the name of their settlement) are represented as a re- 
markably flourishing, pious, and quiet people. See the vari- 
ous recent writers on America. 



XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance, 

Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas doom'd— 
As on the whole it is an even chance 

That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom'd. 
May retrograde a little in the dance 

Of marriage, — (which niight fonn a painter's faraa, 

Like Holbein's " Dance of Death'" — but 'tis llie 
same ;) — 

XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 

In her o^vn mind, and that's enough for woma'i : 

But then, with whom? There was the sage 3Iis3 
Reading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 
Knowman, 

And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 

She deem'd his merits something more than ctra- 

All these were unobjectionable matches, fmon: 

And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 
That usual paragon, an only daughter, 

Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, [water, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some milk and 

With a slight shade of blue too, it might be. 
Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 

Love's riotous, but marriage should have quiet. 

And being consumptive, live on a milk diet 

XLIL- 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 

A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string ; 

But whether English dukes grew rare of late, 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string. 

By which such sirens can attract our great. 
She took up with some foreign younger brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was — but why should I go on. 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 

Of the best class, and better than her class,— 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, * 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XLIV. 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 

But still her aspect had an air so lonely I 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 

Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
By death, when we are left, alas ! behind. 

To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 



2 Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed 
to call his writers " able pens," " persons of honor," and es- 
pecially " eminent hands." Vide Correspondence, &c. &c. 
— [" Perhaps I should myself be much better pleased, if I 
were told you called me your little friend, than if you com- 
plimented me with a title of a ' great genius,' or an ' emi- 
nent hand,' as Jacob does all his authors." — Pope to Sterle.'} 

s [See D'Israeli's Curiosities of literature, new series, 
vol. ii. p. 308, and the Dissertation prefixed to Mr. Douce 8 
valuable edition of Hollar's Dance of Death.] 



Canto xv. 



DON JUAN. 



757 



XLV. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had something of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' sliine. 
All youtli — but with an aspect beyond time ; 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
Mournful — but mournful of another's crime, 

She loolv'd as if she sat by Eden's door. 

And grieved for thos« who could retiu-n no more. 

XLVI. 

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear 

Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power ; and as she was the last. 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLVII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young ! 

XLVIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted. 
Although her birth and wealth had given her vogue, 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited; 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mention'd as well fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Bratus at the pageant of Tiberius,' 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust. 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Raby?" 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of nio persuasion ; 

Since ho was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Por»e thunder excommunication, 

If " But ne.'e Adeline, who seem :: to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 

LI. 

And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, 
If good, is none the worse for rep'^'ition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, 
And amplify : you lose much by concision, 

^^^lereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So tho o:ad '«■ gaiu'd, what signifies the route ? 



1 See Tacitus, b. vi. 



LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself ironi vice, 

With all the added charm of form and feature 

For me appears a question far too nice. 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 

But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces 

LIII. 

Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 

Which charm most people in their earlier day: 
For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 

And womankind too, if we so may say. 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 

Like " Antony's by Cajsarj"^ by the few 

Who look upon them as they ought to do. 

LIV. 

It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest /awZ^ was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I thinkj but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui" of mankind. 

It was not but 'tis easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not than what it was. 

LV. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and yonth, though purer than the rest, 

Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam' 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled — 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LVI. 

The dashing and proud air- of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine. 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVIL 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 

Which sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they pre not tame ; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LVIIL 

Juan knew naught of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haid^e ; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by thelone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere. 
Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, 

Nor would be thus: — the difl^erence in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 



[ " And, under him, 

My genius is rebuked ; as it is said 
Mark Antony's ■^as by Caesar."— il/acfi«<A.] 



758 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xv, 



LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative, 

And, as my friend Scott says, I sound my " warison ;"* 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 

Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Saracen, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none would share 
it, if 

There had not been one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 

Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surface of humanity. 

J write the world, nor care if the world read, 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 

Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it, 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 

As cougre'sses of late do) of the Lady 
Adeliue and Don Juan rather blended 

Some acids with the sweets — for she was heady ; 
But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended. 

The silvery bell rang, not for " dinner ready," 
But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to dress, 
Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXII. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table. 
With massy plate for armor, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer 's able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners? where more mystery lurks, 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragoiit. 

Than witches, b — dies, or, physicians, brew. 

LXIII. 

There was a goodly " soupe h. la bonne femme,"^ 
Though God knows whence it came from ; there 
was, too, 

A turbot for relief of those who cram, 
Relieved with " dindon k la Parigeux ;" 

Ther* also was the sinner that I am ! 

How snail I get this gourmand stanza through? — 

" Soupe k la Beauveau," whose relief was dory, 

Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd'all into one grand mess 
Or mass ; for should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 

Than when some squeamish people deem her frail ; 

But though a " bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach 's not her peccant part ; this tale 

However doth require some slight refection. 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 



1 \Warison — cri-de-guerre— note of assault: — 
" Either receive within these towers 
Two hundred of my master's powers, 
Or straight they sound their warison, 
And storm and spoil this garrison." 

Lay of V-£ Last Minstrel.] 

[See Almanacn des Gourmands, Code Go-jrmand, Le 
Ouisinier Tvoyal, &c. &c.] 

8 A dish '• a la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered the 



LXV. 

Fowls " h la Conde," siices eke of salmon. 

With " sauces Gen^Toises," and haunch of venison ; 

Wines too, which might again have slain young 
Ammon — 
A man like whom I hope we shan't see many soon ; 

They also set a glaaed Westphalian ham on. 
Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison ; 

And then there was champagne with foaming whirls. 

As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " h I'Allemande," 

" A I'Espagnole," " timballe," and " salpicon" — 
With things I can't withstand or rmderstand. 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 
And " entremets" to piddle with at hand. 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muffles — , 
{There's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles.^ 

Lxvn. 

What are thei fillets on the victor's brow 

To these ? They are rags or dust. Where is the arch 

Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 

Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march ? 

Gone to vi'here victories must like dinners go. 
Farther I shall not follow the research : 

But oh ! ye modem heroes with your cartridges, 

When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges 7 

Lxvin. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessories, 
FoUow'd by " petits puits d'amour" — a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries. 

Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is. 

There's pretty picking in those " petits puits."* 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses ; 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who wottld suppose, from Adam's simple ration. 
That cookery could have call'd forth such resources. 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too : for a springald 

Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 



East, has left his more extended celebrity to the trans- 
plantation of cherries, (which he first brought into Europe,) 
and the nomenclature of some very good dishes ;— and I am 
not sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done more 
service to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests 
A cherry-tree may weigh against a bloody laurel ; besides, 
1.3 has contrived to earn celebrity from both. 

4 " Petits puits d'amour garnis des confitures," — a classi- 
cal and well-known dish for part of the flank of a stcond 
course. 



Canto xv. 



DON JUAN. 



759 



LXXI. 

Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 

The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 
All which I use to make my rliymes run glibber 

Than could roust beef in qui rough John Bull way : 
I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 

" Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid lay, 
But I 'have dined, and must forego, alas ! 
The chaste description even of a " becasse ;" 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the godt — 

Taste or *he gout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach ! Ere you dine, the French will do ; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout? I have not had it-— 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

LXXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine, 

Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 
I must, although a favorite " plat" of mine 

In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere: 
On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 

The grass my table-cloth, in open air. 
On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 
Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is.* 

LXXIV. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 

And vegetables, all in masquerade, 
The guests were placed according to their roll. 

But various as the various meats display'd : 
Don Juan sat next an " a. I'Espagnole" — 

No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said ; 
But so far like a lady, that 'twas dress'd 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — ■ 
A situation difficult, I ween. 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine, 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, [him. 

With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through 

LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 

Are somehow echo'd to the pretty dears. 

Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge springs. 

Like that sam(> mystic music of the spheres. 
Which no one 'lears, so loudly though it rings, 

'Tis wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXVII. 

Aurora sat with that indifFerence 

Which piques a preux chevalier — as it ought: 
Of all offences that's the worst ofFence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence. 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 



- [•' To-day in a palace to-morrow in a cow-house— this 
day wiih the pacha, the next with a shepherd."— %ron 
Lcttcrsy 1810.J 



LXXVIIL 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 

Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride? 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity? 

Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ;" 

A kind of triumph I'll not recommend. 
Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, 

Both in the case of lover and of friend. 
Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit. 

To bring what was a jest to a serious end : 
For all men prophesy what is or was. 
And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions. 

That he would rather make them more than less 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering she began to question : this 
With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 
Began to dread she'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

Lxxxn. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which show'd such deference to what females say. 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay. 

And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out, 
Withoiit their seeing what he was about 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indiflference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Than whispering foplings, or than witlings loud — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great com- 
mence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud. 
Rather by deference than compliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks ; — that point was carried 
Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve 

To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 
A case which to the juries we may Ieave,_ 

Since with digressions we too long have tarried 
Now though we know of old that looks deceive. 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 



760 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xv. 



LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very j^oung, although so very sage, 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed page. 

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces. 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 

And Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty 

LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates ; 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua."* 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke, 
(See Littleton,) whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third too, in a nook. 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest : 

But if a writer should bo quite consistent. 

How could he possibly show things existent ? 

Lxxxvin. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and everybody. 

Even my veracious self? — But that's a lie: 
I never did so, never will — how should I ? 

He who doubts all things nothing can deny : 

Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are 
muddy. 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true. 

By those who sow them in a land tnat's arable.' 
'Tis wonderful what fable will not do ! 

'Tis said it makes reality more bearable : 
But what's reahty? Who has its clue? 

Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. 

Religion? Yes; but which of all her sects? 

XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that's pretty clear ; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we have need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'Tis time that some new prophet should appear, 

Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years. 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCL 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate. 



» Subauditur " non ;" omitted for the sake of euphony. 
rJohn Scott, Earl of Eldon, Chancellor of England (with 
the interruption of fourteen months) from 1801 to 1830.] 
^ ilaola is a famous hot-spring in Iceland. 
« Hamlet, Act III. so. ii. 



I always knock my head against some angle 

About the present, past, or future state : 
Yet I wish we.'.^ to Trojan and to Tyrian, 
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian 

XCIL 

But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician. 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan 

As Eldon^ on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics my duty is to shov/ John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,' 
To see men lot these scoundrel sovereigns break law 

XGIII. 

But politics, and policy, and piety. 

Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 

Not only for the sake of their variety. 
But as subservient to a moral use ; 

Because my business is to dress society. 

And stuff with sage that very verduut goose. 

And now, that wo may furnish with some matter all 

Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIV. 

And now I will give up all argument ; 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Shall " fool me to the top up of my bent :" — * 

Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed, I never knew what people meant 

By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous ; — I think she is as harmless 
As some who labor more and yet may charm less. 

XCV. 

Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost? 

No ; but yoji have heard — I understand — be dumb ! 
And don't regret the time j'ou may have lost. 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious : — 
For certahi reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious? You laugh ; — you may: that will I not; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where? That sliall I not recall, 
Because I'd rather it should be forgot, 

" Shadows the soul of Richard'" may appal. 
In short, upon that subject I've some qualms very 
Like those of the philosopner of Malmsbury.' 

XCVIL 

The night — (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that I have sate up too late : 

' [" By the apostle Paul, shadows to-niglit 

Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard 
Than can the substance of ten the usand soldiers," &c. 

Richard III.J 
6 Hobbes : who, doubfing of his own soui, paid that com- 
pliment to the souls of I ther people as to decJno thoir vis- 
its, of which he had soma apprehenshr. 



Canto x\r 



DON JUAN. 



701 



XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 'tis by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon — when I have other things 

To think of, if I ever think — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day, 
Treating a topic which, alas ! but brings 

Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition, 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 

How little do we know that which we are ! 

How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 

Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar 

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 

Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 

Of empires heave but like some passing waves.' 



DON JUAN. 



CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. 



I. 

The antique Persians taught three useful things. 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth.^ 

This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
Horses thoy ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 

But draw the long bow better now tlian ever. 

II. 

The cause of this eiFect, or this defect, — 

" For this effect defective comes by cause," — ' 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 
But this I must say in my own applause, 

Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction , 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 

Which you might elsewhere hope to find in vain. 

'Tis true there be some bitters with the sweets. 
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain, 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 



1 [" Man's hfe is like a sparrow— mighty king ! 
That, stealing in while by the fire you sit, 
Housed with rejoicing friends, is seen to flit 
Safe from the storm, in comfort tarrying. 
Here did it enter — there on hasty wing 
Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; 
But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
Whither it goes. Even such that transient thing 
The human soul : not utterly unknown 
While in the body lodged, her warm abode ; 
But from what world she came, what wo or weat 
On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown." 

WOBDSWOBTH.] 



96 



IV. 

But 'of all truths which she has told, ine most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 

What then? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 

Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell? 

'Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 

V. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has the great priority. 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because 'tis so. Who nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all; 

Believe : — if 'tis improbable you must, 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed : 

VII. 

I merely m&an to say what Johnson said, 

That in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears ;* 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there's something stronger still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

VIII. 

The dinner and the soiree too were done. 

The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired. 

The banqueteers had dropp'd off one by one — 
The song was silent, and the dance expired : 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 

Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind,-f- 



2 Xenophon, Cyrop. 3 Hamlet, Act II. sc. ii. 

* [" That the dead are seen no more," said Imlac, " I will 
not undertake to maintain, against the concurrent and un- 
varied testimony of all ages, and of all nations. There is no 
people, rude or unlearned, among whom apparitions of the 
dead are not related and believed. This opinion, which pre- 
vails as far as human nature is diffused, could become uni- 
versal only by its lnith ; those that never heard of one an- 
other would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but 
experience can make credible. That it is doubted by sin- 
gle cavillers, can very httle weaken the general evidence ; 
and some, who deny it with their tongues, confess i ^ with 
their fears." — Rasselas.i 



762 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xvi. 



X. 

Or like an opiate, which briiijTs troubled rest, 
Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 

Except itself: — such is the human breast; 
A thing, of which similitudes ",an show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed pur])le, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.' 

So perish every tyrant's robe piece-meal . 

XL 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball. 
Undressing is a wo ; our robe de chambre 

May sit like that of Ncssus,'-' and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber. 

Titus exckiim'd, " I've lost a day !" Of all 

The nights and days most people can remember, 

CI have had of both, some not to be disdain'd,) 

I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 

And Juan, on retiring for the night, 

Felt restless, and perplex'd, and compromised; 

Ho thought Aurora liaby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised ; 

If ho had known exactly his own plight. 
Ho probably would have piiilosophized : 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full rnoon, 
Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow ; 

And Juan's mind was in the pro])er tone 

To hail her with the apostrophe — " O thou !" 

Of amatory egotism the Tuistn, 

Which farther to explain would be a truism. 

XIV. 

But loveT, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever may behold. 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great thoughts we catch from thence, (besides a cold 
Sometimes, mdess my feeUngs rather err ;) 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains siio sways, 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XV. 

Juan folt somewhat penisve, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow: 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 

Wi*.h all the mystery by midnight caused: 

Be.ow his window waved (of course) a willow * 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That llash'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XVI. 

Upon his table or his toilet, — which 

Of these is not exactly ascertain'd, — 
^I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd,) 



The composition of the old Tyrian purple, whether from 
a sliell-lish, or from cocliincal, or fi(jm kermes, is sliU an 
article of dispute ; and even its color — some say purple, 
otiie:s scarlet : I saj nothing. 



A lamp burn'd high, while ho leant from a niche, 

Whore many a Gothic ornan^ent remain'd, 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. 

XVII. 

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
His chamber door wide open — and went forth 

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue. 

Long, furnish'd with old pictures of great worth, 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of tlio dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XVIIL 

The forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 
Look living in the moon ; and as yon turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence their aspects stom, 

As if to ask how you can dare to keep 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauticf in the grave. 
The charms of other days, 'n starlight gleams, 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvass ; tlieir eyes glance like dreams 

On ours, or spars within some dusky cave. 
But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 

A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 

Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability. 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house ; 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse. 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array'd 
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade, 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 

His garments only a slight nuu'nnir made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird,' 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by, 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in't 

Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold. 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 



2 [See Ovid. Epist. ix.] 

» [" Shew his eyes, and grieve his heart ; 

Come like shadows, so depart." — Macbeth.l 



Canto xvi. 



DON JUAN. 



763 



XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, rcpass'd — the thing of air, 
Or earth beneatli, or heaven, or t'other place ; 

And Juan gazod upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 

lie tax'd liis tongue for words, whicli were not granted, 

To ask the reverend person what ho wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass'd away — but where? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

Ho stood — how long he knew not> but it seem'd 
An age — expectant, jjoworlcss, with his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot where first the figure gleam'd ; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 

And would have pass'd the whole oil' as a dream, 
But could not wake ; ho was, he did surmise, 

Waking already, and rcturn'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

XXVI. 

All there was as he left it : still his taper 
Burnt, and not hlne, as modest tapers use. 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their oflico : he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

Ho read an article the king attacking. 

And a long eulogy of " patent blacking." 

XXVII. 

This savor'd of this world ; but his hand shook: 
Jle shut his door, and after having read 

A paragra])h, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undress'd, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook. 
With what he had seen his phantasy he fed ; 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so ho slept. 

XXVIII. 

Ho woke betimes ; and, as may be supposed, 

Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision. 
And whether it ought not to bo disclosed. 

At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 
The more he thought, the more his mind was posed : 

In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

Ho drcss'd ; and like young people he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather sjvent less time upoa't ; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 

His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 

His very neckcloth's Gonlian knot was tied 

Almost a hair's breadth too mucli on one side. 

• [During a visit to Newstead, in 1814, Lord Byron actu- 
ally fancied he saw the ghost of the Black friar, which was 



XXX. 

And when ho walk'd down into the saloou, 

Ho sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 
Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 

Had it not hu^peu'd scalding hot to be. 
Which made hiin have recourse unto his spoon ; 

So much distrait he was, that ail could see 
That something was the matter — Adeline 
The first — but what siie could not well divine. 

XXXI. 
She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as paio 

Herself ; then hastily look'd down, and mutter'd 
Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 

Lord Henry said his mufhn was ill butter'd ; 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulko play'd with her veil, 

And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 
Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes 
Survey'd hiii with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him nil cold and silent still. 
And everybody wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired, " If he were ill?" 

Ho started, and said, " Yes — no — rather — yes." 

The family physician had great skill. 

And being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 

The f^ause, but Juan said, " Ho was quite welJ." 

XXXIII. 

"Quite well; yes, — no." — These answers wore 
mysterious, 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both. 
However they might savor of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 
Wcigli'd on his spirit, though by no means serious: 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the case, it might bo ta'en for granted, 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
Also the muflin whereof he complain'd. 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate. 

At which he marvell'd, since it had not rain'd ; 

Then ask'd her Grace what news were of tho duke 
of late ? 
Her Grace re[)lied, his Grace was rather paiu'd 

With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and addrcss'd 
A few words of condolence on his state: 

" You look," quoth he, " as if you had had your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

" What friar?" said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate. 

Or careless ; but the eflbrt was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVL 

" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar?' 
The spirit of these walls?" — " In truth not 1." 

" Why Fame — but Fame you know 's sometimes a 
Tells an odd story, of which by an by : [liar^ 

Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer. 
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 

For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 

Tho friar of late has not been oft perceived. 



suppoS'Sd to have haunted the Abbey from the time of tLd 
dissolu.ion of the monasteries.— Moore.J 



764 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xvi. 



XXXVII. 

" Tlie last time was " — " I pray," said Adeline — 

(Wiio watch'd tlie changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context tiiougiit slie could divine 
Connections stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend) — " if you but design 

To jest, you'll choose some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told. 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

"Jest !" quoth Milor ; " why, Adeline, yon know 
That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey-moon — 

Saw " — " Well, no matter, 'twas so long ago ; 

But, come, I'll set your story to a tune." 

Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, 

She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled soon 

As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 

The air of " 'Twas a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

" But add the words," cried Henry, " which you made ; 

Foj- Adeline is half a poetess," 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After somo fascinating hesitation, — 

The channing of these charmers, who seem bound, 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation, — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation. 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound. 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

I. 

Beware ! bewaro ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air. 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, AmundeviUo, 

Made Norman Church his prey. 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 

2. 

Though he came in his might, with King Henry's right. 

To turn church lands to lajs 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay ; 
A monk remain'tl, luichased, unchain'd. 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the church. 

Though he is not seen by day. 



And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth night and day. 



> [" Of the leading superstitions, one of the most beautiful 
IS the Irish fiction, w hich assiRns to certain families of an- 
cient descent and distinguished rank, the privilege of aBan- 
tliie, whose office it is to appear, seemingly mourning, while 
she announces the approaching death of some one of the 
destined race. The subject has been lately, and beautiful- 
ly investigated by Mr. Crofton Croker, in his Fairy Le- 
geuis."— SiK Walter Scott, 1829.] 



By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tia said, 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 

Ho comes — but not to grieve. 

4 
When an heir is bora, he's heara to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall.' 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadow'd by his cowl : 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul 

5. 
But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

He btill retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church's heir 

Whoever may bo the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day, 

But the monk is lord by night ; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To ouestiou that friar's right. 

1 6. 

Say naught to him as he walks the hall. 

And he'll say naught to you ; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall. 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then grammercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 

Let ours be for his soul 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound ; 

And the pause foUow'd, which when song expires 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

And then of course the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound. 

The tones, the feeling, and the execution. 

To the performer's diifident confusion. 

XLII. 

Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
As if she rated such accomplishment 

As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 

Would now and then as 'twere ivithout display, 
Yet tcith display in fact, at times relent 

To such performances with haughty smile, 

To show she could, if it were worth her while. 

XLIIL 

Now this (but wo will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride. 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoil'd carpet — but the " Attic Bee" 

Was much consoled by his own repartee.' 



2 I think that it leas a carpet on which Diogenes trod, with 
— " Thus I trample on the pride of Plato I"—" With groi", 
er pride," as the other replied. But as carpets are meant to 
be trodden upon, my memory probably misgives me, and Jt 
might be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or someother 
expensive and uiicynical piece of furniture. 



Canto xvi. 



DON JUAN. 



765 



XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shada 
^^ (By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 
^hat dilettanti do with vast parade) 

Their sort of half profession ; for it pTows 
To sornethinw like this when too oft display'd ; 

And that it is bo, everybody knows, 
"Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady T'other, 
Show off — to please their company jr mother. 

XLV 

Oh ! the long evenings of duets and trios I 
The admirations and the speculations ; 

Tlie '•■ Mamma Mia's !" and the " Amor Mio's !" 
The " Tanti palpiti's" on such occasions : 

Tlie " Lasciami's," and quavering " Addio's !" 
Amongst our own most musical of nations : 

With " Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale,' 

To sooth« our ears, lest Italy should I'aH.^ 

XLVI. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballaas of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands. 
The calentures of music which o'ercome [lands, 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
No more to bo beheld but in such visions — 
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 

XLVII 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," 

Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
wrote. 

Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as everybody ought 

But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote ; 

Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 

And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — sin'^o we are touching upon taste. 
Which now-a-days is the thermometer 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 

The worlds beyond tiiis world's perplexing waste 
Had more of her existence, for in her 

There was a depth of led.ing to embrace 

Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whoso mind. 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And tiiat was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 
Also thereon, — but that's not much ; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven, 

For fear we shoujd suppose us quite in heaven. 

1 [For two translations of this Portuguese song, see p. 567 J 

2 Ireir.emberthatthe mayoress of a provincial town, some- 
what surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did 
rather nidncorously brcalc through the applauses of an intel- 
ligent audience— intelligent, I mean, as to music— for the 
words, besides being in recondite hvnguages, (it was some 
years before the peace, ere all the world had travelled, and 
whde I was a collegian,) were sorely disguised by tlie per- 
formers :— this mayoress, I say, broke out with, " Kot your 
Italiauos ! for my part, 1 loves a simple ballat !" Rossini will 



I have not heard she was at all poetic, 

Tliough once she was seen reading tlie * Bath 

Guide," [thetic. 

And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deenfd pa- 

Because she said her temper had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been i)ro])hetic 

Of what slio had gouo througli with — since a bride 
But of all verse, what most ensured her praise 
Wore sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimds."' 

LI. 

'Twere difficult to say what was tho object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
Perhaps she might wish to confirm hinr in it. 
Though why I cannot say — at least this minute 

LIL 

But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 

A tiling quite necessary to the elect. 

Who wish to take the tone of their soci«3ty: 

In which yon cannot be too circumspect. 
Whether the mode be persiflage or piety. 

But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy. 

On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.^ 

LIIL 

And therefore Juan now began to rally ' 

His spirits, and without more explanation 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion, 

Witii various similar remarks to tally. 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narration 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family's deaths and wooiugs. 

LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd as such things dp, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited tho strange tradition; 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that head : 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision. 
Which some supposed (though ho had not avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one. 

The company prepared to separate ; 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none. 

Some wondering 'twas so early, some so ?ate 
There was a goodly match too, to bo run 

Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate, 
And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 
Match'd for tho spring, whom several wont to see. 



go a good way to bring most people to the same opinion som» 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the aucc e.ssoroi 
Mozart 1 However, I state this with dithclcnce, as a liege rjid 
loyal admire- of Italian music in general, and of meet, of 
Kossini's ; but we may say, as the connoisseur did of pajiting 
in " The Vicar of Wakefield," that " the picture would b^ 
better painted if the painter had taken more pains." 

s [The last words or rhymes of a number of verses given 
to a poet to be filled up. — Todd.1 

* [Petticoat government — female power — /Wd.] 



766 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xvi. 



LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer who had brought 

A si)ecial Titian, warranted original, 
So precious that it was not to be bought, 

Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 
The king himself had cheapon'd it, but thought 

The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all 
His subjects by his gracious acceptation) — 
Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as TiOrd Henry was a connoisseur, — 

The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure. 
So that ho would have been the very donor, 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So much ho deem'd his patronage an honor, 

Had brought the capo d'opera,' not for sale, 

But for his judgment — never known to fail. 

Lvni. 

There was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 

Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, [thick. 

Brought to survey these gray walls, which though so 
Might have from time acquired some slight defect ; 

Who after rummaging the Abbey through thick 
And iliin, produced a plan whereby to erect 

New buildings of correctest conformation, 

And throw down old, which he call'd restoration. 

LIX. 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
Set to some thousands ('tis the usual burthen 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
The price would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong. 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would go forth iu 

Its glory, through all ages sliining sunny. 

For Gothic daring shown in English money.' 

LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wisli'd to raise for a new purchase ; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 

And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
" Untying" squires " to fight against the churches ;"' 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughraxii. 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXL 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 

And scarlet cloak, (I hate the sight to see, since — 

Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I have paid few parish fees since :) 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigor, 

Presents tlio problem of a double figure. 

Lxn. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery. 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out ; 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
r leave to those who are fond of solving doubt ; 

1 I Capo d'o7>ero— chef-d'oeuvre— master-piece.] 

2 " Ausu Romano, a;re Veneto" is the inscription (and 
well inscribed \n this instance) on the sea walls between the 
Adruitic and Venice. The walls were a republican work of 
the VenclKins ; the inscription, I believe, Imperial ; and in- 
scribed by Napoleon the First. It is time to continue to him 
that, title— thcie will be a seccmd by and by, •' Spes altera 
luuaoi," if he tivt ; let him not defeat it like his father. But 



And merely state, though not for the consistory, 

Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 
The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, ml 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor 

Lxni 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 

Of those who have not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases. 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame: 

Preserving partridges and pretty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious benches. 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale. 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale 

'Tis white, o* 'sast when they just rise from bod 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail. 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

*LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espifegle eye, 
Had gather'd a largo tear into its corner. 

Which the jjoor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility. 

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVL 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here anu Ihore, 
Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 

The lawyers in thi study ; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 

From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 
Both busy (as a general in his tent 

Writing dispatches) in their several stations, 

Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

Lvn. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frai!, 

Biscuss'd (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father 

LXVIH. 

You see here was enough of occupation 

For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and horse 

There was much bustle too, and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses ; 

Because, as suits their rank and situation. 

Those who in counties have great land rooourco 

Have " public days," when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd " open house." 



in any case, he will be preferable to Imbiciles. Thtifi >s a 
glorious field for hini, if he know how to cultivats it. — [Na- 
poleon, Duke of Iteu^hstadt, died at Vienna in 1832 — to LbB 
disappointment of many prophets.] 
3 "1 conjure you, by that which you profess, 
(Howe'er you come to know it) answer me: 
Though ye untie the winds, and let 'hera figlt 
Against the churches." — Macbeth 



Canto xvi. 



DON JUAN. 



767 



LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, wninvited 
(Thus we translate a genr.ral invitation) 

All country frentlcmen, esquired or knighted, 

May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation ; 

And as the isthmuo of the grand connection, 

Tulk o'er themselves the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 

But county contests cost him rather dearer. 

Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of Giftgabbit 

Had English influence, in the self-same sphere here ; 
His son, the Honorable Dick Dicedrabbit, 

Was member for the " other interest," (meaning 

The same self-interest, with a different leaning ) 

LXXI. 

Courteous and cautious therefore in bis county, 
He was ail things to all men, and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty. 

And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But what with keeping some, and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

LXXH. 

A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held, 

That ho exactly the just medium hit 

'Tvv'ixt place and patriotism — albeit compell'd, 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish'd. 

Lxxni. 

Ho was " free to confess" — (whence comes this phrase? 

Is't English? No — 'tis only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factions path to praise. 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it. 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 

LXXIV 

Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life 
Had ever bcen^his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife, 

Which threaten'd the whole country with perdition ? 

When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh ! damnable incision !) 

The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose strings 

Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list [keep it. 

And champion him to the utmost' — " ho would 

Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: 

Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 

But should the day come when place ceased to exist, 
The country would have far more cause to weep it : 

For how could it go on? Explain who can ! 

He ^e-3ried in the name of Englishman. 



I " Rather than so, come, fate, into the list. 

And cliampion me to the utterance."— il/ociciA. 



LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 

Than those who were not paid for independence, 

As common soldiers, or a connnon shore, 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregularn in lust or gore. 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

Lxxvn. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said. 

And thought. I say no more — I've said too much 

For all of us have either heard or read — 
Oft' — or upon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the ofiicial candidate. I'll touch 

No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 

And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung — 

LXXVNI. 

But I'm too late, and thereloro must make play 
'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 

Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 
Were something very glorious to behold. 

But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 

Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 

And everybody out of their own sphere. 

L^XIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 

My lords and ladies proudly condescending; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand 

Their plates — without it might be too much bending 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both man and master too — their places. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds doign'd to 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen [lurch ; 
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were' some massy members of the church. 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 

LXXXI. 

There were some country wags too — and, alas ! 

Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 

And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhclming son of heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,* 
The loudest wit I e'er was dcafen'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A brilliant diner out, though but a curate, 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(O Providence ! liow wondrous are thy ways! 

Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes obdurate?) 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and naught to think on. 



- [Query, Sidney Smith, author of Peter Plimley's letters { 
-Prniter's Devil.] 



768 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xvi. 



LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away amongst the fens ; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
•To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, " between 
A beggar and a queen,'" or ivas (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we've seen — 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 

A difference between crockerj'-ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth — 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who have few resources of their own, 
And only think, or act, or feel, with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition 

LXXXVI. 

But " en avaut !" The light«ioves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
. Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know. 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
With vivifying Venus,° who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles: 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXVII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place, he ktiew not where, 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait. 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair: 
Though knives and forks clank'd round as in a fray. 

He seem'd unconcious of all passing there. 
Till some one, with a groan, express'd a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

Lxxxvni. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans. 
He started ; and perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he color'd more than once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce — 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound. 

And with such huiry, that ere he could curb it. 

He had paid his neighbor's prayer with half a turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd, 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sure, 
They wonder'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 



1 [" There 's a difference between a beggar and a queen • 
And I'll tell you the reason why ; 



XC 

They little knew, or might have sympathized. 
That he the night before had seen a ghost, 

A prologue which but slightly harmonized 
With the substantial company engross'd 

By matter, and so much materialized. 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 

But what confused him more than smile or stare^ 
From all the 'squires and 'squiresscs ai'ound. 

Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air. 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For some vivacity among the fair. 

Ever in the country circle's narrow bound — 

(For lift e things upon my lord's estate 

Were good small talk for others still less great)— 

xcn. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss : 

In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's there was naught to pique, 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIIL 

'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation. 

Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very v,'ise, and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their defences 

XCIV. 

But what was bad, she did not blush in turn. 
Nor seem embarrass' d — quite the contrary ; 

Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 

Yet grew a little pale — with what ? concern ? 
I know not ; but her color ne'er was high — 

Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always clear, 

As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

xcv. 

But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game. 

And dignity with courtesy so blending, 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, sou's, or similar connection's 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 

XCVI. 

Though this was most expedient on the whole. 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

On Adeline while playing her grand role. 

Which she went through as though it were a dance, 

Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce perceptibly askance, 

(Of weaiiness or scorn,) began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real ; 

A queen does not swagger, nor get drunk like a beggar, 
Nor be half so merry as I," &c.l 
a fSine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus.— Adag.] 



Canto xvi. 



DON JUAN. 



769 



XCVII. 

So well sho acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 
Which many people take for want of heart. 

They err — 'tis merely what is call'd inohility,' 
A thing of temperament and not of art, 

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 
And false — though true ; for surely they're sincereet, 
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVIII. , 
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 

Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages never 
But speakers, hards, diplomatists, and dancers. 

Little that 's great, but much of what is clever ; 
Most orators, but very few financiers. 

Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavor, 
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors, 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 
The poets of arithmetic are they. 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they might do in a modest way. 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take, and what they pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea. 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 
While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces. 

The fair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at ease ; 
Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces. 

Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 
The ridicules of people in all places — 

That honey of your fashionable bees — 
And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 
And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 
However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose. 

And courtesying off, as courtesies country dame, 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with their dinner and their host, 
But with the Lady Adeline the most. 

cn. 

Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face, 

Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity 
Yes ; she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity. 
And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form with curious felicity !^ 

CHL 
Meanwhile sweet Adeline desei-ved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation. 



1 In French " moftiZiie." I am not sure that mobility is 
English ; but it is express! ve of a quality which rather belongs 
to other climates, though it is sometimes seen to a great ex- 
tent in our own. It may be defined as an excessive suscepti- 
bility of immediate impressions — at the same time without 
losing the past : and is, though sometimes apparently useful 
to the possessor, a most painful and unhappy attribute. — 
[That Lord Cyron was fully aware not only of the abun- 
dance of this quality in his own nature, but of the danger in 
which it placed consistency and singleness of character, did 
no; require this note lo assure you. The consciousness, In- 
dool, of his own natural tendency to yield thus to every 



97 



Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and facea, 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIV 
True, she said little — 'twas the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram ; 
But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's " faint praise,'" so wont to damn, 
Her own but server to set off every joke. 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend I 

I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 

CV. 
There were but two exceptions to this keen 

Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one 
Aurora, with her pure and placid mien : 

And Juan, too, in general behind none 
In gay remark ou what he had heard or seen, 

Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone : 
In vain he heard the others rail or rally. 
He would not join them in a single sally. 

CVI. 

'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 

She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 

Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Farther ; it might or it might not be so. 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his revery, 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CVIL 

The ghost at least had done him this much good. 

In making him as silent as a ghost. 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 
And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost, 
Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I «iust deem them real : — 

cvin. 

The love of higher things and bettor days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways ; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise. 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own. 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 

Who would not sigh Ai ai rav Kvdspciav 

That hath a memory, or that had a heart? 

Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian : 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 

Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 

Unwithering myrtle round the u^blunted dart 

Of Eros : but though thou hast play'd us many tricks. 

Still we respect thee, " Alma Venus Genetrix !"^ 



chance impression, and change with every passing impulse, 
was not only forever present in his mind, but had the eifect 
of keeping him in that general line of consistencyj on cer- 
tain great subjects, which he continued to preserve through 
out life. — Moore.] 

2 " Curiosa felicitas."— Petronius Arbiter 

3 [" Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. 

And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer." 

.Pope on AdJison.l 

* [ " genetrix hominum, div6mque voluptas, 

Alma Venus I" — Lucret. lib. i.] 



770 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Canto xv: 



CX 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 

Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep. 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before: he was undress'd, 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress ; 

Completely " sans culotte," and without vest ; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 

But apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
He sate with feelings awkward to express, 

(By these who have not had such visitations,) 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain he listen'd ; — Hush ! what 's that? 

I see — I see — Ah, no ! — 'tis not — yet 'tis — 
Ye powers ! it is the — the — the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his I 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe 

CXIII. 

Again — what is 't? The wind? No, no, — this time 

It is the sable friar as beforo. 
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime. 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood curdle. 

CXIV. "" 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,' 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clatter, 

Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, 
Sounding like very supernatural water, 

Came»over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
For immaterialism 's a serious matte' ; 

So that even those whos^ faith is the most great 

In souls immortal, shun them tet2-a,-tete. 

CXV. 

Were his eyes open ? — Yes I and nis mouth too. 
. Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb. 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next? — the door. 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. " Lasciate gni speranza 

Voi che entrate I" The hinge seem'd to speak, 
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza ; 

Or — but all words upon such themes are weak : 
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero — for what is substance to a spirit? 

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it ? 

» See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Charles of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer — " Karl— Karl- 
was wo list du mit mich V 



CXVII. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then swung back ; nor close — but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright. 

And in the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

• CXVIII. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but being sick of shaking, 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken ; 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 

Hinting that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath ^erce, 
And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated; 

But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated. 

Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce. 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated: 

The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 

He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 

cxx. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 

It touch'd no soul, no body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 

Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity 

cxxi. 

But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared. 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 
The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 

CXXII. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon wonder ! 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 

He found, as people on most trials must. 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIIL 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 

As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood ; 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl. 

And they reveal'd — alas ! that e'er they should ! 
In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, 
Tlie phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke ! 



771 



APPENDIX. 



OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 

Note [A.] — Battle of Talavera. See p. 19 

" To feed the crow on Talavera' s plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.''' 

Stanza xli. 

We think it right to restore here a note which Lord Byron 
himself suppressed with reluctance, at the urgent request of a 
friend. It alludes, inter alia, to the then recent publication of 
Sir Walter Scott's " Vision of Don Roderick," of which work 
the profits had been handsomely given to the cause of Portu- 
guese patriotism: — "We have heard wonders of the Portu- 
guese lately, and their gallantry. Pray Heaven it continue ! 
yet ' would it were bedtime, Hal, and all were well !' They 
must fight a great many hours, by ' Shrewsbur-' clock,' before 
the number of their slain equals that of our countrymen- 
butchered by these kind creatures, now metamorphosed into 
' ca^adores,' and what not. I merely state a fact, not confined 
to Portugal ; for in Sicily and Blalta we are knocked on the 
head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or 
Maltese is ever punished ! The neglect of protection is dis- 
graceful to our government and governors ; for the murders 
are as notorious as the moon that shines upon them, and the 
apathy tha'. overlooks them. The Portuguese, it is to be 
hoped, are complimented with the 'Forlorn Hope,'— if the 
cowards aie become brave, {like the rest of their kind, in a 
corner,) pray let them display it. But there is a subscription 
for tlwso ' ^^(Tv-biiXot' (they need not be ashamed of the 
epithet once applied to the Spartans ;) and all the charitable 
patronymics, fromostentatious A. to diffidentZ., and 1/. Xs.M. 
from ' An Admirer of Valor,' are in requisition for the lists 
at Lloyd's, and the honor of British benevolence. Weill we 
have fought, and subscribed, and bestowed peerages, and 
buried the killed by our friends and foes ; and, lo 1 all this 
is to be done over again ! Like Lien Chi, (in Goldsmith's 
Citizen of the World,) as we ' grow older, we grou' never 
the better.' It would be pleasant to learn who will subscribe 
for us, in or about the year 181."), and what nation will send 
fifty thousand men, first to be decimated in the capital, and 
then decimated again (in the Irish fashion, nine out of ten) 
in the ' bed of honor ;' which, as Sergeant Kite says, is 
considerably larger and more commodious than ' the bed of 
Ware.' Then they mvist have a poet to write the ' Vision of 
Don Perceval.' and g '. • arously bestow the profits of the well 
and widely printed quaito, to rebuild the ' Backwynd' and 
the ' Canongate,' or furnish new kilts for the half-roasted 
Highlanders. Lord Wellington, however, has enacted 
marvels ; and so did his oriental brother, whom I saw 
charioteering over the French flag, and heard clipping bad 
Spanish, after listening to the speech of a patriotic cobbler of 
Cadiz, on the event of his own entry into that city, and the 
exit of some five thousand bold Britons out of this ' best of 
all possible worlds.' Sorely were we puzzled how to dispose 
of that same victory of Talavera ; and a victory it surely was 
somewhere, for everybody claimed it. The Spanish dispatch 
and mob called it Cuesta's, and made no great mention of 
the Viscount; the French called it theirs, (to my great dis- 
comfiture, — for a French consul stopped my mouth in Greece 
with a pestilent Paris Gazette, just as I had killed Sebas- 
tiana ' in buckram,' and King Joseph ' in Kendal green') — 
and we have not yet determined what to call it, or whose ; 
for, certes, it was none of our own. Howbeit, Massena's 
retreat is a great comfort ; and as we have not been in the 



1 1'his Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble Lord for the sole purpose of 
'keichmg, in whrch he excels; but I am sorry to say, that he has, throuorh 
the abf.sed sanction of that most respectable name, been treading at humlsle 
rtis'ance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri.— A shipful of his troplnes was detained, 
r.nd I believe confiscated, at Constantinople, in 1810. I am most h.ippy to 
be DOW tnnbled to state, that •* this was not in his bond ;** that he was em- 
vlcyed i»lely as a painter, end that bia ooble patron Usavoxs alt counection 



habit of pursuing for some years past, no wonder we arc a 
little awkward at first. No doubt we shall improve ; or, if 
not, we have only to take to our old way of retrograding, 
and there we are at home." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

Note [A.]^ — Removal of the Works of Art from 
Athens. See p. 27. 

" But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared." 

Stanza xii. 

At this moment, (January 3, 1810,) besides what has 
been already deposited in London, a Hydriot vessel is in 
the Pyraeus to receive every portable relic. Thus, as 
I heard a young Greek observe, in common with many ot 
his countrymen— for, lost as they are, they yet feel on this 
occasion — thus may Lord Elgin boast of having ruined 
Athens. An Italian painter of the first eminence, named 
Lusieri, is the agent of devastation ; and like the Greek 
finder of Verres in Sicily, who followed the same pro- 
fession, he has proved the able instrument of plunder. Be- 
tween this artist and the French Consul Fauvel, who 
wishes to rescue the remains for his own government, there 
is now a violent dispute concerning a car employed in 
their conveyance, the wheel of which — I wish they were 
both broken upon it I — has been locked up by the Consul, 
and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the Waywode. 
Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in his choice of Signor 
Lusieri. During a residence of ten years in Athens, he 
never had the curiosity to proceed as far as Sunium, (now 
Cape Colonna,) till he accompanied us in our second e.x- 
cursion. However, his works, as far as they go, are most 
beautiful : but they are almost all unfinished. While he 
and his patrons confine themselves to tasting medals, ap- 
preciating cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening 
gems, their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or 
fox-hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or any 
such pastime ; but when they carry away three or four 
shiploads of the most valuable and massy relics that time 
and barbarism have left to the most injured and most cele- 
brated of cities; when they destroy, in a vain attempt to 
tear down those works which have been the admiration of 
ages, I know no motive which can excuse, no name which 
can designate the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. 
It was not the least of the crimes laid to the charge of 
Verres, that he had plundered Sicily, in the manner since 
imitated at Athens. The most unblushing impudence 
could hardly go farther than to afl^x the name of its plun- 
derer to the walls of the Acropolis ; while the wanton 
and useless defacement of the whole range of the basso- 
relievos, in one compartment of the temple, will never 
permit that name to be pronounced by an observer without 
execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a col- 
lector or admirer of collections, consequently no rival; 
but I have some early prepossession in favor of Greece, 
and do not think the honor of England advanced by plun- 
der, whether of India or Attica. 

Another noble Lord has done better, because he has done 
less : but some others, more or less noble, yet " all honor- 
able men," have done best, because, after a deal of ex- 
cavation and execration, bribery to the Waywode, mining 
and countermining, they have done nothing at all. We 
had such ink shed, and wine shed, which almost ended in 
bloodshed ! Lord E.'s " prig"— see Jonathan Wild for the 
definition of " priggism"— quarrelled with another, Gropius^ 



with him, except as an artist. If the error in the first and second ec^itions 
of this poem has^iven the noble Lord a moment's pain, I am very sorry for it: 
Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of his a^ent ; and though I cannot 
much condemn myself for sharinjr in the mistake of so many, I am happy ia 
being- one of tile first to be undeceived. Indeed, I have as liiucn pleasure in 
contradicting this as I felt regret in stating it. — Aote to third cdilwn* 



772 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



by name, (a very good name too for his business,) and mut- 
t-sred something about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a 
note of the poor Prussian : this was stated at ;able to 
Gropius, who laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. 
The rivals were not reconciled when I left Greece. I 
have reason to remember tht'i; squabble, for thc-y wanted 
to make me thoir arbitrator. 



Note [B.]- 



-Albanlv and the Albanians. 
See p. 30. 



" Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ."' 

SiSinza xxxvii. 

Albania comprises part o( Macedonia, Illyria, Chaonia, 
and Epirus. Isliander is the Turkish word for Alexander ; 
and the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) is alluded 
to in the third and fourth lines of the thirty-eighth stanza. 
I do not know whether I am correct in making Scanderbeg 
the countryman of Alexander, who was born at Pella in 
Macedon, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus 
to the list, in speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country " within sight 
of Italy is less known than the interior of America." Cir- 
cumstances, of little consequence to mention, led Mr. Hob- 
house and myself into that country before we visited any 
other part of the Ottoman dominions ; and with the excep- 
tion of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, no 
other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital 
into the interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me. 
Ali Pacha was at that time, (October, 1809,) carrying on 
war against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, 
a strong fortress, whicli he was then besieging ; on our 
arrival at Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his high- 
ness's birthplace, and favorite Serai, only one day's dis- 
tance from Berat ; at this juncture the Vizier had made it 
his head-quarters. After some stay in the capital, vve ac- 
cordingly followed ; but though furnished with every ac- 
commodation, and escorted by one of the Vizier's secre- 
taries, we were nine days (on account of the rains) in 
accomplishing a journey which, on our return, barely oc- 
cupied four. On our route we passed two cities, Argyro- 
castro and Libochabo, apparently little inferior to Yanina 
in size ; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice to the 
scenery in the vicinity of Zitza and Delvinachi, the frontier 
village of Epirus and Albania Proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, 
because this will be done so much better by my fellow- 
traveller, in a work which may probably precede this in 
publication, that I as Utile wish to follow as I would to an- 
ticipate him. But some few observations are necessary to 
the text. The Arnaouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly 
by their resemblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in 
dress, figure, and manner of living. Their very mountains 
seemed Caledonian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, 
though white ; the spare, active form ; their dialect, Celtic 
in its sound, ar 1 their hardy habits, all carried me back to 
Morven. No lidon are so detested and dreaded by their 
neighbors as the Albanese ; the Greeks hardly regard them 
as Christians, or the Turks as Moslems ; and in fact they 
are a mixture of both, and sometimes neither. Their 
habits are predatory— all are armed ; and the red-shawled 
Arnaouts, the ^Montenegrins, Chimariots, and Gegdes are 
treacherous ; the others differ somewhat in garb, and es- 
sentially in character. As far as rny own experience goes, 
I can speak favorably. I was attended by two, an Infidel 
and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other part of 
Turkey which came within my observation ; and" more 
faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely to be 
found. The Infidel was na:med Basilius, the Moslem, Der- 
vish Tahiri ; the former a man of middle age, and the lat- 
ter about my own. Basilius was strictly charged by Ali 
Pacha in person to attend us ; and Dervish was one of 
fifty who accompanied us through the forests of Acarnania 
to the banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalonghi in 
.iEtolia. There I took him into my own service, and 
never had occasion to repent it till the moment of my 
departure. 

When, in 1810, after the departure of my friend Mr. Hob- 
house for England, I was seized with a severe fever in the 
Morea, these men saved my life by frightening away my 
physician, whose throat they threatened to cut if I was not 
cured within a given time. To this consolatory assurance 



of posthumous retribution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. 
Romanell's prescriptions, I attributed my recoveiy. I had 
left my last remaining English servant at Athens , my dra- 
goman was as ill as myself, and my poor Aniao\its nursed 
me with an attention which would have done honor to 
civilizatK.n. They had a variety of adventures ; f r the 
Moslem, Der.'ish, being a remarkably handsome msi , was 
always squabbling with the husbands of Athens ; insc mtich 
that four of the principal Turks paid me a visit of ro- 
monstrance at the Convent, on the subject of his liaving 
taken a woman from the bath— whom he had lawfully 
bought, nowever— \ thing quite contrary to etiquette. Ba- 
silius also, was extremely gallant amongst his own per- 
suasion, and had the greatest veneration for the church, 
mixed with the highest contempt of churchmen, whom he 
cuffed upon occasion in a most heterodox manner. Tet he 
never passed a church without crossing himself ; and I re- 
member the risk he ran in entering St. Sophicv, ::. Stambol, 
because it had once been a place of his worship. On remon- 
strating with him on his inconsistent proceedings, he invari- 
ably answered, " Our church is holy, our priests are thieves ;" 
and then he crossed himself as usual, and boxed the ears of 
the first " papas" who refused to assist in any required 
operation, as was always found to be necessary where 
a priest had any influence with the Cogia Bash' of his 
village. Indeed, a mere abandoned race of iniscre;.! is can- 
not exist than the lower orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations were made for my return, my Alba- 
nians were summoned lo receive their pay. Ba,silius took 
his with an awkward snow of regret at my intended de- 
parture, and marched away to his quarters with his bag of 
piasters. I sent for Dervish, but for some time he was not 
to be found ; at "last he entered, just as Signer Lopotheti, 
father to the ci-devant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some 
other of my Greek acquaintances, paid me a visit. Dervish 
took the money, but on a sudden dashed it to the ground ; 
and clasping his hands, which he raised to his forehead, 
rushed out of the room weeping bitterly. From that mo- 
ment to the hour of my embarkation, he continued his la- 
mentations, and all our efforts to console him only produped 
this answer, " M' o^ci)'£i," "He leaves me." Signor Lo- 
gotheti, who never wept before for any thing 'ess than the 
loss of a para, (about the fourth of a farthing,) melted ; 
the padre of the convent, my attendants, rny visiters— and 
I verily believe that even Sterne's " foolisli fat scullion" 
would have left her " fish-kettle" to sympathize with the 
unaffected and unexpected sorrow of this barbarian. 

For my own part, when I remembered that, a short time 
before my departure from England, a noble and most inti- 
mate associate had excused himself from taking leave of 
me because he had to attend a relation " to a milliner's," I 
felt no less surprised than humiliated by the present occur- 
rence and the past recollection. That Dervish would leave 
me with some regret was to be expected ; when master 
and man have been scrambling over the mountains of a 
dozen provinces togetlier, they are unwilling to separate ; 
but his present feelings, contrasted with his native feroci- 
ty, improved my opinion of the human heart. I believe 
this almost feudal fidelity is frequent among them. One 
day, on our journey over Parnassus, an Englishman in my 
service gave him a push in some dispute about the baggage, 
which he unluckily mistook for a blow ; he spoke not, but 
sat down leaning liis head upon his hands. Foreseeing the 
consequences, we endeavored to explain away the affront, 
which produced the following answer :— " I have been a rob- 
ber ; 1 am a. soldier ; no captain ever struck me ; i/ou are 
my master, I have eaten your bread, b'll by that bread ! (an 
unusual oath,) had it been otherwise, I would have .^tabbed 
the dog your servant, and gone to the mountains." So the 
affair ended, but from that day forward he never th'>rough- 
ly forgave the thoughtless fellow who insulted him. 
Dervish excelled in the dance of his country, conjectured 
to he a remnant of the ancient Pyrrhic : be thj^t as it may, 
it is manly, and requires wonderful agility. It is veiy dis- 
tinct from the stupid Romaika, the dull round-about of the 
Greeks, of which our Athenian party had so many speci- 
mens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultivators 
of the earth in the provinces, who have also that appella- 
tion, but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of countenance ; 
and the most beautiful women I ever beheld, in stature and 
in features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the 
torrents between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner 
of walking is truly theatrical ; but this strut is probacly the 
effect of the capote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. 
Their long hair reminds you ctf the Spartans, and their 
courage in desultory warfare ;s unquestionable. Though 
they have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, I never saw 
a good Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the English 
saddles, which, however, they could never keep But on foot 
they are not to be subdued by fatigue. 



APPENDIX. 



773 



Note [C] — Specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout 
Dialect of the Illyric. See p. 34. 

" While tnus in concert they this lay half sang, half screamed." 

Stanza Ixxii. 

A.S a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of tlie 
lUync, I here ini-srt two of their most popular choral songs, 
which are generally chanted in dancuig by men or women 
LT.discrimmately. The first words are merely a kind of 
chorus without meaning, like some in our own and all 
other languages. 

1. Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 1. Lo, Lo, 1 come, I come ; be thou 
Naciarura, popuso. silent. 

2. Naciarura na civin 2. I come, I run ; open the door that 
Ha pen derini ti hiii I may enter. 

3. Ha pe uderi escroiini 3. Open the door by halves, that I 
Ti vm li mar servetini. may take my turban. 

4. Ciiliriote me surme 4. Caliriotest with the dark eyes, 
Ea ha pe pse dua tive. open the ^ale that I may enter. 

5. Bug, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 5. Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my soul. 
Gi eo^em spirta esimiro, 

0. Caliriote vu le funde 6. An Arnaout girl, in costly garb, 

r^'io vete lunde tunde. walki with graceful pride. 

7. Caliriote me surme 7. Caliriot maid of the uLik eyes, 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. give me a Isiss. 

8. Se ti puta citi mora 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. 



8. If I have kissed thee, what hast 
thou g-ained ? My soul is con- 



10. Plu hari li tirete 
Plu liuron cai pra se 



sumeu with fire. 
9. Dance liorhtly, more gently, and 

gently still. 
10. Make not so much dust to destroy 
your embroidered hose. 

The last stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men 
have certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, but the 
ladies (to whom the above is supposedto be addressed) have 
nothing under their little yellow boots and slippers but a 
well-turned and sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout 
girls are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their dress 
is'far more picturesque. They preserve their shape much 
longer also, from being alwav j in the open air. It is to be 
observed, that the Arnaout is not a written language : the 
w^ords of this song, therefore, as well as the one which fol- 
lows, are spelt according lo their pronunciation. They 
are copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect 
jierfectly, and who is a native of Athens. 

1. I am wounded by thy love, and 
have loved but to scorch myself. 

2. Thou hast consumed me! Ah! 
maid ! thou hast struck me to 
the heart. 

3. tJti tasa rcba stua 3. I hcve said I wish no dowry, but 

Sitti eve tulati dua thine eyes and eyelashes. 

4. Roba stinori ssidua 4. The accursed dowry I want not, 
Q,u mi sini vetti dua. but thee only. 

5. Qurmini dua civileni 5. Give me thy charms, and let the 
Roba ti siarmi tildi eni. pojtion feed the Hames. 

6. Utara pisa vaisisso me simi rin ti 6. I have loved thee, maid, with a 

hapti , sincere snul, but thou hast left 

Eti mi hire a piste si gui dendroi me like a wiiherefl tree, 
tiliaii. 
7 Udi vuraudoriniudiricicova cilti 7. If I have placed my hand on thy 

mora bosom, what have I gained? 

Udorini taltihollna ucde caimoni my hand is withdrawn, l)ut re- 

mora. tains the flame. 

I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in different 
measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An idea some- 
thing similar toii3 thought in the last lines was expressed 
by Socrates, whose arm having come in contact with one of 
his " iiiroKoXjTio*.," Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher 
corr.p .ained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for 
some days after, and thi j^'ore very properly res i?ed to 
teach his disciples in futuie w^hout touching them 



1. JNdi sefda tinde ulavossa 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. 

i. Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 
Si mi rini mi la vosac. 



Note [D.] — Thoughts on the Present State of 
Greece. See p. 35. 

" Fo'T Greece '. sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great .'" 

Stanza Ixxiii. 



Before I say any thing about a city of which everybody, 
;riivt iler or not, has thought it 'necessary to say something, 
1 will re^jjst Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an 



1 Th: Alhanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed " Cali- 
riotes/' for -^vhat reason I inquired in vain. 



Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the good- 
ness to marry her to somebody more of a gentleman than a 
"Disdar Aga," (who, by the by, is not an Aga,) the most 
impolite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny 
Athens ever saw, (except Lord E.,) and the unworthy occu- 
pant of the Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of 150 
piastres, (eight pounds sterling,) out of which he has only 
to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corpi in the lU- 
regulated Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I 
was once the cause of the husband of " Ida of Athens" 
nearly suffering the bastinado : and because the said " Dis- 
dar" is a turbulent husband, and beats his wife ; so that I 
exhort and beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate 
maintenance m behalf of " Ida." Having premised thus 
much, on a matter of such import to the readers of romances, 
I may now leave Ida, to mention her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of tne name, and all those asso- 
ciations which it would be pedantic and superfluous to re- 
capitulate, the very situation of Athens would render it the 
favorite of all who have eyes for art or nature. The cli- 
mate, to me at least, appeared a perpetual spring ; during 
eight montli^ I never passed a day without being as many 
hours on horseback ; rain is extremely rare, snow never 
lies in the plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In 
Spain, Portugal, and every part of the East which I visited, 
except Ionia and Attica, I perceived no such superiority of 
climate to our own ; and at Constantinople, where I passed 
May, June, and part of July, (1810,) you might " damn the 
climate, and complain of spleen," five days out of seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavy and unwholesome, but the 
moment you pass the isthmus in the direction of Megara 
the change is strikingly perceptible. But I fear Hesioil 
will still be found correct in his description of t: Bceotian 
winter. 

We found atLivadia an " esprit fort" in a Greek bishop, 
of all freethinkers I This worthy hypocrite rallied his own 
religion with great intrepidity, (but not before his flock,) 
and talked of a mass as a " coglioneria." It was impossible 
to think better of him for this ; but, for a Boeotian, he was 
brisk with all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the 
exception indeed of Thebes, the remaiiis of Chajronea, the 
plain of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave 
of Trophonius) was the only remarkable thing we saw be- 
fore we passed Mount Cithairon. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill: at least my com- 
panion (who resolving to be at once cleanly and classical, 
bathed in it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and 
anybody who tliinks it worth while may contradict him. At 
Castri we drank of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the 
purest, before we decided to our satisfaction which was the 
true Castalian, and even that had a villanous twang, proba- 
bly from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic 
fever, like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phyle, of which large remains still exist, the 
Plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hymettus, the JEgean, and the 
Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once ; in my opinion, a 
more glorious prospect than even Cmtra or Istambol. Not 
the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the 
more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior 
in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but ex^-epting the 
view from the monastery of Megaspelion, (which is inferior 
to Zitzain a command of country,) and the descent from 
the mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arca- 
dia has little to recommend it beyond the name 

" Sternitur, et dulces morions reminiscit^ir Argos." 
Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an 
Argive, ancl (with reverence be it spoken) it do3S not de- 
serve the epithet. And if the Polynices of Statins, " In 
mediis audit duo litora campis," did actually hear both 
shores in crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears 
than have ever been worn in such a journey since. 

" Athens," says a celebrated topographer, " is still the 
most polished city of Greece." Perhaps it may of Greece, 
but not of the Greihs ; for Joannina in Epirus is universally 
allowed, amongst themselves, to be superior in the wealth, 
refinement, learning, and dialect of its inhabitants. The 
Athenians are remarkable for their cunning ; and the lower 
orders are not improperly characterized in that proverb, 
which classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, and the 
Turks of the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, 
Italians, Germans, Ragusans, &c., there was never a dif- 
ference of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, 
though on all other topics they disputed ivith great acri- 
mony. 

M. Fauvel, the French Consul, who has passet thirty 
years principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an art- 
ist, and manners as a gentleman, none who have known 
him can refuse their testimony, has frequently declared in 
my hearing that the Greeks do not deserve to be emanci- 



774 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



pated , reasoning on the grounds of their " national and 
individual depravity 1" while he forgot that such depravity 
is to be attributed to causes vv'hich can only be removed by 
the measure he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long set- 
tled in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity, 
" Sir, they are the same canaille that existed in the days of 
7 hemistodes 1" an alarming remark to the " Laudator tem- 
poris acti." The ancients banished Themistocles ; the mod- 
erns cheat Monsieur Roque ; thus great men have ever been 
treated ' 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the 
Englishmen, Germans, Danes, &c. of passage, came over 
by degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that 
a Turk in England would condemn the nation by whole- 
sale, because he was wronged by his lacquey, and over- 
charged by his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs 
Fauvel and Lusieri, the two greatest demagogues of the 
day, who divide between them the power of Pericles and 
the popularity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor Waywode 
with perpetual differences, agreed in the utter condemna- 
tion, " nulla virtute redemptum," of the Greeks in general, 
and of the Athenians in particular. 

For my ovvn humble opinion, I am loath to hazard it, 
knowing as I do that there be now in MS. no less than five 
tours of the first magnitude and of the most threatening 
aspect, all in typographical array, by persons of wit, and 
honor, and regular common-place books, bvit, if I may say 
this without oftence, it seems to me rather hard to declare 
so positively and pertinaciously, as almost everybody has 
declared, that the Greeks, because they are very bad, will 
never be better. 

Eton and Sonnini have led us astray by their panegyrics 
and projects ; but, on the other hand, De Pauw and Thorn- 
ton have debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. 

The Greeks will never be independent ; they will never 
be sovereigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ever 
should ! but they may be subjects without being slaves. 
Our colonies are not independent, but they are free and in- 
dustrious, and such may Greece be hereafter. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the Jews 
throughout the world, and such'other cudgelled and hetero- 
dox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that 
can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth ; 
they are vicious in their own defence. They are so unused 
to kindness, that when they occasionally meet with it they 
look upon it with suspicion, as a uog often beaten snaps at 
your fingers if you attempt to caress him. " They are un- 
grateful, notoriously, abominably ungrateful I"— this is the 
general cry. Now, in the name of Nemesis ! for v/hat are 
they to be grateful ? Where is the human being that ever 
conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be 
grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to tlie Franks for 
their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be 
grateful to the artist wno engraves their ruins, and to the 
antiquary who carries them away ; to the traveller whose 
janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal 
abuses them ! T\as is the amount of their obligations to 
f reigners. 



II. 

Franc'';;an Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. 

Amongst the remn}..:;s of the barbarous policy of the 
earlier ages, are the traces of bondage which yet exist in 
different countries ; whose inhabitants, however divided in 
religion and manners, almost all agree in oppression. 

The English have at last compassionated their negroes, 
and, under a less bigoted government, may probably one 
day release their Catholic brethren: bu"; the interposition 
of foreigners alone can emancipate the Greek, who, other- 
wise, appear to have as small a chance of redemption from 
the Turl;s, as the Jews have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks we know more than enough ; at 
least the younger men of Europe devote much c' their time 
to the study of the Greek writers and history, which would 
be more usefully spent in mastering their own. Of the 
moderns we are perhaps more neglectful than they de- 
serve ; and while every man of any pretensions to learning 
is tiring out his youth, and often his age, in the study of the 
language and of the harangues of the Athenian demagogues 
in favor of freedom, the real or supposed descendants of 
these sturdy republicans are left to the actual tyranny of 
their masters, although a very slight eflfort is required to 
strike off their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their rising 



1 A word, en passant, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pnuquevillc, who have 
been ^.lilty betw-en them of Badly clipping the Siihar.'a Turliish. Dr. 
Pouqucvillc lellg a long story of a Moslem who swallowed corrosive subli- 
nia*.4 m euch quautiiiea 'iiat he acquired the name of " Suleijman Yeyen," 



again to their pristine superiority, would bn ridiculous . rs 
the rest of the world must resume its barbaiism, after reas- 
serting the sovereignty of Greece : but there seems to be no 
very great obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to 
their becoming a useful dependency, or even a free state 
with a proper guarantee ; — under correction, however, be it 
spoken, for many and well-informed men doubt the practi- 
cability even of this. 

The Greeks have never lost their hope, though they arc 
now more divided in opinion on the subject of their proba- 
ble deliverers. Religion recommends the Russians ; but 
they have twice been deceived and abandoned, by that 
power, and the dreadful lesson they received after the 
Muscovite desertion in the Morea has never been forgotten. 
The French they dislike ; although the subjugation of the 
rest of Europe will, probably, be attended by the deliver- 
ance of continental' Gil ece. The islanders look to the 
English for succor, as they have very lately possessed 
themselves of the Ionian republic, Corfu excepted. But 
whoever appear with arms in their hands will be welcome ; 
and when that day arrives. Heaven have mercy on the Ot- 
tomans ! they cannot expect it from the Giaours. 

But instead of considering what they have been, and 
speculating on what they may be, let us look at them as 
they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of 
opinions : some, particularly the merchants, decrying the 
Greeks in the strongest language ; others, generally travel- 
lers, turning periods in their eulogy, and publishing very 
curious speculations grafted on their former state, which 
can have no more effect on their present lot, than the exist- 
ence of the Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One v.ery ingenious person terms them the "natural allies 
of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingenious, will not allow 
them to be the allies of anybody, and denies their very de- 
scent from the ancients ; a third, more ingenious than 
either, builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and 
realizes (on paper) all the chimeras of Catherine 11. As to 
the question of their descent, what can it import whether 
the Mainotes are the lineal Laconians or not ? or the pres- 
ent Athenians as indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as 
the grasshoppers, to which they once likened themselves ? 
What Englishman cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Nor- 
man, or Trojan blood ? or who, except a Welshman, is af- 
flicted with a desire of being descended from Caractacus? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good 
things of this world, as to render even their claims to an- 
tiquity an object of envy ; it is very cruel, then, in Mr. 
Thornton to disturb them in the possession of all that time 
has left them ; viz. their pedigree, of which they are the 
more tenacious, as it is all they can call their own. It 
would be worth while to publish together, and compare the 
works of Messrs. Thornton and De Pauw, Eton and Son- 
nini ; paradox on one side, and prejudice on the other. 
Mr. Thornton conceives himself to have claims to public 
confidence from a fourteen years' residence at Pera ; per- 
haps he may on the subject of the Turks, but this can give 
him no more insight into the real state of Greece and her 
inhabitants, than as many years spent in Wapping into that 
of the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal ; and if Mr. 
Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn than his 
brother merchants aie accustomed to do, I should place no 
great reliance on his information. I actually heard one of 
these gentlemen boast of their little general intercourse 
with the city, and assert of himself, with ?n air of triumph, 
that he had been but four times at Constantinople in as 
many years. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with 
Greek vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as a 
cruise to Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grot's 
house. Upon what grounds then does he arrogate the right 
of condemning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he 
can know little ! It is rather a curious circumstance that 
Mr. Thornton, who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on 
every occasion of mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse 
to him as authority on the Greeks, and terms him an im- 
partial observer. Now, Dr. Pouqueville is as little entitled 
to that appellation as Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information on 
the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their litera- 
ture ; nor is there any probability of our being better ac- 
quainted, till our intercourse becomes more intimate or 
their independence confirmed : the relations of passing 
travellers are as little to be depended on as the invectives 
of angry factors ; but till something more can be attained, 
we must be content with the little to be acquired from 
similar sources.i 



i. e. quoth the Doctor, " Suleyman, the eater of corrosive eubtw'^to," 
"Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton, (angry with the Doctor for the fifaeth lirao,) 
" have 1 caught you 7" — Then, in a note twice the thicliness of the Doctor'] 
anecdote, be questions the Doctor's proficiency in the Turliish ton^uo, aik] 



APPENDIX. 



775 



However defective these may be, they are P^jerable to 
the paradoxes of men who have read superfic a > of the 
ancients and seen noth ng of the moderns, svich as Ue 
lauw vvho, when he asserts that the British breed of 
horses' is ruined by Newmarket, and tliat tlie Spartans 
were cowards in th^e field, betrays an equal know edge of 
English horses and Spartan men His ';pl\ilosop'"^al ob- 
servations" have a much better claim to "'e "tie of • poeti- 
cal " It could not be expected that he who so ii erally 
condemns some of the most celebrated i"stitiiUon. ut the 
arcient should have mercy on the modern Greeks ; and 
ft fommately happens, that the absurdity of his hypothesis 
on their forefathers refutes his sentence on themse.ves 

Let us trust, then, that, in spite of the prophecies of De 
Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a reaso. - 
.ible hope of the redemption of a race of "leji, who ^v hat- 
ever may be the errors of their religion and Pobcy, h^'-e 
been amply punished by three centuries and a halt oi 
captivity. 

III. 
Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
' I must hare some l«lk with this learned Thebaii.' 



Some time after my return from Constantinople to this 
city I received the thirty-first number of the Edinburgh 
Review as a great favor, and certainly at this distance an 
Acceptable one, from the captain of an English frigate off 
Salami^ In that number. Art. 3, contaimng the review of 
a French translation of Strabo, there are introduced some 
remarks on the modern Greeks and their literature, v^ith a 
sh?rt account of Coray, a co-translator in the French ver- 
sion. On those remarks I mean to ground a few obser\ a- 
tions- and the spot where I now write will, I hope, be 
sufficient excuse for introducing them in a work in some 
de-ree connected with the subject. Coray the most cele- 
b?atet? of living Greeks, at least among the Franks, was 
born at Scio, lin the Review, Smyrna is stated I have 
reason to think incorrectlv,) and besides the translation of 
Bcfccar.a and oJher works "mentioned by the Reviewer has 
published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if I may trust 
the assurance of some Danish travellers lately arrived 
fmm Par's; but the latest we have seen here m French 
and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloou.' Coray has le- 
centlv been involved in an unpleasant controversy with M. 
Gail 2 a Parisian commentator and editor of some transla- 
tions from the Greek poets, in consequence of the Institute 
havin" awarded him the prize for his version of Hippocrates' 
"ntpJ iiiirov," &c. to the disparagement, and consequent- 
ly displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions, litera-y 
and patriotic'great praise is ""^'""bte'lly due ; but a pa I 
of that praise ought not to be withheld from the two bi oth- 
ers Zosimado, (merchants settled in Leghorn,) who sent 
him to Pans, and maintamed him, for the express purpose 
of elucidating the ancient, and adding to the modern, re- 
searches of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not con- 
sidered by his countrymen equal to some who livecl m t^he 
two last centuries ; more particularly Dorotheus of Jlity- 
lene, whose Hellenic writings are so much esteemed b> 
the Greeks, that Meletius terms him " Mtra tov BovKvdidnv 
Kal nevo4>iivTa Spiaros 'EXM^'' " (P- 224, Ecclesiastical 

Panagiotes^Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, an i 
Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Uni- 
verse into French, Christodoulus, and morfe particularly 
Psalida, whom I have conversed with in Joannma, aie 
s so in high repute among their literati. The last men- 
tioned has published in Romaic and Latin a work on 
" True Happiness," dedicated to Catherine II. But I oly- 
zois who is stated by the Reviewer to be the only modern 
except Coray who has distinguished himself by a know- 
ledKC of Hellenic, if he be the Polyzois Lampanitziotes of 
Yanina, who has published a number of editions in Rf^maic, 
was neither more nor less than an itinerant vender of 



books : with the contents of which he had no concern be* 
yond nis name on the titlepage, placed there to secure his 
property in the publication ; and he was, moreover, a man 
utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. As the name, 
however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois may have 
edited the Epistles of Anstaenetus. ,. . , ki„^i,o^^ 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade 
has closed the few channels through which the Greeks re- 
ceived their publications, particularly Venice and I rieste 
Even the common grammars for children are become too 
dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works 
the Geography of Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and a 
multitude of theological quartos and poetical pamphlets, 
are to be met with ; their grammars and lexicons of two, 
three, and four languages are numerous and excellent. 
Their poetry is in rhyme. The most singular piece I have 
lately seen is a satire in a dialogue between a Russian, 
English, and French traveller, and the Way^yode of 
Wallachia, (or Blackbey, as they term him,) an archbishop, 
a merchant, and Cogia Bachi, (or primate,) in succession; 
to all of whom under the Turks the writer attributes their 
present degeneracy. Their songs are sometimes pretty 
and pathetic, but their tunes generally unpleasmg to the 
ear of a Frank ; the best is the famous "Aturi; naiie; tuv 
■EXXnvuv," by the unfortunate Riga. But from a catalogue 
of more than sixty authors, now before me, only fifteen 
can be found who have touched on any theme except 

^ TanPintrusted with a commission ty -. Greek of Athens 
named Marmarotouri to make arrangt itients, if possible, 
for printing in London a translation of Barthelemi s Ana- 
charsis m Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless 
he dispatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black taea and 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at Heca- 
tonesi, and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiana : he 
means Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town on the 
continent, where that institution for a hundred students 
and three professors still exists. It is true that this es- 
tablishment was disturbed by the Porte, under the ridic- 
ulous pretext that the Greeks were constructing a fortress 
instead of a college : but on investigation, and the payment 
of some purses to the Divan, it has been permitted to con- 
tinue. The principal professor, named Veniamm, (i. e. 
Benjamin,) is stated to be a man of talent, but a free- 
thinker He \.as born in Lesbos, studied m Italy, and is 
master of Hellenic, Latin, and some Frank languages ; 
besides a smattering of the sciences. , „ ^ ^„ fhi» 

Though It is not my intention to enter farther on this 
topic than may allude to the article in question, I cannot 
but observe that the Reviewer's lamentation over the tall 
of the Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with 
these words : " The change is to be attributed totneir rmsjor- 
tunes rather than to any ^ physical degradation. -It "'»>' "^e 
true that the Greeks are not physica ly degenerated, and 
that Constantinople contained on the day when it changed 
masters as many men of six feet and upwards as m the 
hour of prosperity ; but ancient history and modern poli- 
tics instruct us that something more than physical perfec- 
tion is necessary to preserve a state m vigor and inde- 
pendence ; and the Greeks, in particular, are a melancholy 
example of the near connection between moral degradation 

and national decay. , ,, i ,• .. k,, -P/^torr, 

The Reviewer mentions a plan " we believe by Potera- 
kin for the purification of the Romaic; and I have en- 
deavored in vain to procure any tidings or traces of its 
existence. There was an academy in St. Petersburgh for 
the Greeks ; but it was suppressed by Paul, and ims not 
been revived by his successor. ,■ f*v,„ 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of the 
pen in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, where 
these words occur :-" We are told that when the capital 
of the East yielded to So/ymar.."-It may be presumed that 
this last word will, in a future edition, be altered to Ma- 
hoTi"* II 3 The " ladies ot Constantinople," it seems, at 



hU veracilv m his own.—" For," observes Mr. Thornton, (after infiicli i? 
on us the louo-h participle of a Turkish verb,) "it means nothing niore tun 
Zleyman t/i? Jr..," anj quite casliiers "'« ^VPP'S,";'"^"^ when h^'^^ext 

or ask any on is Sl'iimboline acquaiiuance, lie wilUliscover that " f " ;^"^;'' 
SL«. •• pot to-ether discreetly, mean the '^ Swatlc wer o/ subhmate, wilh- 
l7tiny^''SuUyman" in the case ; ^' Suleyma" sigr Hying "fo'-ros'vc subl,. 
materia not'' being a proper name on ''"^ "'^"^'""jjf !^;"„f ,,Vs IVe- 
orihodt.i name enou"-h with the addition ol n. Alter Mr. tnornu is ire 
"lenthhits or profound Orientalism, he might have found this out tifore he 

""A'ft'fthis,T'i'hi?r" Tr'avelirrsTeUus Factors" sh.dl be our molto, Ihough 
tnc above Mr. Thornton has condemned '•l'°'=,Si=''if "'T,™' !"^™''T* ^^^^ 
in-Brepreseiilatioi . " Ne Sulor ultra crejpidam," "No ,'"«'=''",','S '''•\° „ 
Eirbrie9."-N. B. For the benefit of ^fr. Thornton, " Sutor" is not a 

•"JTbuTin my possesion an excellent lexicon " rpiyXoiffffOV," which I 



1 exchange from S. G- 
i-e never forgotten it, c 



— , Esq., for a small gem : roy antiquarian 
r forgiven me. 



received i 
friends ha 

2 In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of "throwing •■>'-',, ip^Asnt 
H»lCi« out ol' the window " On this a French critic exclaiif.s. All, my 
Hod tow'a Hellenisl out of the window ! what -"'I".- -h' ticrYu"/! 
would be a serious business for those authors who dwell in the attics . Tut 1 
have quoted the passage -merely to prove the similarity ols^-.e among «« 
controversialists of all polished countries j London or ILdiuburgn coma 
hardly parallel this Parisian ebullition. 

3 In a former number of the Edinburgh Review 13C?. it is ob^erjed^ 
■■ Lord Bvrop passed some ef his early years in Scotland, where he might 

' '^ pibroch does not mean a ba?p,pe^ny more than d-JOf 
bnerv - Was it in Scotlaii.l lliat the young gentlemen of 

,jjw learned that Solymnii meiias M ahomet 11. any iossn 

than crilicism means in/aUi6iWy/— but thus 1 is, 

" Cediraus iuque vicem prietemus crura sogittU." 



have learned Ilia 
means a fiddh,^^ 
the Edinburgh Rev 



776 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



that period spoke a dialect, " which would not have dis- 
graci.'d the lips of an Athenian." I dc rot know hnw that 
might be, but am sorry to say the ladies in general, and tlie 
Athenians in particular, are much altered ; being far from 
choice cither in their dialect or expressions, as the whole 
Attic I ace arc barbarous to a proverb : — 

" SI XBriva, npoTt] X'^f", 
Tt yuLSapovs rpeipeis Tupa'" 

In Giboon, vol. x. p. 161, is the following sentence:— 
" Tlie vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, 
though the compositions of the church and palace some- 
times affected to copy the purity of the Attic models." 
Whatever may be asserted on the subject, it is difficult to 
conceive that the " ladies of Constantinople," in the reign 
of the last Caesar, spoke a purer dialect than Anna Comnena 
wrote three centuries before: and those royal pages are 
not esteemed the best models of composition, although the 
princess y'XioTrati cix^v AKPIBIIS AmKi^ovaai'. In the 
Fanal, and in Yanina, the best Greek is spoken : in the 
latter there is a flourishing school under the direction of 
Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida, who is 
making a tour of observation through Greece ; he is intel- 
ligent, and better educated than a fellow-commoner of 
most colleges. I mention this as a proof that the spirit of 
inquiry is not dormant among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Sir. Wright, the author of the 
beautiful poem " Hora3 lonicis," as qualified to give details 
of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks ; and 
also of their language : but Mr. Wright, though a good 
poet and an able man, has made a mistake where he states 
the Albanian dialect of the Romaic to approximate nearest 
to the Hellenic ; for the Albanians speak a Romaic as 
notoriously corrupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or the 
Italian of Naples. Yanina, (where, next to the Fanal, the 
Greek is purest,) although the capital of Ali Pacha's do- 
minions, is not in Albania but Epirus ; and beyond Del- 
vinachi in Albania Proper up to Argyrocastro and Tepaleen 
(beyond which I did not advance) they speak worse Greek 
than even the Athenians. I was attended for a year and a 
half by two of these singular mountaineers, whose mother 
tongue is lUyric, and I never heard them or their country- 
men (whom I have seen, not only at home, but to the 
amount of twenty thousand in the army of Vely Pacha) 
praised for their Greek, but often laughed at for their pro- 
vincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, amongst 
which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to me by 
Notaras, the Cogia Bachi, and others by the Dragoman of 
the Caimacam of the Morea, (which last governs in Vely 
Pacha's absence,) are said to be favorable specimens of 
their epistolary style. I also received some at Constanti- 
nople from private persons, written in a most hyperbolical 
style, but in the true antique character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the 
tongue in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 59) 
on the great mischief the knowledge of his own language 
has done to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to under- 
stand the ancient Greek because he is perfect master of the 
modern! This observation follows a paragraph recom- 
mending, in exphcit terms, the study of the Romaic, as " a 
powerful auxiliary," not only to the traveller and foreign 
merchant, but also to the classical scholar ; in short, to 
everybody except the only person who can be thoroughly 
acquainted with its uses ; and by a parity of reasoning, our 
old language is conjectured to be probably more attainable 
by " foreigners" than by ourselves ! Now, I am inclined to 
think that a Dutch Tyro in our tongue (albeit himself of 
Saxon blood) would be sadly perplexed with " Sir Trist- 
rem," or any other given " Auchinleck MS." with or with- 
out a grammar or glossary ; and to most apprehensions it 
seems evident that none but a native can acquire a compe- 
tent, far less complete, knowledge of our obsolete idioms. 
We may give the critic credit for his ingenuity, butno more 
believe him than we do Smollett's Lismahago, who main- 
tains that the purest English is spoken in Edinburgh. That 
Coray may err is very possible ; but if he does, the fault is 
in the man rather than in his mother tongue, which is, as it 
ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native student.— Here 
the Reviewer proceeds to business on Strabo's translators, 
and here I clo'^e my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummond. Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, Dr. 
Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, and many 



Vas misukt weir.ed so completely a lapse of Uie pen (from the g^reat simi- 
wSTTiy of tli« tr'M words, unc. itie !otal absence cferrcrr from the former pages 
of *il3 litepj.-v leviathan) ;hat . s.ionki have passed it over as in the text, 
kUUl 1 act perceived in tlie Edmburgh Review much facetious exultation on 
iJl sjch detections, particularly a recent one, where words and syllables 



Others now in England, have all the requisites to furnish 
details of this fallen people. The few observations I have 
offered, I should have left where I made tbeni, had not the 
article in question, and above all the spot where I read it, 
induced me to advert to those pages, which the advantage 
of my present situation enabled me to clear, or at least to 
make the attempt. 

I have endeavored to wave the personal feelings which 
rise in despite of me, in touching upon any part of the 
Edinburgh Review ; not from a wish to conciliate the favor 
of its writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I 
have formerly published, but simply from a sense of the 
impropriety of mixing up private resentments with a dis- 
quisition of the present kind, and more particularly at this 
distance of time and place. 



Note [E.] — On the Present State of Turkey and 
THE Turks. See p. 35. 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much 
exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminishetl, of 
late years. The IMussulmans have . : en beaten into a kind 
of sullen civility, very comfortable tc voyagers. 

It is hazardoiis to say much on the subject of Turks or 
Turkey ; since it is possible to live amongst them twenty 
years without acquiring information, at least from them- 
selves. As far as my own slight experience carried me, I 
have no complaint to make ; but am indebted for many 
civilities (I might almost say for friendship) and much hos- 
pitality, to All Pacha, his son Veli Pacha of the Slorea, and 
several others of high rank in the provinces. Suleyman 
Aga, late Governor of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a 
bon vivant, and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at 
a tray or a table. During the carnival, when our English 
party were masquerading, both himself and his successor 
were more happy to " receive masks" than any dowager in 
Grosvenor-square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent, his friend 
and visiter, the Cadi of Thebes, was carried from table 
perfectly qualified for any club in Christendom ; while the 
worthy Wayvvode himself triumphed in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found 
the strictest honor, the highest disinterestedness. In trans- 
acting business with them, there are none of those dirty 
peculations, under the name of interest, difference of ex- 
change, commission, &c. &c. uniformly found in applying 
to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on the first houses in 
Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom in the 
East, you will rarely find yourself a loser ; as one worth 
acceptance is generally returned by another of similar 
value — a horse, or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are 
formed in the same school with those of Christianity ; but 
there does not exist a more honorable, friendly, and high- 
spirited character than the true Turkish provincial Aga, or 
Moslem country gentleman. It is not meant here to desig- 
nate the governors of towns, but those Agas who, by a kind 
of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, of more or less 
extent, in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the 
rabble in countries with greater pretensions to civilization. 
A Moslem, in walking the streets of our country towns, 
woujd be more incommoded in England than a Frank in a 
similar situation in Turkey. Regimentals are the best 
travelling dress. 

The best accounts of the religicm and different sects of 
Islamism, may be found in D'Ohsson's French ; of their 
manners, &c., perhaps m Thornton's English. The Otto- 
mans, with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. 
Equal, at least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the 
Portuguese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, 
we can at least say what they are not : they are not treach- 
erous, they are nnt cowardly, they do not burn heretics, 
they are not assassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their 
capital. They are faithful to their sultan till he becomes 
unfit to govern, and devout to their God without an inquisi- 
tion. Were they driven from St. .Sophia to-morrow, and 
the French or Russians enthroned in their stead, it would 
become a question whether Europe would gam by the ex- 
change. England would certainly be the loser 

With regard to that ignorance of wluch they are so gener- 



are subjects of disquisiticn and transposition • and the atiove-menlioned 
parallel fassag-e in my own case iiresisiibly propelled rr.e to hint how inucn 
easier it is to be critical than correct. The gtntlement having enjoyed m^ny 
a triumph en such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for the 
ptesen'.. 



APPENDIX. 



777 



ally, and sometimes justlv accused, it may be doubted, al- 
ways excepting France and England, in what useful points 
of knowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in 
the common arts of life? In tlieir manufactures? Is a 
Turkish sabre inferior to a Toledo ? or is a Turk worse 
clothed or lodged, or fed and taught, (ban a Spaniard? Are 
their Pachas worse educated than a (irandee ? or an EfTen- 
di than a Knight of St. Jago ? I thinic not. 

I remember Mahmout, the grandson of Ah Pacha, asking 
wht'ther my fellow-traveller and myself were in the upper 
O" -ovvtr House of Parliament. Now, this question from a 
boy of ten years old proved that his education had not been 
neglected.' It may be doubted if an English boy at that age 
knows the difference of the Divan from a College of Der- 
vises ; but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. How little 
Mahmout, surrounded, as he had been, entirely by his 
Turkish tutors, had learned that there was such a thmg as 
a Parliament, it were useless to conjecture, unless we sup- 
pose that his instructors did not confine his studies to the 
Koran. 

In ail the mosques there are schools established, which 
are very regularly attended ; and the poor are taught with- 
out the church of Turkey being put into peril. I believe 
the system is not yet printed, (though there is such a thing 
as a Turkish press, and books printed on the late military 
institution of the Nizam Gedidd ;) nor Iiave I heard whether 
the Mufti and the MoUas have subscribed, or the Caimacam 
and the Tefierdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous 
youth of the turban should be taught not to " pray to God 
their way." The Greeks also — a kind of Eastern Irish 
papists — have a college of their own at Maynooth, — no, at 
Haivali ; where the heterodox receive much the same kind 
of countenance from the Ottoman as tlie Catholic college 
from the English legislature. Who shall then affirm that 
the Turks are ignorant bigots, when tliey thus evince the 
exact proportion of Christian charity which is tolerated in 
the most prosperous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms ? 
But though they allow all this, they will not suffer the 
Greeks to participate in their privileges : no, let them fight 
their battles, and pay their haratch, (taxes,) be drubbed in 
this world, and damned in the next. And shall we then 
emancipate our Irish Helots ? Mahomet forbid ! We should 
then be bad Mussulmans, and worse Christians : at present 
we unite the best of both— Jesuitical faith, and something 
not much inferior to Turkish toleration. 



CANTO THE THIRD 

_Note[F.] Seep. 48. 

" Not vainly did the early Persian maKe 
His altar the high places and the peak 
' Of earth-o'ergazing mountains," ifC. — Stanza xci. 

It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impres- 
sive doctrines of the Divine founder of Christianity were 
delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To wave 
the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence,— 
the most effectual and splendid specimens were not pro- 
nounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public 
and popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That 
this added to their effect on the mind of both orator and 
hearers, may be conceived from the difference between 
wha,t we read of the emotions then and there produced, and 
those we ourselves experience in the perusal in the closet. 
It is one thing to read the Iliad at Sigseum and on the tumu- 
li, or by the springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain 
and rivers and Archipelago around you ; and another to 
trim your taper over it in a snug library— (Ais I know. 
Were the early and rapid progress of what is called Meth- 
odism to be attributed to any cause beyond the enthusiasm 
excited by its vehement faith and doctrines, (the truth or 
error of which I presume neither to canvass nor to ques- 
tion,) I should venture to ascribe it to the practice of 
preaching.in the fields, and the unstudied and extempora- 
neous effusions of its teachers. The Mussulmans, whose 
erroneous devotion (at least in the lower orders) is most 
sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat 
their prescribed orisons and prayers, wherever they may 
be, at the slated hours— of course, frequently in the open 
air, kneeling upon a light mat, (which they carry for the 
pj.-prse of a bed or cushion as required;) the ceremony 
last's C'^me minutes, Juring which they are totally absorbed, 
and only iving in their supplication : nothing can disturb 
them On me the simple and entire sincerity of these men, 



.Q9 



and the spirit which appeared to be within and upcn them, 
made a far greater impression than any.general rite which 
was ever performed in places yi worship, of which I have 
seen those of almost every persuasion under the sun ; in- 
cluding most of our own seclaricE, and the Greek, the 
Catholic, the Armenian, the I,utheran, the Jewish, and the 
Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there arc 
numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have 
free exercise of their belief and its rites : some of these I 
had a distant view of at Patras ; and, from w hat I could 
make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan 
description, and not very agreeable to a spectator. 



Note [G.] See p. 49. 

" Clarens '. by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the ^od 
Is a pervading life and light," ifc — Stanza c. 

Rousseau's Heloise, Lettre 17, part 4, note. " Ces men-- 
tagiies sont si hautes qu'une demi-heure apres \a soleil 
couche, leurs sommets sont liclair^s de ses rayons ; dont le 
rouge forme sur ces cimes blanches une belle couleur de rose, 
qu'on apercoit de fort loin." — This applies more particularly 
to the heights over MeiUerie.— " J'allai a Vevay loger a la 
Clef, et pendant deux joursque j'yrestai sans voir personne, 
je pris pour cette ville un amour qui m'a suivi dans tons 
mes voyages, et qui m'y a fait 6tablir enfin les hiiros de «ion 
roman. Je dirais volontiers a ceux qui ont du goiit et qui 
sont sensibles : Allez a Vevay— visilez le pays, exaii-jrez 
les sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n'a 
pas fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour line Claire, et 
pour un St. Preux ; mais ne les y cherchez pas." — Les Con- 
fessions, livre iv. p. 306. Lyon, ed. 1796. — In July, 1816, I 
made a voyage round the Lake of Geneva ; and, as far as 
my own observations have led me in a not uninterested nor 
inattentive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by 
Rousseau in his " Heloise," I can safely say, that in this there 
is no exaggeration. It would be difficult to see Clarens 
(with the 'scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boverct, St. 
Gingo, MeiUerie, Eivan, and the entrances of the Rhone) 
without being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to 
the persons and events with which it has been peopled. 
But this is not all : the feeling with which all around Clarens, 
and the opposite rocks of MeiUerie, is invested, is of a still 
higher and more comprehensive order than the mere sym- 
pathy with individual passion ; it is a sense of the existence 
of love in its most extended and sublime capacity, and of 
our own participation of its good and of its glory: it is the 
great principle of the universe, which is there more con- 
densed, but not less manifested ; and of which, though 
knowing ourselves a part, we lose our individuality, and 
(ningle in the beauty of the whole.— If Rousseau had never 
written, nor lived, the same associations would not less have 
belonged to such scenes. He has added to the interest of 
his works by their adoption ; he has shown his sense of their 
beauty by the selection ; but they have done that for him 
which no human being could do 'for them.— I had the for- 
tune (good or evil as it might be) to sail from MeiUerie 
(where we landed for some time) to St. Gingo during a lake 
storm, which added to the magnificence of all around, al- 
though occasionally accompanied by danger to the boat, 
which was small and overloaded. It was over this very 
part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the boat of St. 
Preux and Madame Wolinar to MeiUerie for shelter during 
a tempest. On gaining the shore at St. Gingo, T found 
that the wind had been sufficiently strong to blow down 
some fine old chestnut-trees on the lower part of the moun- 
tains. On the opposite height of Clarens is a chateau. 
The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with 
some small but beautiful woods ; one of these was named 
the " Bosquet de Julie ;" and it is remarkable that, though 
long ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of 
St. Bernard, (to whom the land appertained,) that the ground 
might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones 
of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Clarens still 
point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the 
name which consecrated and survived them. Rousseau has 
not been particularly fortunate in the preservation of the 
" local habitations" he has given to " airy nothings." Tie 
Prior of Great St. Bernard has cut down some of his woods 
for the sake of a few casks of wine, and Bonaparte has lev- 
elled part of the rocks of MeiUerie in improving the road 
to the Simplon. The road is an excellent one ; but I can- 
not quite agree with the remark vvhicli I heard made, that 
" La route vaut mieux que les souvenirs." 



778 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 

HISTORICAL NOTES. 

No I — State Dungeons of Venice. 

•' . stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each hand." — Stanza L 

Tub communication between the ducal palace and the 
prisons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, 
high above the water, and divided by a stone wall into a 
passage and a cell. The state dungeons, called pozzi, or 
wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the palace ; and the 
prisoner when taken out to die was conducted across the 
gallery to tlie other side, and being then led back into the 
other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there 
strangled. The low portal through which the c. minal was 
taken into this cell is now walled up; but the passage is 
still open, and is still known by the name of the Bridge of 
Sighs. The pozzi are under the flooring of the chamber at 
the foot of the bridge. They were formerly twelve ; but on 
the first arrival of the French, the Venetians hastily blocked 
or broke up the deeper of these dungeons. You may still, 
however, descend by a trap-door, and crawl down through 
holes, half-choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stones 
below the first range. If you are in want of consolation for 
the e.xtinction of patrician power, perhaps you may find it 
there ; scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the narrow gal- 
lery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement 
themselves are totally dark. A small hole in the wall ad- 
mitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the in- 
troduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, raised 
a foot from the ground, was the only furniture. The con- 
ductors tell you that a light was not allowed. The cells 
are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and 
seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, 
and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. 
Only one prisoner was found when the republicans de- 
scended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have 
been confined sixteen years. But the inmates of the dun- 
geons beneath had left traces of their repentance, or of their 
despair, which are still visible, and may, perhaps, owe 
something to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained ap- 
pear to have ofl'ended against, and others to have belonged 
to, the sacred body, not only from their signatures, but from 
the churches and belfries which the^ have scratched upon 
the walls. Th3 reader may not object to see a specimen 
of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly 
as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of 
them are as follows : — 

1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCUNO PENSA 6 TACT 
SE FUGIR VUOI DE SPIONI INSIDIE C LACCI 
IL PENTIRTI PENTIKTI NULLA GIOVA 

MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI EE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEM.MA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MORTO 

lACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 

2. UN PARLAR POCHO Ct 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1605. 
EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 
ECGLESIAM CORTELLAEIUS. 
3 DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 

DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO 10 



TA 
LA S 



H 



NA 
R . 



The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms ; 
some of which are, however, not quite so decided, since 
the letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
need be observed, that bestemmia and mangiar may be read 
in the first inscription, which was probably written by a 
prisoner confined for some act of impiety committed at a 
funeral ; that Cortellarius is the name of a parish on terra 
iirraa, near the sea ; and that the last 'luti'is evidently are 
put for Viva la santa Chiesa Kattolica Romat i. 



No. II. — Songs of the Gondolierb. 

" In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more." — Stanza iii. 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate 
Gtanzas from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the inde- 
pendence of V jnice Editions of the poem, with the original 



in one column, and the Venetian variations on Die other, as 
sung by the boatmen, were once common, and are still to 
be found. The following extract will serve to sho v tr e 
difference bertween the Tuscan epic and the " Canta alia 
Barcariola." 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto r arme pietose, e '1 capitano 
Che '1 gran Sepolcro liberb di Cristo. 

Molto egli oprb col senno, e con la mano 
Molto soffri nel glorioso acquisto ; 

E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 
S' armb d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 

Che il Ciel gli die favore, e sotto a i Santi 

Segni ridusse i suoi compagni erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 

E de Goffredo la immortal braura 
Che al fin 1' ha libera co strassia, e dogia 

Del nostro buon Gesii la Sepoltura 
De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 

rtissier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura: 
Dio r ha agiuta, e i compagni sparpagnai 
Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insieme i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliers will, however, take up and 
continue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the Tth of last January, the author of Childe Harold, 
and another Englishman, the writer of this notice, ro'ved 
to the Lido with two singers, one of whom was a carpenter, 
and the other a gondolier. The former placed liimself at 
the prow, the latter at the stern of the boat. A little after 
leaving the quay of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and 
continued their exercise until we arrived at the island. 
They gave us, amongst other essays, the death of Clorinda, 
ar.d the palace of Armida ; and did not sing the Venetian, 
but the Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, who was 
the cleverer of the two, and was frequently obliged to 
prompt his companion, told us that he could translate the 
original. He added, that he could sing almost three hun- 
dred stanzas, but had not spirits {morbin was the word he 
used) to learn any more, or to sing what he already knew : 
a man must have idle time on his hands to acquire, or to 
repeat, and, said the poor fellow, " look at my clothes and 
at me ; I am starving." This speech was more affecting 
than his performance, which habit alone can make attrac- 
tive. The recitative was shrill, screaming, and monotonous ; 
and the gondolier behind assisted liis voice by holding his 
hand to one side of his mouth. The carpenter used a quiet 
action, which he evidently endeavored to restrain ; but was 
too much interested in his subject altogether to repress. 
From these men we learned that singing is not confined to 
the gondoliers, and that, although the chant is seldom, if 
ever, volr.ntary, there are still several amongst the lower 
classes who are acquainted with a few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to 
row and sing at the same time. Although the verses of the 
Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet much 
music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon holidays, those 
strangers who are not near or informed enough to distinguish 
the words, may fancy that many of the gondolas still re- 
sound with the strains of Tasso'. The writer of some re- 
marks which appeared in the " Curiosities of Literature" 
must excuse his being twice quoted ; for, with the excep- 
tion of some phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, 
he has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, de- 
scription : — 

" In Venice t'r e gondoliers know by heart long passages 
from Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them with a pe- 
culiar melody. But this talent seems at present on the de- 
cline:— at least, after taking some pains, I could find no 
more than two persons who delivered to me in this way a 
passage from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Berry 
once chanted to me a passage in Tasso in the manner, as 
he assured me, of the gondoliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alternately sing 
the strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rous- 
seau, to whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no melo- 
dious movement, and is a sort of medium between the canto 
fermo and the canto figurato ; it approaches to the former 
by recitativical declamation, and to the latter by passages 
and course, by which one syllable is detained and embel- 
lished. 

" I entered a gondola by moonlight ; one singer placed 
himself forwards and the other aft, and thus proceeded to 
St. Georgio. One began the song : when he had ended his 
strophe, the other took up the lay, and so continued the 
song alternately. Throughout the whole of it, the same 
notes invariably returned ; but, according to the subject 
matter of the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, 



APPENDIX. 



779 



sometimes on one, and sometimes on another note, and 
indeed changed the enunciation of the whole strophe as the 
object of the poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
screaming : they seemed, in the manner of all rude uncivil- 
ized men, to make the excellency of their singing in t_he 
force of their voice : one seemed desirous of conquering fhe 
other by the strength of his lungs ; and so far from receiv- 
ing delight from this scene, (shut up as I was in the box of 
the gondola,) I found myself in a very unpleasant situation. 

" My companion, to whom I communicated this circuin- 
Ktance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of his 
countrymen, assured me that this singing was very delight- 
ful when heard at a distance. Accordingly we got out upon 
the shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola, wiiile 
the other went to the distance of some hundred paces. 
They now began to sing against one another, and I kept 
walking up and down between them both, so as always to 
leave him who was to begin his part. I frequently stood 
still and hearkened to the one and to the other. 

" Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong 
declamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear 
from far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly suc- 
ceeding transitions, which necessarily required to be sung 
in a lower tone, seemed like plaintive strains succeeding 
the vociferations of emotion or of pain. The other, who 
listened attentively, immediately began where the former 
left off, answering him in milder or more vehement notes, 
aceording as the purport of the strophe required. The 
sleepy ca'nals, the lofty buildings, the splendor of the moon, 
the deep shadows of the few gondolas that moved like 
spirits hither and thither, increased the striking peculiarity 
of the scene ; and, amidst all these circumstances, it was 
easy to confess the character ot this wonderful harmony. 

"It suits perfectly well with an idle solitary manner, 
Dying at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, 
waiting for his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness of 
which situation is somewhat alleviatea ly the songs and 
poetical stories he has in memory. He often raises his 
voice as loud as he can, which e.xtends itself to a vast dis- 
tance over the tranquil mirror ; and as all is still around, 
he is, as it were, in a solitude in the midst of a large and 
populous town. Here is no rattling of carriages, no noise 
of foot-passengers ; a silent gondola glides now and then 
by him, of which the splashings of the oars are scarcely to 
be heard. 

" At a distance he hears another, perhaps utterly un- 
known to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the 
two strangers ; he becomes the responsive echo to the 
former, and exerts himself to be heard as he had heard 
the other. By a tacit convention they alternate verse for 
verse ; though the song should last the whole night through, 
they entertain themselves without fatigue ; the hearers, 
who are passing between the two, take part in the amuse- 
ment. 

" This vocal performance sounds best at a great dis- 
tance, and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfils 
its design in the sentiment of remoteness. It is plaintive, 
but not dismal in its sound, ami at times it is scarcely pos- 
sible to refrain from tears. My companion, who otherwise 
was not a very delicately organized person, said quite un- 
expectedly : — E singolare come quel canto intenerisce, e 
molto piii quando lo cantano meglio. 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long row of 
islands that divides the Adriatic from the Lagoons,' par- 
ticularly the women of the extreme districts of Malamocco 
and Palestrina, sing in like manner the works of Tasso to 
these and similar tunes. 

" They have the custom, when their husbands arc fishing 
out at sea, to sit along the shore in the evenings and vocife- 
rate these songs, and continue to do so with great violent i, 
till each of them can distinguish the responses of her o\t j 
husband at a distance. "- 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes 
of Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. The 
city itself can occasionally furnish respectable audiences 
for two and even three opera-houses at a time ; and there 
are few events in private life that do not call forth a printed 
and circulated sonnet. Does a physician or a lawyer take 
his degree, or a clergyman preach his maiden sermon, has 
a surgeon performed an operation, would a harlequin an- 
nounce his departure or his benefit, are you to be con- 
gratulated on a marriage, or a birth, or a lawsuit, the 
Muses are invoked to furnish the same number of syllables, 
and the individual triumphs blaze abroad in virgin wliite or 



1 The writer meant Lido, which is net a lon^ row of ialands, but a longf 
bland; lilius, a shore. 



party-colored placards on half the comers of the capital. 
The last courtes.y of a favorite " prima donna" brings down 
a shower of these poetical tributes from those upper 
regions, from which, in our theatres, nothing but cupids 
and snow-storms are accustomed to descend. There is a 
poetry in the very life of a Venetian, which, in its common 
course, is varied with those surprises and changes so re- 
commendable in fiction, but so difl'erent from the sober 
monotony of northern existence ; amusements are raised 
into duties, duties are softened into amusements, and every 
object being considered as equally making a part of the 
business of life, is announced and performed with the same 
earnest indifferenoe and gay assiduity. The Venetian ga- 
zette constantly closes its columns with the following triple 
advertisement : — 

Charade. 



Exp«sition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church of 



St. 



Theatres. 

St. Moses, opera. 

St. Benedict, a comedy of characters 

St. Luke, repose. 

When It is recollected what the Catholics believe their 
consecrated wafer tc be, we may perhaps think it worthy 
of a more respectable Lche than between poetry and the 
playhouse. 



No. III. — The Lion and Horses of St. Mark's. 

" St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand.'" Stanza xi. 

The Lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Invalides 
but the gospel which supported the paw ; that is now on a 
level with the other foot. The Horses also are returned to 
the ill-chosen spot whence they set out, and are, as before, 
half hidden, under the porch window of St. Mark's church. 
Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been satisfac- 
torily explored. The decisions and doubts of Erizzo and 
Zanetti, and lastly, of the Count Leopold Cicognara, would 
have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedigree not 
more ancient than the reign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel 
stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of their own 
treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and forever, the 
pretension of his countrymen to this noble production.^ M. 
Mustoxidi has not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he 
has received no answer. It should seem that the horses 
are irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constanti- 
nople by Theodosius Lapidary writing is a favorite play 
of the Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than 
one of their literary characters. One of the best speci- 
mens of Bodoni's typography is a respectable volume of 
inscriptions, all written by his friend Pacciaudi. Several 
were prepared for the recovered horses. It is to be hoped 
the best was not selected, when the following words were 
ranged in gold letters above the cathedral porch : — 

QUATUOa • EQUORUM • SIGNA • A •'VENETIS • BYZANTIO • 
CAPTA ■ AD • TEMP • D • MAR • A ■ R ' S • MCCIV ■ POSITA • Ql);E • 
HOSTILIS • CUPIDITAS • A ' MDCCIIIC ■ ABSTULERAT ■ FRANC • I • 
IMP ■ PACIS • OHBI • DATjE ' TKOPH/EUM ' A * MDCCCXV • VICTO* 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin ; but it may be per- 
mitted to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in 
transporting the horses from Constantinople was at least 
equal to that of the French in carrying them to Paris, and 
that it would have been i;ore prudent to have avoided all 
allusions to either robbery. An apostolic prince should, 
perhaps, have objected to affixing over the principal en- 
trance of a metropolitan church an inscription having a 
reference to any other triumphs than those of religion. 
Nothing less than the pacification of the world can excuse 
such a solecism. 



S Sui qua'.tro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco in Venezit. Lctten i' 
Andrea M',u,oxidiCorcirese. Padua, 1816. 



780 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



No IV.- 



-StriiMissioN OF Barbarossa to Pope 
Alexander III. 



" Tlie Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knell." 

Stanza xii. 

After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians en- 
tirely to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, and as 
fruitless attempts of the Emperor to make himself absolute 
rnaster throughout the whole of his Cisalpine dominions, 
ih J bloody struggles of four and twenty years were happi.j 
brought to a close in the city of Venice. The articles of a 
treaty had been previously agreed upon between Pope 
Alexander III. and Barbarossa ; and the former having re- 
ceived a safe-conduct, had already ar/ived at Venice from 
Ferrara, in company with the ambassadors of the King of 
Sicily and the consuls of the Lombard league. There still 
remained, however, many points to adjust, and for several 
days the peace was believed to be impracticable, at this 
juncture it was suddenly reported that the Emperor had 
arrived at Chioza, a town fifteen miles from the capital. 
The Venetians rose tumultuously, and insisted upon im- 
mediately conducting him to the city. The Lombards took 
the alarm, and departed towards Treviso. The Pope him- 
Belf was apprehensive of some disaster if Frederic should 
suddenly advance upon him, but was reassured by the 
prc'ence and address of Sebastian Ziani, the Doge. Sev- 
cial embassies passed between Chioza and the capital, 
until, at last, the Emperor, relaxing somewhat of his pre- 
tensions, "laid aside his leonine ferocity, and put on the 
mildness of the lamb."' 

On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1 177, six Venetian 
galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, from Chioza to 
the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. Early the next 
morning tlie Pope, accompanied by the Sicilian ambassa- 
dors and by the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled 
from the main land, together with a great concourse of 
people, repaired from the patriarchal palace to St. Mark's 
church, ami solemnly absolved the Emperor and his parti- 
sans from the excommunication pronounced against him. 
The Chan<"eilor of the Empire, on the part of his master, 
lenounccd tne anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. 
Immediately the Doge, with a great suite both of the clergy 
and laity, got on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, 
rowed him in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. 
The Emperor descended from the galley at the quay of the 
Piazzetta. The Doge, the patriarch, his'bishops and clergy, 
and the people of Venice with their crosses and their 
standards, marched in solemn procession before him to the 
church of St. Mark. Alexander was seated before the ves- 
tibule of the basilica, attended by his bishops and cardinals, 
by the patriarch of Aquileja, by the archbishops and bish- 
ops of Lombardy, allot them in state, and clothed in their 
church robes. Frederic approached—" moved by the Holy 
Spirit, venerating the Almighty in the person of Alexander, 
laying aside his imperial dignity, and throwing off his man- 
tle, he prostrated himself at full length at the feet of the 
Pope. Alexander, with tears in his eyes, raised him be- 
nignantly from the ground, kiss'::d him, blessed him ; and 
immediately the Germans of the train sang, with a loud 
voice, ' We praise .hee, O Lord.' The Emperor thei;i, 
taking the Pope by .; j tight hand, led him to the churcn, 
iind having received Ins benediction, returned to the ducal 
palace.'"'' The ceremony of humiliation was repeated the 
next day. The Pope himself, at the request of Frederic, 
jaid mass at St. Mark's. The Emperor again .aid aside his 
imperial mantle, and, taking a wand in his hand, officiated 
as verger, driving the laity from the choir, and preceding 
the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, after reciting the gos- 
pel, preached to the people. The Emperor put himself 
close to the pulpit in the attitude of listening ; and the 
pontiff, touched by this mark of his attention, (for he knew 
that Frederic did not understand a word he said,) com- 
manded tlie patriarch of Aquileja to translate the Latin dis- 
course into the German tongue. The creed was then 
chanted. Frederic made his oblation, and kissed the Pope's 
feet, and mass being over, led him by the hand to his white 
hoTse. He held the stirrup, and would have led the horse's 



. •' Qtiibu^ autlilis, imperator, operanfe eo, qui corda principum sicut vult 
e*. quando vult humiliter mcliiiat, leonina leritate deposits, ovinam maa- 
euetudtiizm induit." — Romuaidi Saleriiitani Chronicor., apud Script. Rer 
luv. torn. vii. p. 229. 

2 Rcr. Ital. torn. vii. p. 23 . . 

S See the abcve-cited Romiiatd of Salerno. In a second sermon which 
Al«xani!iTprciLCheil, on the first day of August, before (he Emperor, he com- 
p,ared FrtJi.j; ;3 '.he prodig-al son, and himself to the forgiving father. 

4 Mr. Gibbon r.is omitted the important a, and has written Romani in- 
stead of RonaniK. Dechne and Fall chap. ixi. note 9. But the title 
cic(|tuxcd by Uandolo runs thus ia the corouicle of his namesalce, the Doge 



rein to the water side, had not the Pope accepted of the m- 

clination for the performance, and affectionately dismissed 
him with his benediction. Such is the substance of the ac- 
count left by the archbishop of Salerno, who was present 
at the ceremony, and whose story is confirmed by ever7 
subsequent narration. It would be not worth so rninute a 
record, were it not the triumph of liberty as well as of su- 
perstition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the con- 
firmation of their privileges ; and jVlexander had reason to 
thank the Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, unarmed 
old man to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign.^ 



No. V. — Henry Dandolo. 

" Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
Th^ octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe." 

Stanza n . 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the High- 
lander, Oh for one hour of Dundee '. Henry Dandolo when 
elected Doge in 1192, was eighty-five years r'' age. When 
he commanded the Venetians at the taking of • onstantino- 
ple Je was consequently ninety-seven years * Id. At this 
age he annexed the fourth and a half of the vshole empire 
of Romania,^ for so the Roman empire was then called, to 
the title and to the territories of the Venetian Doge. The 
three eighths of this empire were preserved in the diplomas 
until the dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of 
the above designation in the year 1357.5 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person : two 
ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied together, and 
a drawbridge or ladder let down from their higher yards to 
the walls. The Doge was one of the first to rush into the 
city. Then was completed, said the A'enetians, the prophecy 
of 'the Erythraean sibyl :— " A gathering together of the 
powerful shall be made amidst the waves of -the Adriatic, 
under a blind leader ; they shall beset the goat— they shall 
profane Byzantium— they shall blacken her buildings— her 
spoils shall be dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they 
have measured out and run over fifty-four feet, nine inches, 
and a halff^ Dandolo died on the first day of June, 1205, 
having reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, 
and was buried in the church of St. Sophia, at Constantino« 
pie. Strangely enough it must sound, that the name of the 
rebel apothecary who received the Doge's sword, and an- 
nihilated the ancier.1 government, in 1796-7, was Dandolo. 



No. VI. — The War of Chioza. 

" But is not Doria's menace come to pass ; 
Are they not bridled ?" — Stanza xiii. 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united armament 
of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, Signer of Padua, 
the Venetians were reduced to the utmost despair. An em- 
bassy was sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of 
paper, praying them to prescribe what terms they pleased, 
and leave to Venice only her independence. The Prince 
of Padua was inclined to listen to these proposals ; but the 
Genoese, who, after the victory at Pola had shouted, " To 
Venice, to Venice, and long live St. George 1" determined 
to annihilate their rival ; and Peter Doria, Iheir com- 
mander-in-chief, returned this answer to the suppliants : 
" On God's faith, gentlemen of Venice, ye shall have no 
peace from the Signer of Padua, nor from our commune of 
Genoa, until we have first put a rein upon those unbridled 
horses of yours, that are upon the porch of your evangelist 
St. Mark. When we have bridled them, we shall keep yon 
quiet. And this is the pleasure of us and of our commune 
As for these my orothers of Genoa, that you have brought 
with you to give up to us, I will not have them : take them 
back ; for, in a few days hence, I shpJl come and let them 



Andrew Dandolo "Ducali titulo addidit, ' Quf.rtK partis et dijiidiw tcl i:n 
mperii Romania;. " And. Dand. Chronicon, cap iii. p.trs xnxvii i^p. 
Script. Rer. Ilal. tom xii. page 331. And the Ro.manias is observed in the 
subsequent acts of ti.e Doges. Indeed, the continental possessions of th9 
Greek empire in Europe were then generally known by the name of Ro- 
mania, and that appellation is still seen in the maps of Tulkcy as opf'.icd to 
Thrace. 

6 See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid. p. 06. Mr. Oibboa 
appears not to include Dolfioo, tbilowiiig Sanudo, who says, "il qual litolo 
sf uso tin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino.' See Vite de' Duohi di VenteiB, ap. 
Script. Rer. Ital. tom. ixii. 530, 641. 

6 ChronicoD, itid fare jutiiv 



APPENDIX. 



781 



out of prison myself, both these and all the others." In 
fact, the Genoese did advance as far as Malamocco, within 
five miles of the capital ; but their own danger and the 
pride of their enemies gave courage to the Venetians, who 
made prodigious efforts, and many individual sacrifices, all 
of them carefully recorded by their historians. Vettor 
Pisani was put at the head of thirty-four galleys. The 
Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and retired to Chioza 
in October ; but they again threatened Venice, which was 
reduced to extremities. At this time, the 1st of January, 
1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruising on the 
Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Venetians were 
now strong enough to besiege the Genoese. Doria was 
killed on the 22d of January, by a stone bullet 19.5 pounds 
weight, discharged from a bombard called the Trevisan. 
Chioza was then closely invested ; SOOOauxiliariM, amongst 
whom were some English condottieri, commanded by one 
Cantain Ceccho, joined the Venetians. The Genoese, in 
their turn, prayed for conditions, but none were granted, 
until, at last, they surrendered at discretion; and, on the 
24th of June, 1380, the Doge Contarini made his triumphal 
entry into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen gal- 
leys, many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammuni- 
tion and arms, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the 
hands of the conquerors, who, had it not been for tlie inex- 
orable answer of Doria, would have gladly reduced their 
dominion to the city of Venice. \n account of these trans- 
rctions is found in a work called ihe War of Chioza, written 
by Daniel Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time. 



No. VII. — Venice under the Government of 
Austria. 

" TViin streits, and foreign aspects, such as must 

Too oft remind her who and what enthrals." — Stanza xv. 

The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand souls. 
At the last census, taken two years ago, it was no more 
than about one hundred and three thousand: and it dimin- 
ishes daily. The commerce and the official employments, 
which were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian gran- 
deur, have both expired. Most of the patrician mansions 
are deserted, and would gradually disappear, had not the 
government, alarmed by the demolition 'of seventy-two 
during the last tv.o years, expressly forbidden this sad re- 
source of poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility 
are now scattered and confounded with the wealthier Jews 
upon the banks of the Brenta, whose Palladian palaces 
have sunk, or are sinking, in the general decay. Of the 
"gentiluomo Veneto," the name is still known, and that is 
all. He is but the shadow o.' J^j former self, but he is polite 
and kind. It surely may be paruoned to him if he is queru- 
lous. Whatever may have been the vices of the republic, 
and although the natural term of its existence may be 
thought by foreigners to have arrived in the due course of 
mortality, only one sentiment can be expected from the 
Venetians themselves. At no time were the subjects of the 
republic so unanimous in their resolution to rally round the 
standard of St. Mark, as when it was for the last time un- 
furled ; and the cowardice and the treachery of the few 
patricians who recommended the fatal neutrality were con- 
fined to the persons of the traitors themselves. The pres- 
ent race cannot be thought to regret the loss of their aris- 
tocratical forms, and too despotic government ; they think 
only on their vanished independence. They pine away at 
the remembrance, and on this subject suspend for a mo- 
ment their gay good humor. Venice may be said, in the 
words of the scripture, " to di^daily ;" and so general and 
so apparent is the decline, as to become painful to a stran- 
ger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole nation expiring 
as it were before his eyes. So artificial a creation having 
lost that principle which called it into life and supported its 
existence, must fall to pieces at once, and sink more rapid- 
ly than it rose. The abhorrence of slavery which drove 
the Venetians to the sea, has, since their disaster, forced 



1 See An Historical ami Critical Essay on the Life and Character of Pe- 
trarch; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of tlie Abbe tie 
Sade. 

2 Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, vol. ii. p. 106. 

3 Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labor of love," {see Decline and 
Fall, chap. Ixx. note 1,) and followed him with confidence ami delight. 
T-iJ compiler of a very voluminous work must take muck criticism upon 
trust. Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily as some other 
authors. 

4 Tje sonnet had before awakaccd the susf icions of Mr. Horace VValpole. 
Sue his .eller to Worton il 17(i3. 



them to the land, where they may be at least overlooked 
amongst the crowd of dependents, and not present the hu- 
miliating spectacle of a whole nation loaded witn recent 
chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that happy 
indifference which constitution alone can give, (for phileso 
phy aspires to it in vain,) have not sunk under circuir 
stances ; but many peculiarities of costume and maiinei 
have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a prido 
common to all Italians who have been masters, have not 
been persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splen- 
dor which was a proof and a portion of their power, they 
would not degrade into the trappings of their subjection. 
They retired from the space which they had occupied in 
the eyes of their fellow-citizens ; tlieir continuance in 
which would have been a symptom of acquiescence, and 
an insult to those who .suffered by the common misfortune. 
Those who remained in the degraded capital might be said 
rather to haunt the scenes of I. eir departed power, than to 
live in them. The reflection, " who and what enthrals," 
will hardly bear a comment from ere who is, nationally, 
the friend and the ally of the conqueK It may, however, 
be allowed to say thus much, that to tnose who wish to re- 
cover their independence, any inasters must be an object 
of dett,t,.ation ; and it may be safely foretold that ihi.i! un- 
profitable aversion will not have been corret^iud before 
Venice shall have sunk into the slime of lier cholyjd canals. 



No. VIII.— Laura. 

" Watering ihe tree which hears his ladi/s name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame." 

Stanza xxv. 

Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we now 
"know as little of Laura as ever.' The discoveries of the 
Abbi!! de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no longerinstruct 
or amuse. We must not, however, think that these memoirs 
are as much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although 
we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great nahie, but a little 
authority .2 His '' labor" has not oeen in vain, notwithstand- 
ing his " love" has, like most other passions, made him 
ridiculous.' The hypothesis which overpowered the strug- 
gling Italians, and carried along less interested critics in its 
current, is run out. We have another proof that we can 
be never sure that the paradox, the most singular, and 
therefore having the most agreeable and authentic air, will 
not give place to the re-established ancient prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, 
and was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. The 
fountains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, may re- 
sume their pretensions, and the exploded de la Bastie again 
be heard with complacency. The hypothesis of the Abbt- 
had no stronger props than the parchment sonnet and 
medal found on the skeleton of the wife of Hugo de Sade, 
and the manuscript note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now in 
the Ambrosian library. If these proofs were both incontest- 
able, the poetry was written, the medal composed, cast, 
and deposittd within the space of twelve hours : and these 
deliberate duties were performed round the carcass of one 
who died of the plague, and was hurried to the grave on 
the day of her death. These documents, therefore, are too 
decisive ; they prove not the fact, but the forgery. Either 
the sonnet or the Virgilian note must be a falsification. The 
Abbe cites both as incontestably true ; the consequent de- 
duction is inevitable — they are both evidently false. -i 

Secondly, Laura was never married, and was a haughty 
virgin rather than that tender and prudent wife who honored 
Avignon, by making that town the theatre of an honest 
French passion, and played off for one and twenty years her 
little machinery of alternate favors and refusals^ upon the 
first poet of the age. It was, indeed, rather too unfair that 
a female should be made responsible for eleven children 
upon the faith of a misinterpreted abbreviation, and the 
decision of a librarian.s It is, however, satisfactory to think 
that the love of Petrarch was not Platonic. The happiness 
which he prayed to pcssess but once and for u moment was 



6 " Par ce petit manfege, cette alternative de faveure et de rigucurs bien 
menagee, une fenime tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et un aiis. le plus 
ffrand poete de son siecJe, sans laire la moindre brdcne & son hoiineiir." 
Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Frangais. 

6 In a dialogue with St. Augustine, Petrarch has described Laura aa 
having a body exhausted with repealed ptubs. Tiie old editors read and 
printed perturbalioidbus ; but M. Capperonier, librarian to the French 
king in 1762, who saw the MS. in the Paris library, made an attestation 
that "on lit et qu*on doit lire, partubus exhaustnm." De Saile joined the 
names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with M. Capperonier, and, in the wtole 
discussion on this ptuhs, showed himself a downright literary rogus. Sco 
Rirtessiom, &.C. p. 2t)7. Thomas Aquinas is called in to settle wbetotr To- 
trarch^s mistress was a chaste maid or a continent wife. 



782 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



surely net of the mind,' and something so very real as a 
marriage project, with one who has been idly called a 
shadowy nymph, may be, perhaps, detected in at least six 
places of his own sonnets. The love of Petrarch was 
neither Platonic nor poetical : and if in one passage of his 
works he calls it " amore veementeissimo ma janico cd 
onesto," he confesses, in a letter to a friend, that it was 
guiL.y and perverse, that it absorbed him quite, and master- 
ed his heirt. 

In this case, however, he was perhaps alarmed for the 
culpability of his wishes ; for the Abb6 de Sade himself, who 
certainly would not have been scrupulously delicate if he 
could have proved his descent from Petrarch as well as 
Laura, is forced into a stout defence of his virtuous grand- 
mother. As far as relates to the poet, we have no security 
for the innocence, except perhaps in the constancy of his 
pursuit. He assures us in his epistle to posterity, that, when 
arrived at his fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but 
had lost all recollection and image of any " irregularity." 
But the birth of his natural daughter cannot be assigned 
earlier than his thirty-ninth year ; and either the memory or 
the morality of the poet must have failed him, when he for- 
got or was guilty of this sHp.'^ The weakest argument for 
the purity of this love has been drawn from the permanence 
of its effects, which survived the object of his passion. The 
reflection of M. de la Bastie, that virtue alone is capable of 
making impressions which death cannot efface, is one of 
those which everybody applauds, and everybody finds not 
to be true, the moment he examines his own breast or the 
records of human feeling.3 Such apothegms can do 
nothing for Petrarch or for the cause of morality, except 
with the very weak and the very young. He that has made 
even a little progress beyond ignorance and pupilage can- 
not be edified with any thing but truth. What is called 
vindicating the honor of an individual or a nation, is the 
most futile, tedious, and uninstructive of all writing; al- 
though it will always meet with more applause than that 
sober criticism, which is attributed to the malicious desire 
of reducing a great man to the common standard of hu- 
manity. It is, after all, not unlikely that our historian was 
right in retaining his favoritj hypothetic salvo, which se- 
cures the author, although it scarcely saves the honor of the 
still unknow'n mistress of Pet. -arch.* 



No. IX. — Petrarch. 

" They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died." — Stanzajxxxl. 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return from 
the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Rome, in the 
year 1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated visit to 
Venice in company with Francesco Novello da Carrara, he 
appears to have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. For four months pre- 
vious to his death he was in a stats of continual languor, 
and in the morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was 
found dead in his library chair with his head resting upon a 
book. The chair is still shown amongst the precious relics 
of Arquii, which, from the uninv >-rupted veneration that has 
been attached to every thing reictive to this great man 
from the moment of his death io the present hour, have, 
it may be hoped, a better chance of authenticity than the 
Shakspearian memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronunciation, 
although the analogy of the English language has been ob- 
served in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, and about 
three miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the 
Dosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty 
minutes across a flat well-wooded meadow, you come to a 
little blue lake, clear but fathomless, and to the foot ^ a 
succession of acclivities and hills, clothed with viney^ras 
and orchards, rich with fir and pomegranate trees and 
every sunny fruit shrub. From the banks of the lake the 
road winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon 
seen between a cleft where two ridges s'lope towards each 
other, and nearly enclose the village. The houses are 
scattered at intervals on the steep sides of these summits ; 
and that of the poet is on the edge of a little knoll overlook- 
ing two descents, and comjjnanding a view, not only of the 



1 " Hasrmalbn, quanto 'lOdar \j Uei 

Deir imagine lua, se mille volte 
N' avcsti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 

Soneltn ."iS, quando ^urtse a Simon Valto concetto. 
Le Rime, tc. par. i. pag-. 189, edit. Yen. 1766. 
3 " A di.eJta confessione cost BJncera diede fnrse occaaione una nuova 
caduta ch' ei fece." Tiraboschi, Siona, &c. v. 492. 
3 M. do Bimaid, Baron de 1:^ Bastie, in the Memoires de TAcadfimie des 



glowing gardens in the dales immediately beneath, b.it of 
the wide plains, above whose low woods of mu.berr> and 
willow, thickened into a dark mass by festoons of vines, lall, 
single cypresses, and the spires of towns, are seen in the 
distance, which stretches to the mouths of the Po and the 
shores of the Adriatic. The climate of these volcanic hills 
is warmer, and the vintage begins a week sooner than in the 
plains of Padua. Petrarch is laid, for he cannot be said to 
be buried, in a sarcophagus of red marble, raised on four 
pilasters on aa elevated base, and preserved from an asso- 
ciation with meaner tombs. It stands conspicuously alone, 
but will soon be overshadowed by four lately planted 
iaurels. Petrarch's fountain, for here every thing is Pe- 
trarch's, springs and expands itself beneath an artificial 
arch, a little below the church, and abounds plentifully, m 
the driest season, with that soft water which was tno 
ancient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be mora 
attractive, were it not, in some seasons, beset with hornets 
and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate the 
tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of 
centuries have spar'^d these sequestered valleys, and the 
only violence which has been o fc-ed to the ashes of 
Petrarch was prompted, not by hate but veneration. An 
attempt was made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, 
and one of the arms was stolen by a Florentine through a 
rent which is still visible. The injury is not forgotten, but 
has served to identify the poet with the country where he 
was born, but where he would not live. A peasant boy ot 
Arqu^ being asked who Petrarch was, replied, " that the 
people of the parsonage knew all about him, but that he 
only knew that he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsyth^ was not quite correct in saying that Petrarch 
never returned to Tuscany after he had once quitted it 
when a boy. It appears he did pass through Florence on 
his way from Parma to Rome, and on his return in the year 
1350, and remained there long enough to form some" ac- 
quaintance with its most distinguished inhabitants. A 
Florentine gentleman, ashamed of the av.ersion of the 
poet for his native country, was eager to point out this 
trivial error in our accomplished traveller, whom he knew 
and respected for an extraordinary capacity, extensive 
erudition, and refined taste, joined to that engaging sim- 
plicity of manners which has been so frequently recognised 
as the surest, though it is certainly not an indispensable, 
trait of superior genius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously traced 
and recorded. The house in which he lodged is shown in 
Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to decide the 
ancient controversy between their city and the neighboring 
Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried when seven months 
old, and remained until his seventh year, have designated 
by a long inscription the spot where their great fellow 
citizen was born. A tablet has been raised to him at Parma, 
in the chapel of St. Agatha, at the cathedral, because he 
was archdeacon of that society, and was only snatched 
from his intended sepulture in their church by n foreign death. 
Another tablet, with a bust, has been erected to him at 
Pavja, on account of his having passed the autumn of 1368 
in that city, with his son-ii>-law Brossano. The political 
condition which has for ages precluded the Italians from 
the criticism of the living, has concentrated their attention 
to the illustration of the dead. 



No. X— Tasso. 



" In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire ; 
And Boileau, whose rash envy," ifC. — Stanza xxxviii. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates Tasso 
may serve as well as any other specimen to justify the 
opinion given of the harmofly of French verse :— 

" A Malherbe, a Racan, pr6fere Th6ophile, 
Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout I'or de Virgile."— Sat. ix 

The biographer Serassi,^ out of tenderness to the reputa- 
lion either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager to ob- 
serve that the satirist recanted or explained away Ihii 
censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the Jcru 
salem to be a " genius, sublime, vast, and happily boro foi 



Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 1740 and 1751. See also RiHesscni, &c 
p. 296. I 

4 "And if the Tirtue or prudence of Laura -was inexorable, he enjoy^ 
and mio-ht boast of enjoying-, \St nymph of poetry." Decluie aLd rill, 
chap. ixx. p. 327, vol. xii. 8vo. Perhaps the if is here meaot for a— 
though. 

6 Kemarks, &c. on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit, 
g 6 La Vita del Tasso, lib. iii. 



APPENDIX. 



783 



the higher fights of poetry." To this we will add, that the 
recantation ;s far from satisfactory, when we examine the 
whole anecdote as reported by Olivet.' The sentence pro- 
nounced against him by Bohours^ is recorded only to the 
confusion of the critic, whose palinodia the Italian makes no 
effort to discover, and would not, perhaps, accept. As to 
the opposition which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition 
with Ariosto, below Bojardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such 
opposition must also in some measure be laid to the cHtirge 
of Alfonso, and the court of Ferrara. For Leonard Salviati, 
the principal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 
there can be no doubt,-< influenced by a hope to acquire the 
favijr of the House of Este : an object which he thought 
attainable by exalting the reputation of a native poet at the 
expense of a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and 
efforts of Salviati must serve to show the contemporary 
opinion as to the nature of the poet's imprisopment ; and 
will fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant 
jailei ■» In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disappoint- 
ed in Ihe reception given to his criticism ; he was called to 
the court of Ferrara, where, having endeavored to heighten 
his claims to favor, by panegyrics on the fan.'ly of his 
sovereign,^ he was in turn abandoned, and ex^Jred in 
neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was 
brougnt to a close in six years after the commencement of 
the controversy ; and if the academy owed its first renown 
to having almost opened with such a paradox,* it is probable 
that, on the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated 
rather than aggravated the imprisonment of the injured 
poet. The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employment 
for many of his solitary hours, and the captive could have 
been but little embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, 
amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with in- 
vidiously omitting, in his comparison between France and 
Italy, to make any mention of the cupola of St. Maria del 
Fiore at Florence.' The late biographer of Ariosto seems 
as if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the in- 
terpretation of Tasso"s self-estimation" related in Serassi's 
life of the poet. But Tiraboschi had before laid that rivalry 
at rests by showing, that between Ariosto and Tasso it is 
not a question of comparison, but of preference. 



No. XI. — Ariosto. 

" TTie lightning rent from Ariosto's bust, 
The iron crown of laurel's mimich'd leaves." 

Stanza xli. 

Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, which 
surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and a crown 
of iron laurels melted away. The event has been recorded 
by a writer of the last centu y.w The transfer of these 
sacred ashes, on the 6th of Ju. •, 1801, was one of the most 
brilliant spectacles of the short-iived Italian republic ; and 
to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the once famous 
fallen IntrepiJi were revived and reformed into the Ariostean 
academy. The large public place through which the pro- 
cession- paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto 
Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as 
the Homer, not of Italy, hut Ferrara. 'i The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was born 
is carefully distinguished by a tablet with these words : 
" Qui nacque Luclovico Ariosto il giomo 8. di Settembre 
deir anno 1474." But the Ferrarese make light of the acci- 



L fait de ses taleiis, i'aur 
"ce qui domine chezlui,''p. 182. 
n. " J'en ai ei peu change, dil- 



1 Hislo-rt de I'Academic Francaise dcpuis 1652 jusqu'Jl 1700, par I'Abhe 
d'Olivet. "Mais, ensuite, veiiaiu a I'usaf ""''I » f-'' .lo =.= fai...= ;',„■■=;= 
moiitre que le bon sens n'est pas roujo' 
Boileau Baid, he had nut changed his opi 
il," &o. p. 181. 

2 La Maiii6re de bien Penscr. Philanthes is for Tasso, and says in the 
outist, " De tous les beaux csprits que I'llalie a portes, le Tisse t.t peul- 
6lre celui qui pense le plus nobleinent." But Bohours seems to speak in 
Eudoius, who closes with the absurd comparison ; '* Faites valoir le Tasse 
tact quM vous plaira je m'en liens pour moi k Virgile," &.C. 

3 La Vila, &.C. lib. iii. p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see an 
account nl' the oppositicn of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, Life, &c. 
chap. xvii. vol. it. 

4 For further, and, it is hoped, decisive proof, that Tasso was neither 
Trore nor less than a prisoner oT stale, the reader is referred to " Historical 
Uluetrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold," page 5, and following. 

6 Orazioni funebri . . . dcUe Indi di Don Luigi, Cardinal d'Este . . . delle 
Odi di Donno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vila, lib. hi. p. 117. 

8 II was founded in I5;'2, and the Crusctn answer to Pellegrino's Caraffa, 
ot tpica poesia, was pirtjlished in 158-1. 

t •*Contanto pold aempre iu lui il veleno della sua pessima volontdi cod- 
tVE, cUa aosioa Fiorcntina." Lft Vita, lib. iii. pp. 96, 98, lorn ii. 



dent by which their poet was bom at road, and claim him 
exclusively for their own. They possess his bones, they 
show his arm-chair, and his inkstand, and his autogra^jhs. 

" Hie illius arma. 

Hie currus fuit " 

The house where he lived, the room where re died, are 
designated by his own replaced memorial. '» and by a recent 
inscription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of their claims 
since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause which 
their apologists "lysteriously hint is not unknown to them, 
ventured to degrade iheir soil and climate to a Boaotian in- 
capacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto volume 
has been called forth by the detraction, and this supple- 
ment to Barotti's Memoirs of the illustrious Ferrarese has 
been considered a triumphant reply to the " Quadro Storico 
Statistico dell' Alta Italia." 



No. XII. — Ancient Superstitions respecting 
Lightning. 

" For the true laurcl-wrcath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves." — Stanza yli. 

The eagle, the sea-calf, the laurel, and the white vine, 
were amongst the most approved preservatives against 
lightning : Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Caesar the 
second, and Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the 
third when the sky threatened a thunder-storm. i^ These 
superstitions may be received without a sneer in a country 
where the magical properties of the hazel twig have not 
lost all their credit ; and perhaps the reader may not be 
much surprised to find that a commentator on Suetonius 
has taken upon himself gravely to disprove the imputed 
virtues of the crown of Tiberius, by mentioning that a few 
years before he wrote a laurel was actually struck by 
lightning at Rome.n 



No. XIII. 



" KnoiB that the lightning sanctifies below." — Stanza xli. 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the Forum, 
having been touched by lightning, were held sacred, and 
the memory of the accident was preserved by a pw^ca?, or 
altar resembling the mouth of a well, with a'little chapel 
covering the cavity supposed to be made by the thunder- 
bolt. Bodies scathed and persons struck dead were 
thought to be incorruptible ;'s and a stroke not fatal con- 
ferred perpetual dignity upon the man so distinguished by 
heaven.!* 

Those killed by lightning were wrapped m a white gar- 
ment, and buried where they fell. The superstition was 
not confined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the Lombards 
believed in the omens furnished by lightning ; and a Chris- 
tian priest confesses that, by a diabolical skill in inter- 
preting thunder, a seer foretold to Agilulf, duke of Turin, 
an event which came to pass, and gave him a queen and a 
crown." There was, however, something equivocal in this 
sign, which the ancient inhabitants of Kome did not al- 
ways consider propitious ; and, as the fears are likely to 
last longer than the consolations of superstition, it is not 



s La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scriita dall' Abate Girolamo Baruflaldi 
Giuniore, &.C. Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii. p. 262. See "Historical Illustrations," 
&c. p. 26. 

9 Storia dellaLelt. &c. lib iiL torn. vii. par. iii. p. 1220, sect. 4. 

10 Op. di Bianconi, vol. iii. p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802; leitera al Si?nor 
Guido Savini Arcifiaiocritico, suU' indole di un fulmuie caduto in Dresda 
I'anno 1759. 

H " Appassionataammiratore ed invilto apologista dell' Omcro Ferrarese." 
The title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the confusion of the 
Tassisti, lib. iii. pp. 262, 265. La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, &.C. 

12 " Parva sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnojia, sed on 

Sordida, parta meo sed tamen sere domus." 

13 Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. ii. cap. 55. Columella, li'r. x. Suston. in ViU 
August, cap. xc. el in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 

14 Note 2, p. 409, edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 

16 Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terra ilotu et Fulminib. lib. T. cap. si., 

16 Oii5£if Kepavv(i)deh an/i<5s fVrt, HBev xal &; •Jeij 7i^37au 
Plut. Sympos. vid. J. C. Bulleng. ut sup. 

17 Pauli Diaconi de Geatis Langobard.lib. iii. cap. 2n. 



784 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



strange that the Romans of the age of Leo X. should have 
been so much terrified at some misinterpreted storms as to 
require the exhortations of a scliolar, who arrayed all the 
learning on lh\mder and lightning to prove the omen favor- 
able ; beginning with the flash which struck the walls 
of Velitraj, and including that which played upon a gate 
at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of one of its 
citizens.! 



No. XIV. — TiiK Venus of Medicis. 

" There, too, the Goddess loves in stone." — Stanza xlix. 

The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly suggests the 
lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the object with 
the description proves, not only the correctness of the por- 
trait, but the peculiar turn of thought, and, if the term 
may be used, the sexual imagination of the descriptive 
poet. Tlie same conclusion may be deduced from another 
hint in the same episode of Musidora ; for Thomson'H no- 
tion of the privileges of favored love must have been either 
very primitive, or rather deficient in delicacy, when he 
made his grateful nymph inform her discreet bamon that 
in some happier moment he might perhaps be the compan- 
ion of her bath :— 

"The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the^ anecdote told in the Life of 
Dr. Johnson. We will not leave the Florentine gallery 
without a word on the Wheller. It seems strange that the 
character of that disputed statue should not be entirely de- 
cided, at least in the mind of any one who has seen a sar- 
cophagus in the vestibule of the Basilica of St. Paul without 
the walls, at Rome, where the whole group of the fable of 
Marsyasis seen in tolerable preservation ; and the Scythian 
slave whettint^thc knife is represented exactly in the same 
position as this celebrated masterpiece The slave is not 
naked ; but it is easier to get rid of this difficulty than to 
suppose the knife in the hand of the Florentine statue an 
instrument for shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi sup- 
poses, the man is no other than the barber of Julius Caesar. 
Winkelmann, illustrating a bas-relief of the same subject, 
follows the opinion of Leonard Agostmi, and his authority 
might have been thought conclusive, even if the re- 
semblance did not strike the most careless observer.2 
Amongst the bronzes of the same princely collection is 
still to be seen the inscribed tablet copied and commented 
upon by iMr. Gibbon.^ Our lustorian found some dif- 
ficulties, but did not desist from his illustration : he might 
be vexed to hear that his criticism has been thrown away 
on an inscription now generally recognised to be a forgery. 



No. XV. — Madame de Staei. 

" In Santa Croce''s holy precincts lie." — Stanza liv. 

This name will recall the memory, not only of those 
whose tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the centre 
of pilgrimage, the Mecca of Italy, bnt of her whose elo- 
quence was poured ovei the illustrious ashes, and whose 
voice is now as mute as those she sung. Corinna is no 
more ; and with her snould expire the fear, the flattery, 
and the envy, which threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud 
round the march of genius, and forbad the steady gaze of 
disinterested criticism. We have her picture embellished 
or distorted, as friendship or detraction has held the pencil : 
the impartial portrait was hardly to be expected from a 
contemporary. The immediate voice of her sufvivors will, 
it is probable, be far from affording a just estimate of her 
singular capacity. The gallantry, the love of wonder, and 
the hope of associated fame, which blunted the edge of 
censure, must cease to exist. — The dead have no sex ; they 
can surprise by no new miracles ; they can confer no 
privilege ; Corinna has ceased to be a woman — she is only 
an author : and it may be foreseen that many will repay 
themselves for former complaisance, by a severity to 
which the extravagance of previous praises may perhaps 
give the color of truth. The latest posterity, for to the 



1 I. P. Valeriani de fulminum significationibus declamatio, ap. Grav. 
Aniiq. Rom. torn. T. p. S93. The decUmation is addressed to Julian of 
Medicis. 

2 See Monim. Ant. Tncd. par. 1, cap. xvii. n. xlii. pa^. 50; and Storia 
Jeir Arti, &c., lib. xi.cap. i. loin. ii. pa>r. 314, iioi. B. 

Nomina genlesque Antiqua: Italise, p. £04, edi(. oct. 

The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their liberties. 
TiJaa, JLt friend of Antony, presented thero with games ia the theatre of 



latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will have to 
pronounce upon her various productions ; and the longer 
the vista through which they are seen, the more accurately 
minute will be the object, the more certain the justice, of 
the decision. She will enter into that existence in which 
the great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
associated in a world of their own, and, from that superior 
sphere, shed their eternal influence for the control and 
consolation of mankind. But the individual will gradually 
disappear as the author is more distinctly seen : some one, 
therefore, of all those whom the charms of invohintary 
wit, and of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly 
circles of Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those vir- 
tues which, although they are said to love the shade, are, 
in fact, more frequently chilled than excited by the do- 
mestic cares of private life. Some one should be found to 
portray the unafftjied graces with which she adorned 
those dearer relationships, the performance of whose 
duties is rather discovered amongst the interior secrets, 
than seen in the outward management, of family inter- 
course ; and which, indeed, it requires the ilclitmcy of 
genuine affection to qualify for the eye of an indiilerent 
spectator. Some one should be found, not to celebrate, 
but to describe, the amiable mistress of an open m.ansion, 
the centre of a society ever varied, and always pleased, 
the creator of which, divested of the ambition and the arts 
of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh animation 
to those around her. The mother tenderly affectionate 
and tenderly beloved, the friend unboundedly generous, 
but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all distress, 
cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, and 
protected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most 
where she was known the best; and, to the sorrows of 
vei-y many friends, and more dependents, may be oflfered 
the disinterested regret of a stranger, who, amidst the 
sublimer soeneS of the Leman lake, received his chief satis- 
faction from contemplating the engaging qualities of the 
incomparable Corinna. 



No. XVI. — Alfieri. 

" Here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri' s bonts." — Stanza liv 

Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, with- 
out waiting for the hundred years, consider him as " a 
poet good in law." — His inemoiy is the more dear to them 
because he is the bard of freedom ; and because, as such, 
his tragedies can receive no countenance from any of their 
sovereigns. They are but very seldom, and but very few 
of them, allowed to be acted. It was observed by Cicero, 
that nowhere were the true opinions and feelings of the 
Romans so clearly shown as at the theatre.'' In tlie 
autumn of 1816, a celebrated improvisatore exhibited his 
talents at the Opera-house of IMilan. The reading of the 
theses handed in for the subjects of his poetry was re- 
ceived by a very numerous audience, for the most part in 
silence, or with laughter ; but when the assistant, unfold- 
ing one of the papers, exclaimed. The apotheosis of Victor 
Alfieri, the whole theatre burst into a shout, and the ap- 
plause was continued lor some moments. The lot did not 
fall on Alfieri ; and the Signor Sgricci had to pour forth 
Ills extemporary common-places on the bombardYnent of 
Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite 
so much as might be thought from a first view of the 
ceremony ; and the police not only takes care to look at 
the papers beforehand, but, in case of any prudential after- 
thought, steps in to correct the blindness of chance. The 
proposal for deifying Alfieri was received with immediate 
enthusiasm, the rather because it was conjectured there 
would be no opportunity of carrying it into effect. 



No. XVII.— Machiayelli. 

" Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose." 

Stanza liv. 

The affectation ot simphcity m sepulchral inscriptions, 
which so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 



Pompev. They did not suffer the brilliancy of the spectacle to efface from 
their rnemory that the man who furnished them wiih the entertainment 
had murdered the son of Pompey : they drove him fVnm the theatre with 
curses. The moral sense of a populace, spoiitaniMuMy expressed, is never 
wrong. Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in llie execration of the 
citizens, by shouting- round the chariots of Lepidiis and Plancus, who had 
proscribed tlieir brothers, De GennanU non de Gnllis duo triumphant 
Consules : a saying worth a record were it moihino: but a good pun. [C. 
Veil. Paierii.'li Hist. lib. ii. cap. Ixxix. pag. 78, edit. Elzevir. 1649. Ibid, 
lib. ii. cap. Uivii.] 



A PPENDIX. 



785 



bjrfore us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a 
simple memorial not of death b\it life, has given to the 
tomb o'' jVlachiavelli no information as to the place or 
time of the birlh or death, tlie age or parentage, of the 
historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLLVM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

Tuere seems at least no reason why the name should not 
hve been put above the sentence which alludes to it. 

Jt will readily be imagined that the prejudices which have 
passed tlie name of Machiavelli into an epithet proverbial 
of iniquity e.vist no longer at Florence. His memory 
was persecuted, as his life had been, for an attachment to 
liberty incompatible with the new system of despotism 
which suc(^eeded the fall of the free governments of Italy. 
He was put to the torture for being a " libertine," that is, 
for wishing to restore the republic of Florence ; and such 
are the undying efforts of those who are interested in the 
perversion, not only of the nature of actions, but the 
meaning of words, that what was once patriotism, has by 
degrees come to signify debauch. We have ourselves out- 
lived the old meaning of " liberality," which is now another 
word for treason in one country and for infatuation in all. 
It seems to have been a strange mistake to accuse the 
author of " The Prince," as being a pander to tyranny; 
and to think that the Inquisition would condemn his work 
for such a delinquency. The fact is, that Macliiavelli, as 
is usual with tho.se against whom no crime can be proved, 
was suspected of and charged with atheism ; and the first 
and last most violent opposers of " The Prince" were both 
Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the Inquisition " benciio 
fosse tardo," to prohibit the treatise, and the other qualified 
tlie secretary of the Florentine republic as no better than 
a fool. The father Possevin was proved never to have 
read the book, and the father Lucchesini not to have un- 
derstood it. It is clear, however, that such critics must 
have objected, not to the slavery of the doctrines, but to 
the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows how dis- 
tinct are the interests' of a monarch from the happiness of 
mankind. The Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the 
last chapter of " The Prince" may again call forth a par- 
ticular refutation from those who are employed once more 
in moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to re- 
ceive the impressions of despotism. The chapter bears 
for title, " Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," 
and concludes with a libertine excitement to the future re- 
demption of Italy. " Non si deve adunque lasciar passare 
questaoccasione.acciocche la Italia veggadopo taiito tempo 
apparire un suo redentore. Ne posso esprimere con qual 
amore ei fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle provincie, che hanno 
patito per queste illuvioni esterne, con qual sete di ven- 
detta, con che ostinata fcde, con che lacrime. Quali porte 
se li serrerebcno ? Quali popoli li negherebbono la ob- 
bedienza? Quale Italiano li negherebbe I'ossequio? ad 
OQNUNO PrZEA gUESTO bahbarq dominio."' 



No. XVIII.— Dante. 

" Ungrateful Florence '. Dante sleeps afar. ' — Stanza Ivii. 

Dante was born at Florence, in the year 1261. He fought 
in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, and once 
prior of the republic. When the party of Charles of Anjou 
triumphed over the Bianchi, he was absent on an embassy 
to Pope Boniface VIII., and was condemned to two years' 
banishment, and to a fine of 8000 lire ; on the non-payment 
of which he was further punished by the sequestration of 
all Ins property. The republic, however, was not content 
with this satisfaction, for in 1772 was discovered in the 
archives at Florence a sentence in which Dante is the 
eleventh of a list of fifteen condemned in 1302 to be burnt 
alive ; Talis perveniens igne comburafur sic quod moriatiir. The 
pretext for this judgment was a proof of unfair barter, ex- 
tortions, and illicit gains. Baracteriarum iniguarum, extor- 
tionum, et illicitorurn lucrorum,"^ and with such an accusation 
it is not strange that Dante should have always protested 
his irmocence, and the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His 
appeal to Florence was accompanied by another to the 
Emperor Henrv arid the death of that sovereign in 1313 



1 11 Pri.icipe di NiccolV lilichi.iv: ,Ii, fee, con la prefazione e le note 
tstcriclie e poliiiche di M. a t.s'.o*. de J'. Hoiissaye e V esame e confutazioiie 
llell* opera . . . C'o«mopou, -759. 

3 Storia del la Lett. ital. •»■«. v. lib. iii. par. ii p. 448. Tirahosrhi is in- 
correot; the ili.tes ol the th:» Jecreei against Dante are A. Jj. 1302, 1314, 
and U16. 



99 



was the signal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment 
He had before lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall ; 
then travelled into the norlli of Italy, where Verona had to 
boast of his longest residence ; and he finally settled at 
Ravenna, which was his ordinary but not constant abode 
until his death. The refusal of the Venetians to grant him 
a public audience, on the part of Guido Novello da Polenta, 
his protector, is said to have been the principal cause of 
this event, which happened in 1321. He was buried '."in 
sacra minorum aede") at Ravenna, in a handsome tomo, 
which was erected by Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo 
in 1463, prastor for that republic which had refused to hear 
him, again restored by Cardinal Corsi, in 1692, and replaced 
by a more magnificent sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the 
expense of the Cardinal Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The of- 
fence or misfortune of Dante was an attachment to a de- 
feated party, and, as his least favorable biographers allege 
against him, too great a freedom of speech and haughtiness 
of manner. But the next age paid honors almost divine to 
the exile. The Florentines, i avi.ig in vain and frequently 
attempted to recover his body, crowned his image in a 
church, 3 and his picture is still one of the idols of their 
cathedral. They struck medals, they raised statues to him. 
The cities of Italy, not being able to dispute about his own 
birth, contended for that of his great poem, and the Floren- 
tines thought it for their honor to prove that he had finished 
the seventh Canto before they drove him from his native 
city. Fifty-one years after his death, they endowed a pro- 
fessorial chair for the expounding of his verses, and Boc- 
caccio was appointed to this patriotic employment. The 
example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa ; and the com- 
mentators, if they performed but little service to literature, 
augmented the veneration which beheld a sacred or moral 
allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. His birth 
and his'infancy were discovered to have been distinguished 
above those of ordinary men : the author of the Decameron, 
his earliest biographer, relates th;rt. his mother was warned 
in a dream of the importance of her pregnancy ; and it was 
found, by others, that at ten years of age he had manifested 
his precocious passion for that wisdom or theology, which, 
under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken for a sub- 
stantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had been re- 
cognised as a mere mortal production, and at the distance 
of two centuries, when criticism and competition had so- 
bered the judgment of the Italians, Dante was seriously 
declared superior to Homer, ^ and though the preference 
appeared to some casuists " an heretical blaspliemy worthy 
of the flames," the contest was vigorously maintained for 
nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a question 
w hich of the Lords of Verona could boast of having patron- 
ized him,5 and the jealous skepticism of one writer would 
not allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his bones. 
Even the critical Tiraboschi was inclined to believe that 
the poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries 
of Galileo. — Like the great originals of other nations, his 
popularity has not always maintained the same level. The 
last age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a model and 
a study : and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for 
poring over the harsh and obsolete extravagances of the 
Commedia. The present generation having recovered from 
the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the an- 
cient worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern Italians 
is thought even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to the 
life and writings of this great poet, which has not as yet 
been collected even by the Italians ; but the celebrated 
Ugo Foscolo meditates to supply this defect, and it is not 
to be regretted that this national work has been reserved 
for one so devoted to his country and the cause of truth. 



No XIX. — To.MB OF THE SciPIOS. 

" Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed," 4-c.— Stanza Ivii. 

The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not 
buried at Liternum, whither he had retired to voluntary 
banish.nent. This tomb was near the sea-shore, and the 
story of an inscription upon it, Ingrata Patria, having given 



3 So relates Ticino, bni some tliink his coronation only an allegory. 6c« 
Storia, &c. nt sup. p. 453. 

4 By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from SHI lo 
1616. See Storia, &c. torn. vii. lib. iii. par. iii. p. 1280. 

6 Gi 3. Jacopo Dionisi Canonico di Verona faerie di Aneddotl, o. 2. Sea 
Storia, &c. torn. r. lib. i. par, i. p. £4. 



786 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



a name to a modern tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fic- 
tion. If he was not buried, lie certainly lived there.' 

In cosi angusta e solitaria villa 

Era '1 grand' uomo che d' Africa s' appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.'* 

Ingratitude is generally supposed the vice peculiar to re- 
pifblii s ; and it seems to be forgotten that for one instance 
of popular inconstancy, we have a hundred examples of 
the fall of courtly favorites. Besides, a people have often 
repented— a monarch seldom or never. Leaving apart 
many familiar proofs of this fact, a short story may show the 
difference between even an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, havnig been defeated in 1354, at Porto- 
longo, and many years afterwards in the more decisive 
action of Pola, by the Genoese, was recalled by the Vene- 
tian government, and thrown into chains. The Avvogadori 
proposed to behead him, but the supreme tribunal was con- 
tent with the sentence of imprisonment. Whilst Pisani 
was sufi'ering ihis unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the 
vicinity of the capital, ^ was, by the assistance of the Signor 
of Padua, delivered into the hands of Pietro Doria. At the 
intelligence of that disfster, the great bell of St. Mark's 
tower tolled to arms, and the people and the soldiery of 
the galleys were summoned to the repulse of the approach- 
ing enemy : but they protested they would not move a step, 
unless Pisani were liberated and placed at their head. 
The great council was instantly assembled : the prisoner 
was called before them, and the Doge, Andrea Contarini, 
in ' med him of the demands of the people, and the neces- 
sitii s of the state, whose only hope of safety was reposed 
ill his efforts, and who implored him to forget the indigni- 
ties he had endured in her service. " I have submitted," re- 
plied the magnanimous republican, " I have submitted to 
your deliberations without complaint ; I have supported 
patiently the pains of imprisonment, for they were inflicted 
at your command : this is no time to inquire whether I de- 
served them— the good of the republic may have seemed to 
require it, and that which the republic resolves is always 
resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my life for 
the preservation of my country." Pisani was appointed 
generalissimo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with 
those of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the as- 
cendency over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to their 
citizens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with the 
one and the other, seems to have been a national, not an 
individual object : and, notwithstanding the boasted equaUty 
before the laws, which an ancient Greek writer* considered 
the great distinctive mark between his countrymen and the 
barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens seem never 
to have been the principal scope of the old democracies. 
The world may have not yet seen an essay by the author 
of the Italian Republics, in which the distinction between 
the liberty of former states, and the signification attached 
to that word by the happier constitution of England, is in- 
geniously developed. The Italians, however, when they 
had ceased to be free, still looked back with a sigh up;u 
those times of turbulence, when every citizen might rise ,5 
a share of sovereign power, and have never been taught 
fully to appreciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone 
Speroni, when Francis Maria II. Duke of Rovere proposed 
tlie question, "which was preferable, the rep sjIc or the 
principality— the perfect and not durable, or c.i; less per- 
fect and not so liable to change," replied, "that our happi- 
ness is to be measured by its quality, not by its duration ; 
and that he preferred to live for one day like a man, than 
for a hundred years like a brute, a stock, or a stone." This 
was thought, and called, a magnificent answer, down to the 
last days of liali^an servitude.^ 



No. XX. — Petrarch's Crown. 

" And the crown 
Which PetrarcVs laureate brow supremrhj wore 
Upon afar and foreign soil had groion." — Stanza Ivii. 

The Florentines did not take the opportunitv of Petrarch's 
snort visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the 'decree which 



1 Vitam Literni eg'it sine desiilt 
Livy reports that some said he w 
ItiJ. cap. Iv. 

STrionfo delta Castiti. 

4 The Greek boasted that he wa 
firjl Look of Dioiiysius of Halicarn 

6 •' E intonio alia masmfica risposla," &,c. Serassi, Vita del Tasso. lib 
Ui. ptg. M9, loin. iL edit. 3, Bergamo. 

a "Accni'iii mnolire, EC oi i lecitoancor T esortarti, a compire 1' immortal 
tua Af.'tcti . . . See li avvieite d' iiicciilrare r.e. nostro itile cosn clie ti dis- 



rio urbis. Sec T. Liv. Hist. lib. xxxviii. 
IS buried at Liternum, others at Rome. 

3 Sts No. VI. page 7o0. 
iVovd^oj" See the last-chapter of the 



confiscated the property of his father, who had been t)aii 
ished shortly after the exile of Dante. His crown did not 
dazzle them : but when in the next year Ihey were in want 
of his assistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent to 
Padua to entreat the laureate to conclude his wanderings 
in the bosom of his native country, where he might finist 
his immortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered posses 
sions, the esteem of all classes of )iis fellow-citizens. 
They gave him the option of the book and the science he 
might condescend to expound: thev called him the glory 
of his country, who was dear, and \vho would be dearer to 
them ; and they rdded, that if there was any thing unpleas- 
ing in their letter, i =. ought to return amongst them, were 
it only to correct their style. i5 Petrarch seemed at first to 
listen to the flattery and to the entreaties of his friend, but 
he did not return to Florence, and preferred a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Laura and the shades of Vaucluse. 



■^To. XXI.— BOCCACC.-C 

"Boccaccio to Ms parent earth be^rtcatVd 
His dust." — Stanza Iviii. 

Boccaccio was buried in the church of St. Michael and St 
James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsa, which 
was by some supposed the place of his birth. There he 
passed the latter part of his life in a course of laborious 
study, which shortened his existence ; and there might his 
ashes have been secure, if not of honor, at least of repose. 
But the " hyena bigots" of Certaldo tore up the tombstone 
of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts of St. 
Michael and St. James. The occasion, and, it may be 
hoped, the excuse, for this ejectment was the making of a 
new floor for the church ; but the fact is, that the tombstone 
was taken up and thrown aside at the bottom of the build- 
ing. Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would 
be painful to relate such an exception to the devotion of the 
Italians for their great names, could it not be accompanied 
by a trait more honorably conformable to the general char- 
acter of the nation. Tlie principal person of the district, 
the last branch of the house of Medicis, afforded that pro- 
tection to the memory of the insulted dead which her best 
ancestors had dispensed upon all contemporary merit. The 
Marchioness Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio 
from the neglect in which it had some time lain, and found 
for It an honorable elevation in her own mansion. She has 
done more : the house in which the poet lived has been as 
little respected as his tomb, and is falling to ruin over the 
head of one indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It 
consists of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, 
on which Cosmo II. affixed an inscription. This house she 
has taken measures to purchase, and proposes to devote to 
it that care and consideration which are attached to the 
cradle and to the roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boc- 
caccio ; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony in 
the acquirement of learning, who was amongst the first, if 
not the first, to allure the science and the poetry of Greece 
to the bosom of Italy ;— who not only invented a new style, 
but founded, or certainly fixed, a new language ; who, be- 
sides the esteem of every polite court of Europe, was 
thought worthy of employment by the predominant republic 
of his own country, and, what is'more, of the friendship of 
Petrarch, who lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, 
and who died in the pursuit of knowledge, — such a m:ui 
might have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Certaldo, and from a late English travel- 
ler, who strikes off his portrait as an odious, contemptible, 
licentious writer, whose impure remains should be suffered 
to rot without a record.' That English traveller, unfor- 
tunately for those who have to deplore the loss of a very 
amiable person, is beyond all criticism ; but the mortality 
which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, must 
not defend Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of his 
successors. Death may canonize tiis virtues, not his errors ; 
and It may be modestly pronounced that he transgressed, 
not only as an author, but as a man, when he evoked '.he 



piaccia, ci6 debb' essere un allro motive ad esaudire i desiderj defia tua 
patria." Storiadella Lett llal. torn. v. par. i. lib. i. paj. 76i 

7 Claseical Tour, chap. ix. vol. ii. p. 355, edit. 3d. " Of Bxcaccio, toe 
mnderii Petroiiius, we say nothing; the abuse of ofeiuus is more odious and 
more contemptible than its absence j and it imports little where t.ne impure 
remains of a licentious author are consigned to their kindred dust. For 
the same reason the traveller may pass unnoticed the tomb of the malijfnanf. 
Aretino.'* This dubious phrase is hardly enough to sav3 the teurist from 
the suspicion of another blunder respeciing the burMl-place of Aretine, 
whose tomb was in the church of St. Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the 
famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Uaylc liof the wcid? 



APPENDIX. 



787 



shade of Bocc!>.ccio in company with that of Aretine, 
amid5t the sepulchres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it 
with indignity. As far as respects 

" II flagello de' Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretino," ^ 

It is of little import what censure is passed upon a coxcomb 
who owes his present existence to the above burlesque 
character given to him by the poet, whose amber lias pre- 
served many other grubs and worms : but to classity Boc- 
caccio with such a person, and to excommunicate his very 
ashes, must of itself make us doubt of the qualification of 
the classical tourist for writing upon Italian, or, indeed, 
upon any other literature ; for ignorance on one point may 
incapacitate an author merely for that particular topic, but 
subjection to a professional prejudice must render him an 
unsafe director on all occasions Any perversion and in- 
justice may be made what is vulgarly called " a case of 
conscience," and this poor excuse is all that can be offered 
for the priest of Certaldo, or the author of the Classical 
Tour. It would have answered the purpose to confine the 
censure to the novels of Boccaccio ; and gratitude to that 
source which supplied the muse of Dryden with her last 
and most harmonious numbers might, perhaps, have re- 
str.'cted that censure to the objectionable qualities of the 
hunu, jd tales. At any rate, the repentance of Boccaccio 
might have arrested Uis exhumation, and it should have 
been recollected and told, that in his old age he wrote a 
letter entreating his friend to discourage the reading of the 
Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and for the sake of 
the author, who would not have an apologist always at hand 
*o state in his excuse that he wrote it when young, and at 
the command of his superiors.' It is neither the licentious- 
ness of the writer, nor the evil propensities of the reader, 
which have given to the Decameron alone, of all the works 
of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The establishment 
of a new and delightful dialect conferred an immortality on 
the works in which it was first fixed. The sonnets of Pe- 
traj-ch were, for the same reason, fated to survive his self- 
admired Africa, the " favorite of kings." The invariable 
traits of nature and feeling with which the novels, as well 
as the verses, abou.id, have doubtless been the chief source 
of the foreign celebrity of both authors; but Boccaccio, as 
a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than Pe- 
trarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the lover 
of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the Tuscan 
piose been known only as the author of the Decameron, a 
considerate writer would have been cautious to pronounce 
a sentence irreconcileable with the unerring voice of many 
ages and nations. An irrevocable value has never been 
stamped upon any work solely recommended by impurity. 

Tiie true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which 
began at a very early period, was the choice of his scanda- 
lous personages in the cloisters as well as the courts ; but 
the princes only laughed at the gallant adventures so un- 
justly charged upon queen Theolmda, whilst the priesthood 
cried shame upon the debauches drawn from the convent 
and the hermitage ; and most probably for the opposite rea- 
son, namely, that the picture was faithful to the life. Two 
of the novels are allowed to be facts usefully turned into 
tales to deride the canonization of rogues and laymen. Ser 
Ciappelletto and Marceliinus are cited with applause even 
by the decent Muratori.2 The great Arnaud, as he is quoted 
in Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels was pro- 
posed, of which the expurgation consisted in omitting the 
words " monk," and " nun," and tacking the immoralities 
to other names. The literary history of Italy particularizes 
no such edition ; but it was not long before the whole of 
Europe had but one opinion of the Decameron ; and the 
absolution of the author seems to have been a point settled 
at least a hundred years ago : " On se feroit sifiler si I'on 
pretendoit convaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas dtt; honnete 
homnie, puis qu'il a fait le Decameron." So said one of the 
best men, and perhaps the best critic, that ever lived — the 
very martyr to impartiality .^ But as this information, that in 
the beginning of the last century one would have been hooted 
at for pretending that Boccaccio was not a gooil man, may 
seem to come from one of those enemies who are to be 
suspected, even when they make us a present of truth, a 
more accep'able contrast with the proscription of the body, 
soul, and muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words 
from the virtuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought 



of Mr. Eustace woulj lead us to Ihinlc the tomb was at Florence, or at least 
was to 1)6 somewhere recognised. Whether the inscription so much disputed 
WHS ever written on tiie tomb cannot now be decided, tor all memorial of 
Ihis author has disappeared from the church of St. Luke. 

1 * Noil eiiim ubique est, qui in excusalionem meam consur^ens dicat, 
iuvciiisscripsit, et majoris coactus imperio." The letter was addressed to 
Ma2-hinart'ofOa>-ii..anti,marshalof the kingdom of Sicily. See Tiraboscbi, 
E'.oin &r :. tout. V. par. ii. lib. iii. 

2 D.sscrtazioni Eopra le Antichitii Italiane Diss. Iviii. 



one of t he tales of this impure writsr worthy a Latin version 
from his own pen. " I have remarked elsewhere," says 
Petrarch, writing to Boccaccio, " that the book itself has 
been worried by certain dogs, but stoutly lefended by your 
staff' and voice. Kor was I astonished, for I have h.id 
proof of the vigor of your mind, and I know you have fallen 
on that unaccommodating incapable race of mortals, who, 
whatever they either like not, or know not, or cannot do, 
are sure to reprehend in others ; and on those occasions 
only put on a show of learning and eloquence, but other- 
wise are entirely dumb."* 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not re- 
semble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who did no' 
possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose the oppor- 
tunity o"f raising a cenotaph to his memory. Bevius, canon 
of Padua, at tlie beginning of the sixteenth century, erected 
at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the Laureate, a tablet, in 
w liich he associated Boccaccio t j the equal honors of Dante 
and of Petrarch. 



No. XXII.— The Medici. 

" What is her pyramid of precious stones?" — Stanza Ix. 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and ex- 
pires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only at the 
source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the virtuous 
republicans of the family that we visit the church of St. 
Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring, unfinished 
chapel in that church, designed tui he mausoleum of the 
Dukes of Tuscany, set round with c:owns and coffins, gives 
birth to no eu, c"ons but those of contempt for the lavish 
vanity of a race of despots, whilst the pavement slab, simply 
inscribed to the Father of his Country, reconciles us to the 
name of Medici. s It was very natural for Corinna^ to sup- 
pose that the statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the 
capella de' deposiliv,iis intended for his great namesake ; but 
the magnificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coffin half 
hidden in a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany 
dates from the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral 
peace which succeeded to the establishment of the reigning 
families in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing, 
but a faithful picture. " Notwithstanding all the seditions 
of Florence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions 
of Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchi, nobles and 
commons, they continued populous, strong, and exceeding 
rich ; but in the space of less than a hundred and fifty years, 
the peaceable reign of the Medices is thought to have de- 
stroyed nine parts in ten of the people of that province 
Am6ng.st other things, it is remarkable, that when Philip II. 
of Spam gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambas- 
sador then at Rome sent him word that he had given away 
more than 050, (»00 subjects ; and it is not believed there are 
now 20,000 souls inhabiting that city and territory. Pisa, 
Pistola, Arezzo, Cortona, and other towns, that were then 
good and populous, are in the like proportion diminished, 
and Florence more than any. When that city had been 
long troubled with seditions, tumults, and wars, for the 
most part unprosperous, they still retained such strength, 
that when Charles VIII. of France, being admitted as a 
friend with his whole army, which soon after conquered the 
kingdom of Naples, thought to master them, the people, 
taking arms, struck such a terror into him, that he was glad 
to depart upon such conditions as they thought fit tu irn 
pose. Machiavel reports, that in that tune Florence alone, 
with the Val d'lVrno, a small territory belonging to that 
city, could, in a few hours, by the sound of a bell, bring 
together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now that city, 
with all the others in that province, are brought to such 
despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and baseness, 
that they can neither resist the oppressions of their own 
prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were assaulted 
by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, 
and the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, 
Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the eflc;ct 
of war or pestilence : they enjoy a perfect peace, and sufl'er 
no other plague tlum the government they are under."' 
From the usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we 
look in vain for any of tliose unmixed qualities-v^'hich should 



3 Eclaircissenent, etc. &,c. p. 633, edit. Basle, 1741, in the supplemcct lo 
Bayle's Dictionary. 

4 0pp. torn. i. p. 540, edit. Basil 

5 Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Pater Pattias. 

6 Corintie, liv. xviii. chap. iii. vol. iii page 9^. 

7 On Government, chap. ii. sect. zxvi. mg" 2Ci, ou:. >.75l. Pidn?7 :'a, 
together with Locks and Hoadley one of Mr. Hums a 'dwp jaS e" wri'.tra 



788 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



raise a pai.riot to the command of his fellow-citizens. The 
Grand Dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, had opera- 
t(Al so entire a change in the Tuscan character, that the 
car.did Florentines, in excuse for some imperfections in the 
philanthropic system of Leopold, are obliged to confess that 
the sovereign was the only liberal man in his d )minions. 
Yet that excellent prince himself had no other notion of a 
national assembly, than of a body to represent the wants 
find wishes, not the will, of the people. 



No. XXIII. — Battle of Thrasimene. 
" An earthquake reeVd unheededly away.'" — Stanza Ixiii. 

"And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were 
they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew 
in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the 
course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the rivers, 
and t'jre down the very mountains, was not felt by one of 
the combatants."! Such is the description of Livy. It may 
be doubleu whether modern tactics would admit of such an 
abstraction. 

The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mistaken. 
The traveller from the village under Cortona to Casa di 
Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has tor the first 
two or three miles, around him, but more particularly to the 
right, that flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order to 
induce the Consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On his 
left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills bending down 
towards the lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy, " montes 
Cortonenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills 
he approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pre- 
tend to have been so denominated from the bones found 
there : but there have been no bones found there, and the 
battle was fought on the other side of the hill. From Ossaja 
the road begins to rise a little, but does not pass into the 
roots of the mountains until the sixty-seventh milestone from 
Florence. The ascent thence is not steep but perpetual, 
and continues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen 
below on the right, with Borghetto, a round tower, close up- 
on the water ; and the undulating hills partially covered 
with wood, amongst which the road winds, sink by'degrees 
into the marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, 
down to the right amidst these woody hillocks, Hannibal 
placed his horse,^ in the jaws of, or rather above the pass, 
which was between the lake and the present road, and most 
probably close to Borghetto, just under the lowest of the 
" tumu;i."3 On a summit to the left, above the road, is an 
old circular ruin, which the peasants call " the tower of 
Hannibal the Carthaginian." Arrived at the highest point 
of the road, the trav-eller has a partial view of the fatal 
plain, which opens fully upon him as he descends the Gua- 
landra. He soon finds himself in a vale enclosed to the 
left, and in front, and behind him by the Gualandra hills, 
bending round in a segment larger than a semicircle, and 
running down at each end to the lake, which obliques to the 
right and forms the chord of this mountain arc. The position 
cannot be guessed at from the plains of Cortona, nor ap- 
pears to be >o completely enclosed unless to one who is 
fairly within Me hills. It then, indeed, appears " a place 
made as it w ? ^3 on purpose for a snare," locus insidiis natus. 
" Borghetto is then found to stand in a narrow marshy pass 
close to the hill, and to the lake, whilst there is no other 
outlet at the opposite turn of the mountains than through 
the little town of Passignano, which is pushed into the 
water by the foot of a high rocky acclivity." There is a 
woody eminence branching down' from the mountains into 
the upper end of the plain nearer to the side of Passignano, 
and on this stands a white village called Torre. Polybius 
seems to allude to this eminence as the one on which Han- 
nibal encamped, and drew out his heavy-armed Africans 
and Spaniards in a conspicuous position.'' From this spot 
he dispatched his Balearic and light-armed troops round 
through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to arrive 
unseen and form an ambush amongst the broken acclivit-?s 
which the road now passes, and to be ready to act upon l.-.j 
left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse shut up the 
pass behind. Flaminius came to the lake near Borghetto 
at sunset ; and, without sending any spies before him, 
march'.'d through the pass the next morning oefore the day 



1 Tit. Z.iT. lib. xxiL cap. xii. 

2 I^id. cap. iv. 
S IbiJ. ;ap. iv. 

« Hist. lb. iii. cap. 83. The s:coimt in Polvbiiia i cot «j easi y recon- 
cUeable >Tita present bppearuncea ab that in LiTy ; he talks of biiu to Uie 



had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of the horse 
and light troops above and about him, and saw only the 
heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of Torre. 
The consul began tp draw out his army in the flat, and in 
the mean time tlie Ijorse in ambush occupied the pass behind 
him, at Borgheyd. Thus the Romans were completely 
enclosed, haviijg the lake on the rigut, the main army on 
the hill of To;-i-e in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the 
light-armed .on their left flank, and being prevented from 
receding by the cavalry, who, the farther they advanced, 
stopped up all the outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the 
lake now spread itself over the army of the consul, but the 
high lands were in the sunshine, and all the different corps 
in ambush looked towards the hill of Torre for the order of 
attack. Hannibal gave the signal, end moved down from 
his post on the height. At the same moment all \r.i troops 
on the eminences behind and in the fl<.i".k of Flaminius 
rushed forwards as it were with one accorQ into the plain 
The Romans, who were forming their array m the mist, 
suddenly heard the shouts of the enemy an n{. 5t them, on 
every side, and before they could fall into heir ranks, or 
draw their swords, or see by whom they weie attacked, felt 
at once that they were surrounded and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gua- 
landra into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of these 
at about a mile after he comes into the plain, and this di 
vides the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The second, 
about a quarter of a mile further on, is called " the bloody 
rivulet ;" and the peasants point out an open spot to the 
left between the " Sanguinetto" and the hills, which, they 
say, was the principal scene of slaughter. The other part 
of the plain is covered with thick-set olive-trees in corn 
grounds, and is nowhere quite level except near the edge 
of the lake. It is, indeed, most probable that the battle was 
fought near this end of the valley, for the six thousand 
Romans, who, at the beginning of the action, broke through 
the enemy, escaped to the summit of an eminence which 
must have been in this quarter, otherwise they would have 
had to traverse the whole plain, and to pierce through the 
main army of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours ; but the 
death of Flaminius was the signal for a general dispersion. 
The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the fugitives, 
and the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but chiefly the 
plain of the Sanguinetto and the passes of the Gualandra, 
were strewed with dead. Near some old walls on a 
bleak ridge to the left above the rivulet, many human 
bones have been repeatedly found, and this has con 
firmed the pretensions and the name of the " stream o! 
blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some 
painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign 
Julio Romano more than divides Mantua with her native 
Virgil. 5 To the south we hear of Roman names. Near 
Thrasimene tradition is still faithful to the fame of an 
enemy, and Hannibal the Carthaginian is the only ancient 
name remembered on the banks of the Perugian lake. 
Flaminius is unknown ; but the postillions on that road 
have been taught to show the very spot where U. Console 
Ro?nano was slam. Of all who fought and fell in the battle 
of Thrasimene, the historian himself has, besides the 
generals and Maharbal, preserved indeed only a single 
name. You overtake the Carthaginian again on the same 
road to Rome. The antiquary, that is, the hostler of the 
posthouse at Spoleto, tells you that his town repulsed the 
victorious enemy, and shows you the gate still called Porta 
di Annibale. It is hardly worth while to remark that a 
French travel writer, well known by the name of the 
President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene in the lake of Bol- 
sena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna to 
Rome. 



No. XXIV. — Statue of Pompey. 

" And thou, dread statue I still existent in 
The austercst form of naked majesty." 

Stanza Irxxvu 

The projected division of the Spada Pompey has a.ready 
been recorded by the historian of the Decline and Fall of 
the Roman Empire. Blr. Gibbon found it m the meoiorials 



rio-nt and left of the pass end valley; but ^rtcr Flamiiiiua entitij he \s.i 
the like at the right of both. 

6 AHout the miilJle of the twelfth century (he coins of Mnntua bore or 
one side tlie imasre and figure of Virgil. Zecca d' hnl'a, I'l. xvii. i. & 
Voyao-e dins le Milanais, &.C. par A 2. Millin, lorn, i- ns.r. 294, TasU, 
1817.° 



APPENDIX. 



789 



of Flaminiii 5 Vace a ; and it may be added to his mention of 
it, that Pope Julius III. pave ihe contending owners five 
hundred crovviis for the statue, and presented it to Cardinal 
Capo di Ferro, wlio nad prevented the judgment of Solomon 
from being executed upon the image. In a more civilized 
age this staUie was exposed to an actual operation ; for tlie 
French VvAo acted the Brutus of Voltaire m the Coliseum, 
resolved that their Coesar should fall at the base of that 
Pompey, which was supposed to have been sprinkled with 
the blood of the original dictator. The nine-fool hero was 
therefore removed to the arena of the amphitheatre, and, 
to facilitate its transport, suflcred the temporary amputa- 
tion of its right arm. The republican tragedians had to 
plead that the arm was a restoration : but their accusers do 
not believe that the integrity of the statue would have pro- 
tected it. The love of finding every coincidence has dis- 
covered the true Cassarian ichor m a stain near tlie right 
knee ; but colder criticism has rejected not only the blood, 
but the portrait, and assigned the globe of power rather to 
the first of the emperors than to the last of the republican 
masters of Home. Winkelmanni is .v,t.h to allow an heroic 
statue of a Roman citizen, but the Grimani Agrippa, a con- 
temporary a.raost, is heroic ; and naked Roman figures 
were only very rare, not absolutely forbidden. The face 
accords much better with the " hominem mtegrum et 
castum et gravem,"'-^ than with any of the busts of Augustus, 
and is too stern for him who was beautiful, says Suetonius, 
ot. all periods of his life. The pretended likeness to Alex- 
ander the Great cannot be discerned, but the traits re- 
semble the medal of Pompey.^ The objectionable globe 
may not have been an ill-applied flattery to him who found 
Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre of the Ro- 
man Empire. It seems that Winkelmann has made a mis- 
take in thinking that no proof of the identity of this statue 
with that which received the bloody sacrifice can be derived 
from the spot where it was discovered.^ Flaminius Vacca 
says sotlo una cantina, and tliis cantina is known to have 
been in the Vicolo de' Leutari, near the Cancellaria ; a 
position corresponding exactly to that of the Janus before 
the basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus trans- 
ferred tiie statue after the cur;a was either burnt or taken 
down.-'' Part of the Pompeian shade, the portico, existed in 
the beginning of the XVth century, and tlie alnum was still 
called .Sr7?ri/m. So says Blondus. At all events, so imposing 
is the stern majesty of the statue, and so memorable is-ihe 
story, that the play of the imagination leaves no room for 
the e.xercise of the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it 
is, operates on the spectator with an elTect not less power- 
i\x\ than truth. 



No. XXV.— The Bronze Wolf. 

"And thou., the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome "' 

Stanza Ixxxviii. 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most pro- 
bably with images of the foster-mother of her founder ; but 
there were two she-wolves of whom history makes par- 
ticular mention. One of these, of brass in ancient work, was 
seen by Dionysi • at the temple of Romulus, under the 
Palatine, and is ur.i/jrsally believed to be that mentioned 
by the Latin historian, as having been made from the 
money collected by a fine on usurers, and as standing 
under the Ruminal fig-tree.' The other was that which 
Cicero" has celebrated both in prose and verse, and which 
the historian Dion also records as having suflfered the same 
accident as is alluded to by the ora'or » The question 



1 Storia delle Arti, &c. lib. ix. cap. 1, paj. 321, 322, torn. ii. 

2 Cicer. Epist. aJ Atlicum, xi. 6. 

3 Published by Causeus, in his Museum Romanura. 

4 Storia delle Arii, &c. I. ix, c. i. 

c Sueton. in vit. Aug-ust. cap. 31, and in vit. C. J. Caesar, cap. 88. Ap. 
pian says it was bunit down. 
< Antiq. Rom. lib. i. 

7 Liv. Hist. lib. X. cap. Ixii. 

8 "Tom statua Natts, turn siiiuilacra Deonim, Romulusque et Remus 
Cam altrice bellua vi t'ulmiiits iclis conciderunl.*' D. Divinat. ii. 20. 
** Taclus est ille etiam qui banc urbem condidit Romulus, quern inauratum 
ia Capiloho parvuni atqiie laclantem, uberibus lupinis iuhiantem fuissa 
niemiciisiis." In Caiiliii. iii. 8. 

" Hie eilvestris erat Romani nominis altrix 
Mania, quae parvos Marvoriis semine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vilali rore ri»ebat 
<iue tiim cum pueris flammalo fulminis ict 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vesti«fia liquat." 

De Con&ulaiu, ho. ii. (lib. i. de Divinat. cap. ii.) 

Oicu. UisU lib xxzTiL p. 37, edit. Rob. Steph. MB. 



agitated by the antiquaries is, whether the wolf now in 
the Conservator's Palace is that of Livy and Dionysius, or 
that of Cicero, or whether it is neither one nor the other. 
The earlier writers differ as much as the moderns : Lucius 
Faunus'o says, that it is the one alluded to by both, which is 
impossible, and also by Virgil, which may be. Fulvius 
Ursinus'-i calls it the wolf of Dionysius, and Marlianus'2 
talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To him 
Rycquius tremblingly assents.i:* Nardini is inclined to sup- 
pose it may be one of the many wolves preserved in an- 
cient Rome ; but of the two ratiier bends to the Ciceronian 
statue.i'* Montfaucon'5 mentions it as a point without doubt 
Of the latter writers the decisive Winkelmanni" proclaims 
it as having been found at the church of Saint Theodore, 
where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and 
con.sequently makes it the w olf of Dionysius. His authority 
is Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it was 
placed, not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis. by the Comitium, 
by which he does not seem to allude to the church of Saint 
Theodore. Rycquius was the flr.st to make the mistake, 
and Winkelmann followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a diflerenl story, and says he 
had heard the wolf with the twins was found" near the 
arch of Septimus Severus. The commentator on Winkel- 
mann is of the same opinion with that learned person, and 
is incensed at Nardini for not having remarked that Cicero, 
in speaking of the wolf struck with lightning in the Capitol, 
makes use of the past tense. But, with the Abate's leave. 
Nardini does not positively assert the statue to be ihat 
mentioned by Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would 
not perhaps have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The 
Abate himself is obliged to own that there are marks very 
like the scathing of lightning in the hinder legs of the 
present wolf; and to get rid of this adds, that the wolf 
seen by Dionysius might have been also struck by lightning 
or otherwise injured 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the words 
of Cicero. Tlie orator in two places seems to particularize 
the Romulus and the Remus, especially the first, which his 
audience remembered to have been in the Capitol, as being 
struck with lightning. In his verses he records that the 
twins and wolf both fell, and that the latter left behind the 
marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the wolf was 
consumed : and Dion only mentions that it fell down, with- 
out alluding, as the Abate has made hirn, to the force of 
the blow, or the firmness with which it had been fixed. 
The whole strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument 
hangs upon the past tense ; which, however, may be some- 
what diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows 
that the statue was not then standing in its former position. 
Winkelmann has observed that the present twins are 
modern ; and it is equally clear that there are marks of 
gilding on the wolf, which might therefore be supposed to 
make a part of the ancient group. It is known that the 
sacred images of the Capitol were not destroyed when in- 
jured by time or accident, but were put into certain under- 
ground depositories, called favisso'.^^ It may be thought 
possible that the wolf had been so deposited, and had been 
replaced in some conspicuous situation when the Capitol 
was rebuilt by Vespasian. Rycquius, without mentioning 
his authority, tells that it was transferred from the Comi- 
tium to the Lateral!, and thence brought to the Capitol. 
If it was found near the arch of Severus, it may have been 
one of the images which Orosius^'J says was thrown down 
in the Forum by lightning when Alarlc took the city. That 
it is of very high antiquity the workmanship is a decisive 
proof; and that circumstance induced Winkelmann to be- 
lieve it the wolf of Dionysius. The Capitoline wolf, how- 
ever, may have been of the same early date as th.at at the 
temple of Romulus. Lactantius-" asserts that in his time 



10 Luc. Fauni de Antiq. Urb. Rom. lib. ii. cap. vii. ap. Sallen^re, lorn. i. f 
217. In bis seventeenth chapler he repeats, that the statues were tliere, but 
not that they v/eie/ound there. 

11 Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, I. v. c. iv. 

12 Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph, lib. ii. cap. il. He mentions another 
woU'aud tv/ins in the Vatican., lili v. cap. xxl. 



14 Nardini, Roma Vetufl, lib. v. cap. iv. 

15 *' Lupa hodieque in eapitolinis prostat ffidibus, cum vestigio fulminis quo 
ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn. i. p. 174. 

16 Storia delle Arti, &c., lib. iii. cap. iii. s. ii. note 10. Winkelmann has 
made a stran^^-e blunder in the note, by saving the Ciceronian wolf was not 
in the Capuol, and that Dion was wrong in'saying so. 

17 Flam. Vacca, Mcmorie, num. iii. pag. i. ap. Montfaucou, Diar. Itai. 
tarn. i. 

18 Luc. Faun. ibid. 

19 See note to stanza Ixxi. in ** Hiv'.orical Illustrations." 

20 *' Romuli nutrix Lupa bonorib'is ejt affscta dirinis, et ferrem, si animal 
ipe^.m fuiseet, cujua C^uratn ^sit'.." LuctaEit. de Falsa Eeligioi.e, .ib. u 



790 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



the Romans worshipped a wolf ; and it is known that the 
Lupercaha held out to a very late period' after every 
other observance of the ancient superstition had totally 
expired. This may account for the preservation of the 
ancient image longer than the other early symbols of 
Paganism. 

Jt may be permitted, however, to remark, that the wolf 
was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of that symbol 
is an inference drawn b> tlie zeal of Lactantius. The 
early Christian writers are not to be trusted in the charges 
which they make against the Pagans. Eusebius accused 
the Komans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, 
and raising a statue to him in the island of the Tyber. 
The Romans had probably never heard of such a person 
before, who came, however, to play a considerable, though 
scandalous part in the church history, and has left several 
tokens of his aerial combat with St. Peter at Rome ; 
notwithstanding that an inscription found in this very 
island of the Tyber showed the Simon Magus of Eusebius 
to be a certain indigenal god called Semo Sangus or 
Fidius.2 

Even when the worship of the founder of- Rome had 
been abandoned, it was thought expedient to humor the 
habits of the good matrons of the city, by sending them 
with their sick infants to the church of Saint Tlieodore, as 
they had before carried them to the temple of Romulus.3 
The practice is continued to this day ; and the site of the 
al)ove church seems to be thereby identified with that of 
the temple ; so that if the wolf had been really found 
there, as Winkelinann says, there would be no doubt of 
the present statue being that seen by Dionysius. But 
Faunas, in saying that it was at the Ficus Ruminalis by the 
Comitium, is only talking of its ancient position as re- 
corded by Pliny ; and even if he had been remarking where 
it was found, would not have alluded to the church of St. 
Theodore, but to a very different place, near which it was 
then thought the Ficus Ruminalis had been, and also the 
Comitium ; that is, the three columns by the church of 
Santa Maria Liberatrice, at the corner of the Palatine 
looking on the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was ac- 
tually dug up ; and, perhaps, on the whole, the marks of 
the gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argument in 
favor of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that can be ad- 
duced for the contrary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably 
selected in the text of the poem as one of the most inter- 
esting relics of the ancient city,'' and is certainly the 
figure, if not the very animal, to which Virgil alludes in 
his beautiful verses :— 

" Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludcrc pendentes pueros, et lambere matrem 
Impavidos : illam tereti cervice rellexam 
Mulcere alternos, et corpora fingere lingua."5 



No. XXVI.— Julius Cesar. 

" For the Roman's mind 
yjas modeird in a less terrestrial mould." — Stanza XC. 

It is possible to be a very great man and to be still very 
inferior to Julius Cajsar, the most complete character, so 
Lord Bacon tho'iRht. o all antiquity. Nature seems inca- 
pable of such extrac .'..aary combinations as composed his 
versatile capacity, wn. m was the wonder even of the Ro- 
mans themselves. The first general— the only triumphant 
politician— inferior to none in eloquence— comparable to 
any in the attainments of wisdom, in an age made up of the 
greatest commanders, statesmen, orators, and philosophers 



cap. %x. pag. 101, eJit. Tarior. 16S0 ; that is to say, he would ra(her adore a 
wolf than a proslilme. His commentator has observed that the opinion of 
Livy concerning Laurentia being ftg-ured in this wolf was not universal. 
Straho thought so. R.ycquius is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions 
the wolf was m the Capitol. 

1 To A. D. 496. *' Quis credere possit,*' says Baronius [Ann. Eccles. 
torn. viii. p. 602, ni an. 496,] " viyuisse adhuc RomiE ad Gelasii lempora, qua 
luere ante exordia urbis allata "in Italiam Lupercalia 1" Gelasius A-role a 
letter which occupies four folio pages to AnUroniachus the seuator, and 
others, to show that the rites should be given up. 

2 Eccles. Hist. lib. ii. cap. x'ni. p. 40. Justin Martyr had told the story 
before ; but Baronius himself was obliged to detect this table. See Nardiui, 
Roma Vet. lib. vii. cap. xii. 

3 Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e succincta Descrizione, &c., di Roma Mo- 
denia, dell" Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 1766. 

4 Donatus, lib. xi. cap. 18, gives a medal representing on one side the 
vrolf in the siime position as that in the Capitol ; and in the reverse the wolf 
vlii the head not reverted. It is of the time of Antoninus Pius. 

6 vEn. viii. 631. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from Rome, ivho iu- 
timos to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the subject. 



that ever appeared in the world— an author who composed 
a perfect specimen of military annals in his travelling car- 
riage—at one time in a controversy with Cato, at another 
writing a treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good 
sayings— fighting and making love at the same moment, 
and willing to abandon both his empire and his mistress for 
a sight of the Fountains of the Nile. Such did Julius 
Cassar appear to his contemporaries and to those of the 
subsequent ages who were the most inclined to deplore and 
execrate his fatal genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his surpassing 
glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable qualities, an 
to forget the decision of his impartial countrymen :— 

HE WAS JUSTLY SLAIN.8 



No. XXVIL— Egeria. 

" Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast." — Stanza c.xv. 

The I'espectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would in- 
cline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto.' Ho 
assures us that he saw an inscription in the pavement, 
stating that the fountain was that of Egeria, dedicated to 
the nymphs. The inscription is not there at this day ; but 
Montfaucon quotes two lines of Ovid« from a stone in the 
Villa Giustimani, which he seems to think had been brought 
from the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in sum- 
mer, and particularly the first Sunday in May, by the mod- 
ern Romans, who attached a salubrious quality to Ihe foun- 
tain which trickles from an orifice at the bottom of the 
vault, and, overflowing the little pools, creeps down the 
matted grass into the brook below. The brook is the Ovid- 
ian Almo, whose name and qualities are lost in the modern 
Aquataccio. The valley itself is called Valle di Caffafelli, 
from the dukes of that name who made over their fountain 
to the Pallavicini, with sixty rnhbia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the Egerian 
valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of XJmbritius, not- 
withstanding the generality of his commentators have sup- 
posed the descent of the satirist and his friend to have been 
into the Arician grove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, 
and where she was more peculiarly worshipped. ♦ 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, fifteen 
miles distant, would be too considerable unless we were to 
believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, who makes that 
gate travel from its present station, where he pretends it 
was during the reign of the Kings, as far as the Arician 
grove, and then makes it recede to its old site with the 
shrinking city.'' The tufo, or pumice, which the poet pre- 
fers to marble, is the substance composing the bank in 
which the grotto is sunk. 

The modern topographers'" find in the grotto the statue of 
the nymph, and nine niches for the Muses ; and a late 
travelleru has discovered that the cave is restored to that 
simplicity which the poet regretted had been exchanged 
for injudicious ornament. But the headless statue is pal- 
pably rather a male than a nymph, and has none of the at- 
tributes ascribed to it at present- visible. The nine Muses 
could hardly haTe stood in six niches ; and Juvenal cer- 
tainly does not allude to any individual cave. 12 Nothing 
can be collected from the satirist but that somewhere near 
tlie Porta Capena was' a spot in which it was supposed 
Numa held nightly consultations with his nymph, and 
where there was a grove and a sacred fountain, and fanes 
once consecrated to the Muses ; and that from this spot 



6 "Jure caesus existimetur," says Suetonius, after a fair estimate of his 
character, and making use of a phrase which was a formula in Livy's time, 
" Melium jure caesum pronuntiavit, etiam si regni crimine insons I'uerit ." 
[lib. iv. cap. 43,] and which was continued in the legal judgments pro- 
nounced in justifiable homicides, such as killing housebreakers. See Suetoik. 
in Vit. C. J. Caisar, with the commentary ofPitiscus, p. 184. 

7 Memorie, &.c. ap. Nardini, pag. 13. He does not give the inscription. 
6 '-In villa Justiniana exlat ingens lapis quadratus solidus, in quo sculpta 

hac duo Ovtdii carmina sunt : — 

' .lEgeria est quae prabet aquas dea grata Camoenia 
Ilia Numteconjuni consiliumque.* 
Qui lapis videtur eodem Egeriae fonle, autcjus vioinia isthnc compfirtfiias.* 
Dianum Italic, p. 153. 

9 De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Grsev. Ant. Rom. torn. iv. p 1607. 

10 Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' Agro Romano, corre'.to dftll' 
Abate Venuli, in Roma, 17i0. They believe in the grotto and ujmph. 
*' Simulacro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a pie di esso. * 

11 Classical Tour, chiip. vi. p. £17, yol. ii. 
la Sat. HI. 



APPENDIX. 



791 



there was a descent int ■ the valley of Egeria, where were 
several artificial caves. It is clear that the statues of the 
Muses made no part of tno decoration which the satirist 
thought misplaced in these caves ; for he expressly assigns 
other fanes (delubra) to these divinities above the valley, 
and moreover tells us that they have been ejected to make 
room for the Jews. In fact, the little temple, now called 
that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to belong to the 
Muses, and Nardini' places them in a poplar grove, which 
was in his time above the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that the 
cave now shown may be one of the " artificial caverns," of 
which, indeed, there is another a little way higher up the 
valley, under a tuft of alder bushes : but a single grotto of 
Egeria is a mere modern invention, grafted upon the appli- 
cation of the epithet Egerian to these nympheain general, 
and which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa 
upon the banks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistranslation 
by his acquaintance with Pope : he carefully preserves the 
correct plural— 

" Thence slowly winding down the vale, we view 
The Egerian grots : oh, how unlike the true I" 

The valley abounds with springs,^ and over these springs, 
whicli the Muses might haunt from their neighboring 
gloves, Egeria presided: hence she was said to supply 
them with water ; and she was the nymph of the grottoes 
through which the fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of tlie Ege- 
rian valley have received names at will, which have been 
changed at will. Venuti'^ owns he can see no traces of the 
temples of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana, which 
Nardini found, or hoped to find. The inutatorium of Cara- 
calla's circus, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple 
of Bacchus, and, above all, the temple of the god Rediculus, 
are the antiquaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that em- 
peror cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse shows 
a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent the Cir- 
cus Ma.Kiraus. It gives a very good idea of that place of 
exercise. The soil has been but little raised, if we may 
judge from the small cellular structure at the end of the 
Spina, which was probably the chapel of the god Census. 
This cell is half beneath the soil, as it must have been in 
the circus itself; for Dionysius' could not be persuaded to 
believe that this divinity was the Roman Neptune, because 
his alt^ was under ground. 



No. XXVIII.— The Roman Nemesis. 

" Great Nemesis ! 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homag^e long." 

Stanza cxxxii. 

We read in Suetonius, that Augustus, from a warning re- 
ceived in a dream, 5 counterfeited, once a year, the beggar 
sitting before the gate of his palace with his hand hollowed 
and stretched out for chaiity. A statue formerly in the 
villa Borghese, and which should be now at Paris, repre- 
sents the Emperor in that posture of supplication. The 
object of this self-degradatiou was the appeasement of Ne- 
mesis, the perpetual attendant on good fortune, of whose 
power the Roman conquerors we 3 also reminded by cer- 
tain symbols attached to their cars ul '.riumph. The sym- 
bols were the whip and the crotalo, which were discovered 
in the Nemesis of the Vatican. The attitude of beggary 
made the above statue pass for that of Belisarius : and un- 
til the criticism of Winkelmanns had rectified the mistake, 
one fiction was called in to support another. It was the 



1 Lib. iii, cap. iii. 

3 *' Undique e solo aqus scaturiuiit.'' Nardini, lib. iii. cap. iii. 
, S Echinard, &c. Cic. cit. pp. 297, 293. 

4 Antiq. Rom. lib. ii. cap. xxxi. 

6 Sueton. in Vit. Augusti, cap. 91. 

Storia delle Arti, &.c. lib. xii. cap. iii. torn. ii. p. 422. 

1 Diet, de Bayle, article Adrastfia. 

8 FoTtuaft ::.ijuaoe diei, Cicero mentions her de Le^ib. lib. ii. 

DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FORTUNAE 

nSTORIVS 

EVGIANVS 

V. C. LEGAT. 

t LEO. XIII O 

COKD. 



same fear of the sudden termination of prosperitv that made 
Amasis king of Egypt warn his friend Polycrates of Samos. 
that the gods loved those whose lives were checkered with 
good and evil fortunes. • Nemesis was supposed to lie in 
wait particularly for the prudent: that is, for those whose 
caution rendered them accessible only to mere accidents : 
and her first altar was raised on the banks of the Phrygian 
^Esepus by Adrastus, probably the prince of that name who 
killed the son of Crojsus by mistake. Hence the goddess 
was called Adraslea.' ' 

The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august : there was a 
temple to her in the Palatine under the name of Rhamnu- 
sia: so great, indeed, was the propensity of the ancients co 
trust to the revolution of events, and to believe in the divin- 
ity of Fortune, that in the same Palatine there was a tem- 
ple to the fortune of the day.s This is the last superstition 
which retains its hold over the human heart ; and, from 
concentrating in one object the credulity so natural to man, 
has always appeared strongest in those unembarrassed by 
other articles of belief. The antiquaries have supposed 
this goddess to be synonymous with Fortune and with 
Fate : but it was in her vindictive quality that she was 
w;orshipped under the name of Nemesis. 



No. XXIX.— Gladiators. 

" He, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday." — Stanza cxli. 

Gladiators were of two kinds, compelled and voluntary : 
and were supplied from several conditions ;— from slaves 
sold for that purpose ; from culprits; from barbarian cap- 
tives either taken in war, and, after being led in triumph, 
set apart for the games, or those seized and condemned as 
rebels ; also from free citizens, some ighting for hire, 
(auctorati,) others from a depraved ambition ; at last even 
knights and senators were exhibited,— a disgrace of which 
the first tyrant was naturally the first inventor.^ In the 
end, dwarfs, and even women, fought ; an enormity pro- 
hibited by Severus. Of these the most to be pitied undoubt- 
edly were the barbarian captives ; and to this species a 
Christian writer'" justly applies the epithet "innocent," to 
distinguish them from the professional gladiators. Aurelian 
and Claudius supplied great numbers of these unfortunate 
victims ; the one after his triumph, and the other on a pre- 
text of a rebellion." No war, says Lipsius,i2 was ever so de- 
structive to the human race as these sports. In spite of the 
laws of Constantine and Constans, gladiatorial shows sur- 
vived the old established religion more than seventy years ; 
but they owed their final extinction to the courage of a 
Christian. In the year 404, on the kalends of January, 
they were exhibiting the shows in the Flavian amphitheatre 
before the usual immense concourse of people. Almachius, 
or Telemachus, an eastern monk, wlio had travelled to 
Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed into the midst of 
the area, and endeavored to separate the combatants. The 
pnetor Alypius, a person incredibly attached to these 
games, 13 gave instant orders to the gladiators to slay him ; 
and Telemachus gained tlie crown of martyrdom, and the 
ti'.ls of saint, which surely has never either before or since 
been awarded for a more noble exploit. Honorius imme- 
diately abolished the shows, which were never afterwards 
revived. The story is told by Theodoret" and Cassiodo- 
rus,i5 and seems worthy of creilit, notwithstanding its place 
in the Roman martyrology.'c Besides the torrents of blood 
which flowed at the funerals, in the ampliitheatres, the 
circus, the forums, and other public places, gladiators were 
introduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces amidst 
the supper tables, to the great delight and applause of the 
guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose the loss of 



See Questiones Romans, &c. ap. Grav. Antiq. Roman, torn. v. p. 942. 
See also Muiatori, Nov. Thesaur. Inscrip. Vet. torn. i. pp. 88, 89, wliere 
there are tliree Latin and one Greek inscription to Nemesis, and otliers to 
Fate. 

9 Julius Csesar, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy i::oiip^ot Furiat 
Lepti*ius and A. Calenus upon the arena. 

10 Tertullian, " certe quidem et innocen.'-cs f^Ia liatores in liidiim vcniunt, 
et voliiptatis publicte hosiice iiaut." Just. Lips. Saturn. Sermon, hb. ii. 
cap. iii. 

n'Vopiscus, in vit. Aurel. and in vit. Claud, ibid. 

12 Just. Lips. ibid. lib. i. cap. xii. 

13 Au*ustinus, (lib. vi. confess, cap. viil.) " Atypimn £uiim ^indiatcRi 
spectaculi inlilatu iiicredibiliter abreplum," scribit. ib. lib. i. cap. >;ii. 

14 Hist. Eccles. cap. xxvi. lib. v. 

10 Cassiod. Tripartita, 1. x. c. xi. Saturn, ib. ib. 

16 Baronius, fni ami. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rem. I. Jan. Sec MRiange-l 
CcUe memorie sacre e profane dell' Anliteatro Flavio, p. 2^, edit. 174C. 



792 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



courage, and the eviden'; legeneracy of mankind, to be 
nearly t-.onnected with the abolition of these bloody spec- 
tacles 



No. XXX. 



" Hef'e. where the Roman minion's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd." — Stanza cxlil. 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, " he 
has it," "hoe habet," or " habet." The wounded combat- 
ant dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the edge of the 
arena, supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, 
IJie people saved him , if otherwise, or as they happened to 
be inclined, they turned down their thumbs, and he was 
slain. They were occasionally so savage, that they were 
impatient if a conjbat lasted longer than ordinary without 
wounds or death. The emperor'spresence generally saved 
the vanquished ; and it is recorded as an instance of Cara- 
calla'.s ferocity, that he sent those who supplicated him for 
life, in a spectacle at Nicomedia, to ask the people ; in 
other words, handed them over to be slain. A similar cere- 
mony is observed at the Spanish bull-fights. The magis- 
trate presides ; and after the horsemen and piccadores 
have fought the bull, the rnatadore steps forward and bows 
to him for permission to kill the animal. If the bull has 
done his duty by killing two or three horses, or a man, 
which last is rare, the people interfere with shouts, the 
ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal is saved. 
The wounds and death of the horses are accompanied with 
the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of delight, 
especially from the female portion of the audience, inclu- 
ding those of the gentlest blood. Everything depends on 
habit. The author of Childe Harold, the writer of this 
note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certain- 
ly in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, 
during the summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the 
great amphitheatre of Santa Maria, opposite Cadiz. The 
death of one or two horses completely satisfied their curi- 
osity. A gentleman present, observing them shudder and 
look pale, noticed that unusual reception of so delightful a 
sport to some young ladies, who stared and smiled, and 
continued their applauses as ariother horse fell bleeding to 
the ground. One bull killed three horses off his oicn horns. 
He was saved by acclamations, which were redoubled 
when it was known he belonged to a priest. 

An Englishman, who can be much pleased with seeing 
two men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to look at 
a horse galloping round an arena with his bowels trailing 
on the ground, and turns from the spectacle and the specta- 
tors with horror and disgust. 



No. XXXI.— The Alban Hill 

"And afar 
The Tiber winds, and the liroad ocean laves 
The Laiian coast," 6fC. (J-c. Stanza clxxiv. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which 
has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the 
prospect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited 
stanza ; the Mediterranean, the whole scene of the latter 
half of the ^Eneid, and the coast from beyond the mouth 
of the Tiber to the headland of Circ33um and the Cape of 
Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at the 
Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculum of Prince Lucien 
Bonaparte. 

The former was thougtit some years ago the actual site, 
ns may be seen from Myddleton's Life of Cicero. At present 
•t has lost something of its credit, except for the Domeni- 
chinos. Nine monks of the Greek order live there, and the 
adjoining villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other 
villa, called Rufinella, is on the summit of the hill abpve 
Frascati, and many rich remains of Tusculum have been 
fomd there, besides seventy-two statues of diflferent merit 
ana preservation, and seven busts. 



1 See Ki'torical llluitralions of ih^ Fourth Cant( 

2 ^co Cl8e^lca. roar, &lz chap. vj.. p. 250, vol. 



. p. 43. 



From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, em- 
bosomed in which lies the long valley of Riistica. Tlere 
are several circumstances which tend to establish the 
identity of this valley with the ''Ustica" of Horace ; and it 
seems possible that the mosaic pavement which the \ easants 
uncover by throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong 
to his villa. Rustica is pronounced short, not according to 
our stress upon — " Ustica cubanlis."—lx. is more rational to 
think that we are wrong, than that the inhabitants of this 
secluded valley have changed their tone in this word. The 
addition of the consonant prefixed is nothing ; yet it is 
necessary to be aware that Rustica may ct a modern 
name which the peasants may have caught fiom the an- 
tiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll covc-ed 
with chestnut trees. A stream runs down tne valley : and 
although it is not true, as said in the guide books, that this 
stream is called Licenza, yet there is a village on a rock at 
the head of the valley which is s. ■'cnominated, and which 
may have taken its name from the ,")igpntia. Licenza con- 
tains 700 inhabitants. On a peak a little way beyond is 
Civitella, containing 300. On the banks of the Anio, a little 
before you turn up into Valle Rustica, to the left, about an 
hour from the villa, is a town called Vicovaro, another 
favorable coincidence with the Vana of the poet. At the 
end of the valley, towards the Anio, there is a bare hill, 
crowned with a little town called Bardela. At the foot of 
this hill the rivulet of Licenza flows, and is almost absorbed 
in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing 
can be more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in 
a metaphorical or direct sense : — 

" Me quotiens reficit gelidus Digentia rivus. 
Quern Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus." 

The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it reaches 
the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow like a sulphur 
rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an 
hour's walk from the vineyard where the pavement is 
shown, does seem to be the site of the fane of V'acuna, 
and an inscription found there tells that this temple of the 
Sabine Victory was repaired by Vespasian. With these 
helps, and a position corresponding exactly to every thing 
which the poet has told us of his retreat, we may feel 
tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campanile, 
and by following up the rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, 
you come to the roots of the higher mountain Gennaro. 
Singularlv enough, the only spot of ploughed land in the 
whole valley is on the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 

" . . . . tu frigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Praebes, et pecori vago " 

The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pave- 
ment which they call " Oradma," and which flows down 
the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles over 
into the Digentia. 
But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 

by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in searcti 
of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange that any one 
should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the Digentia. 
— Horace has not let drop a word of it ; and this immortal 
spring has in fact been discovered in possession of the 
holders of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was 
attached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais near 
Venusia, where it was most likely to be found.' We shall 
not be so lucky as a late traveller in finding the occasional 
pine still pendent on the poetic villa. There is not a pine 
in the whole valley, but there are two cypresses, which he 
evidently took, or mistook, for the tree in the ode.^ The 
truth is, that tlie pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, 
&. garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found in the 
craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica. Horace proba- 
bly had one of them in the orchard close above his farm, 
immediately overshadowing his villa, not on the rocky 
heights at some distance from his abode. The tourist may 
have easily supposed himself to have seen this pine ligured 
in the above cypresses ; for the orange and lemon trees 
which throw such a bloom over his description of the royal 
gardens at Naples, unless they have been since displaced, 
were assuredly only acacias and other common garden 
shrubs.3 



s " Under our win 
laid out in parterres, 
Tour, &.C. chap. xi. 



s, and bordering on the beach, is the royal garden, 
n^'e-j^tcs." Classical 



APPENDIX. 



793 



No. XXXII — Eustace's Classical Tour. 

The nxtrcme disappointment experienced by choosing tlie 
ClaMiciil Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to tind 
vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted without 
fdsr of contradiction, will be confirmed by every one who 
has selected the same conductor through the same country. 
This author is m fact one of the most inaccurate, unsatis- 
factory writers that have in our times attained a temporary 
reputation, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he 
speaks of objects which he must be presumed to have seen. 
Ills errors, fron'. tne simple exaggeration to the downright 
misstatement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that 
he had either never visited the spots described, or had 
trusted to the fidelity of former writers. Indeed, the 
Classical Tour has every characteristic of a mere com- 
pilation of former notices, strung together upon a very 
slender thread of personal observation, and swelled out 
by those decorations which are so easily supplied by a 
systematic adoption of all the common-places of praise, 
applied to every thing, and therefore signifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cumbrous, 
and. unsuitable, may be to the taste of others, and such may 
experience some salutary excitement in ploughing through 
the periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, how- 
ever, that polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation 
of value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up 
a climax with a huge round sione. 

The tourist had the choice of his words, but there was no 
such latitude allowed to that of his sentiments. The love 
of virtue and of liberty, which must have distinguished the 
character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace ; and 
the gentlemanly spirit, so recommendatory either in an au- 
thor or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout the 
Classical Tour. But these generous qualities are the foli- 
age of such a performance, and may be spread about it so 
prominently and profusely as to embarrass those who wish 
to see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the divine, 
and the exhortations of the moralist, may have made this 
work something more and better than a book of travels, but 
they have not made it a book of travels ; and this observa- 
tion applies more especially to that enticing method of in- 
struction conveyed by the perpetual introduction of the 
same Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the rising gen- 
eration, and terrify it into decency by die display of all the 
excesses of the revolution. An animosity against atheists 
and regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, may 
be honorable, and may be useful as a record ; but that anti- 
dote should either be administered in any work rather than 
a tour, or, at least, should be served up apart, and not so 
mixed with the whole mass of information and reflection, 
as to give a bitterness to every page : for who would choose 
to have the antipathies of any man, however just, for his 
travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he aspires to the 
credit of prophecy, is not answerable for the changes which 
may take place in the country which he describes ; but his 
reader may very fairly esteem all his political portraits and 
deductions as so much waste paper the moment they cease 
to assist, and more particularly if they obstruct, liis actufil 
survey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, or 
governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is stated as 
an incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, either 
by the address of the late imperial system, or by the disap- 
pointment of every expectation by those who have succeed- 
ed to the Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so 
apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigallican 
philippics entirely out of date, but even to throw some sus- 
picion upon the competency and candor of the author him- 
self. A remarkable example may be found in the instance 
of Bologna, over whose papal attachments, and consequent 
desolation, the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence 
and revenge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. 
Burke. Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been for 
some years, notorious amongst the states of Italy for its 
attachment to revolutionary priiiciples, and was almost the 
only city which made any demonstrations in favor of the 
unfortunate Mura'. This change may, however, have been 
made since Mr. Eustace visited this country ; but the travel- 



1 " Whsu'., *han, will be the astonishment, orrather the horrnr, of my reader, 

vher I info.-.n him the French Committee turned its attention 

to St. Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to estimate and purchase 
Itc g'old, silver, and bronze that adorn the inskle of the edifice, as ^'ell as the 
ccp^isr that covers the vaults and dome on the outside.' Classical Tour, 
chnp. iv. p. 130, vol. it. The story about the Jews is posiiiveiy denied at 
Raine. 

2 [Mr. Francis Cohen, now Sir Trancis Pal'rave, K. H., the learned au- 
thor of the "Rise and Proaress »f the English Coustitutioi:," " History of 
tiie AL^'.o-Soioiui," &c. ifcc] 



100 



ler whom he has thrilled with horror at the piojected strip 
ping of the copper from the cupola of St. Peters, must be 
much relieved to find that sacrilege out of the power of the 
French, or any other plunderers, the cupola being covereu 
with h-ad.^ 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival o'ritics had not 
given considerable currency to the Classical Tour, it woults 
have been unnecessary to warn the reader, that however it 
may adorn his library, it will be of little or no service to 
him in his carriage ; and if the judgment of those critics 
had hitherto been suspended, no attempt would have been 
made to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who stand 
in the relation of posterity to Jlr. Eustace may be permitted 
to appeal from contemporary praises, and are perhaps more 
likely to be just in proportion as the causes of love and 
hatred are the farther removed. This appeal had, in some 
measure, been made before the above remarks were writ- 
ten : for one of the most respectable of the Florentine pub- 
lishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries 
of those on their journey southwards to reprint a cheap 
edition of the Classical Tour, was, by the concurring ad- 
vice of returning travellers, induced to abandon his design, 
although he had already ar'vanged his types and paper, and 
had struck oft' one or two ol .. e first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr. 
Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the Cardinals, 
but he does not think it necessary to extend the same dis- 
creet silence to their humble partisans. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



Note [A.] See p. 234. 

[I AM obliged for the following excellent translation of the 
old Chronicle to Mr. F. Cohen,^ to whom the reader will 
find himself indebted for aversion that I could not myself — 
though after many years' intercourse with Italian — have 
given by any means so purely and so faithfully .p 

STORY OF MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
MCCCLIV. 

On the 11th day of September, in the year of our Lord 
1354, Marino Faliero was elected and chosen to be the Duke 
of the Commonwealth of Venice. He was Count of Valde- 
marino, in the marches of Treviso, and a knight, and a 
wealthy man to boot. As soon as the election was com- 
pleted, it was resolved in the Great Council, that a deputa- 
tion of twelve should be dispatched to Slarino Faliero the 
Duke, who was then on his way from Rome ; for when he 
was chosen, he was ambassador at the court of the Holy 
Father, at Rome, — the Holy Father himself held his court 
at Avignon. When Messer Marino Faliero the Duke was 
about to land in this city, on the 5th day of October, 1354, a 
thick haze came on, and darkened the air : and he was en- 
forced to land on the place of St. Mark, between the two 
columns, on the spot where evil-doers are put to death ; 
and all tliought that thiswasthe worst of tokens. — Nor mu'st 
I forget to write that which I have read in a chronicle. 
When Messer Marino Faliero was Podesta and Captain of 
Treviso, the Bishop delayed coming in with the holy sacra- 
ment, on a day when a procession was to take place. Now, 
the said Marino Faliero was so very proud and wrathful, 
that he buffeted the Bishop, and almost struck him to the 
ground : and, therefore. Heaven allowed Marino Faliero to 
go out of his right senses, in order that he might bring him- 
self to an evil death. 

When this Duke had held the dukedom during nine 
months and six days, he, being wicked and ambitious, 
sought to make himself Lord of Venice, in the manner 
which 1 have read in an ancient chronicle. When, the 



3 [In a letter to Mr. Murray, dated Ravenna, July 30, 1821, Lord B. says, 
—"Enclosed is the best account of the Dog-e Faliero, which was only sent to 
me, from an old MS., the other day. Get it translated, and append it as a 
note to the next edition. You will, perhaps, be pleased to see that my con- 
ceptions of his character were correct ; thon J-h I regret not havino; met wita 
the extract before. You will perceive that fie hnnself said exactly what he 
is m.ade to say about the Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that he spoke 
little, and those only words of rage and disdain, (i/(cr his arrest; wliijh ii 
the case in the play, except when he breaks out at the close of act fifth. But 
his speech to the conspirators is tetter in the MS. thim in the pl&j. I iviiih 
1 had met with it ia lime. "J 



794 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



Thursday arrived upon which they were wont to hunt the 
bull, the bull-hunt took pUice as usual ; and, according to the 
usage of those times, after the bull-hunt had ended, they all 
proceeded unto the palace of the Duke, and assembled to- 
gether in one of his halls ; and they disported themselves 
with the women. And until the first bell tolled they danced, 
and then a banquet was served up. My Lord the JJuke paid 
the expenses thereof, provided he had a Duchess, and after 
the banquet they all returned to their homes, 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser IVIichele Steno, 
a gentleman of poor estate, and very young, but crafty and 
daring, and who loved one of the damsels of the Duchess. 
Ser Michele stood amongst the women upon the solajo ; and 
he behaved indiscreetly, so that my Lord the Duke ordered 
that he should be kicked otf the solajo ; and the esquires of 
the Duke flung him down from the solajo accordingly, ger 
Blichele thought that such an affront was beyond all bearing ; 
and when the feast was over, and all other persons had left 
the palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words relating 
to tlie Duke and the Duchess upon the chair in which the 
Duke was used to sit ; for in those days the Duke did not 
cover his chair with cloth of sendal, but he sat in a chair of 
wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon^" Marin Falier, the 
husband of the fair wife ; others hiss her, but he keeps her." 
In the riiorning the "words were seen, and the matter was 
considered to be very scandalous ; and the Senate com- 
manded the Avogadori of the Commonwealth to proceed 
therein with the greatest diligence. A largess of great 
amount was immediately profi'ered by the Avogadori, in 
order to discover who had written these words. And at 
length It was known that Michele Steno had written them. 
It was resolved in the Council of Forty that he should be 
arrested ; and he then confessed that in the lit of vexation 
and spite, occasioned by his being thrust off the solajo in 
the presence of his mistress, he had written the words. 
Therefore the Council debated thereon. And the Council 
took his youth into consideration, and that he was a lover ; 
and therefore they adjudged that he should be kept in close 
confinement during two months, and that afterwards he 
should be banished from Venice and the state during one 
year. In consequence of this merciful sentence the Duke- 
became exceedingly wroth, it appearing to him that the 
Council had not acted in such a manner as was required by 
the respect due to his ducal dignity ; and he said that they 
ought to have condemned Ser Michele to be hanged by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for life. 

JN'ow it was fated that my Lord Duke Marino was to have 
Lis head cut ofl". And as it is necessary when any elfect is 
to be brought about that the cause of such efi'ect must hap- 
pen, it therefore came to pass that on the very day after 
sentence had been pronounced on Ser Michele Steno, being 
the first day of Lent, a gentleman of the house of Barbaro, 
a choleric gentleman, went to the arsenal, and required 
certain things of the masters of the galleys. This he did 
in the presence of the Admiral of the arsenal, and he, hear- 
ing the request, answered, — No, it cannot be done. High 
words arose between the gentleman and the Admiral, and 
the gentleman struck him with his fist just above the eye ; 
and as he happened to have a ring on his finger, the ring 
cut the Admiral and drew blood. The Admiral, all bruised 
and bloody, ran straight to the Duke to complain, and with 
the intent of praying him to inflict some heavy punishment 
upon the gentleman of Ca Barbaro. — " \Vhat wouldst thou 
have me do for thee?" answered the Duke ; — " think upon 
the shameful gibe which hath been written concerning me ! 
and think on the manner in which they have punished 
that ribald Michele Steno, who wrote it; and see how the 
Council of Forty respect our person." — Upon this the Ad- 
miral answered, — " My Lord Duke, if you would wish to 
make yourself a prince, and to cut all those cuckoldy 
gentlemen to pieces, I have the heart, if you do but help 
me, to make you prince oi all this state ; and then you 
may punish them all."— Hearing this, the Duke said,— 
" How call such a matter be brought about ?" — and so they 
discoursed thereon. 

The Duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Faliero, 
who lived with him in the palace, and they communed 
about this plot. And without leaving the place, they sent 
for Philip Calendaro, a seaman of great repute, and for 
Bertuccio Israello, who was exceedingly wily and cunning. 
Then taking counsel amongst themselves, they agreed to 
call in some others ; and so, for several nights successively, 
they met with the Duke ai home in his palace. And the 
following men were callea in singly ; to wit ;— Niccolo 
Fagiuolo, Giovanni da Corfu, Stefano Fagiono, Niccolo 
dilie Benis, Niccolo Biondo, and Stefano Trivisano.— It 
was concerted that sixteen or seventeen leaders should be 
stationsd in various parts of the city, each being at the 
head of fo.-ty men, armed and irepared ; but the followers 
were not to know their destina,.on. On the appointed day 
they were to make affrays amongst themselves here and 



there, in order that the Duke might have a pretence for 
tolling the bells of San Marco ; these bells are never rjng 
but by the order of the Duke. And at the sound of the 
bells, these sixteen or seventeen, with their followers, 
were to come to San Marco, through the streets which 
open upon the Piazza. And when the noble and leadmg 
citizens should come into the Piazza, to know the cause of 
the riot, then the conspirators were to cut them in pieces ; 
and this work being finished, my Lord Marino Faliero the 
Duke was to be proclaimed the Lord of Venice. Tilings 
having been thus sclled, they agreed to fulfil their in- 
tent on W^ednesday, the 15th day of April, in the year 
1355, So covertly did. they plot, that i . one ever dreamt 
of their machinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped his most glorious 
city, and who, loving its righteousness and holiness, hath 
never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo Bergamasco to be 
the cause of bringing the plot to light, in the following 
manner. This Beltramo, who belonged to Ser Niccolo 
Lioni of Santo Stefano, had heard a word or two of what 
was to take place ; and so, in luc before-mentioned month 
of April, he went to the house of the aforesaid Ser Niccolo 
Lioni, and told him all the particulars of the plot. Ser 
Niccolo, when he heard these things, was struck dead, as 
it were, with aflVight. He heard all the particulars ; and 
Beltramo prayed him to keep it all secret ; and if he told 
Ser Niccolo, it was in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at 
home on the 15th of April, and thus save his life. Bel 
tranio was going, but Ser Niccojb ordered his servants to 
lay hands upon him, and lock him up. Ser Niccolo then 
went to the house of Messer Giovanni Gradenigo Nasoni, 
who afterwards became Duke, and who also lived at Santo 
Stefano, and told hiin all. The matter seemed to him to 
be of the very greatest importance, as indeed it was ; and 
they two went to the house of Ser Marco Cornaro, who 
lived at San Felice ; and having spoken with him, they all 
three then determined to go back to the house of Ser 
Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo ; and having 
questioned him, and heard all that he had to say, they left 
him in confinement. And then they all three went into the 
sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent their men to summon 
the councillors, the Avogadori, the Capi de' Dieci, and 
thosevDf the Great Council. 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told to 
them. They were struck dead, as it were, with affright. 
They determined to send for Beltramo. He was brought 
in before them. They examined him, and ascertained that 
the matter was true ; and, although they were exceedingly 
troubled, yet they determined upon their measures. And 
they sent for the Capi de' Quarante, the Signori di Notte, 
the Capi de' Sestieri, and the Cinque della Pace ; and they 
were ordered to associate to their men oilier good men and 
true, wlio were to proceed to the houses of the ringleaders 
of the conspiracy, and secure them. And they secured 
the foreman of the arsenal, in order that the conspirators 
might not do mischief. Towards nightfall they assembled 
in the palace. When they were assembled in the palace, 
they caused the gates of the quadrangle of the palace to 
be shut. And they sent to the keeper of the bell-tower, 
aiid forbade the tolling of the bells. All this was carried 
into effect. The before-mentioned conspirators were se- 
cured, and they were brought to the palace ; and, as the 
Council of Ten saw that the Duke was in the plot, they 
resolved that twenty of the leading men of the state 
should be associated to them, for the purpose of consulti- 
tion and deliberation, but that they should not be allowed 
to ballot. . I 

The councillors.were the following:— Ser Giovanni Mo- 
cenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco ; Ser Almoro Veniero 
da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Casiello ; Ser Tomaso 
Viadro, of the Sestiero of Canaregio; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, 
of the Sestiero of Santa Croce ; Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the 
Sestiero of San Paolo ; Ser Pantalione Barbo il Grando, of 
the Sestiero of Ossoduro. The Avogadori of the Common 
wealth were Zufredo Morosmi, and Ser Orio Pasqualigo : 
and these did not ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were 
Ser Giovanni Marcello, Ser Tomaso Sanudo, and Ser Mi- 
cheletto Dolfino, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. 
Ser Luca da Legge, and Ser Pietro da Mosto, inquisitors of 
the aforesaid Council. And Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino 
Veniero, Ser Lando Lombardo, and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, 
of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they chose a 
junta of twenty noblemen of Venice from amongst the 
wisest, and the worthiest, and the oldest. They were to 
give counsel, but not to ballot. And they would not admit 
any one of Ca Faliero. And Niccolo Faliero, and anothor 
Niccolo Faliero, of San Tomaso, were expelled from the 
Council, because they belonged to the family of the Doge. 
And this resolution of creating the junta of twenty was 
much praised throughout the state. The following were 
the members of the junta of twenty :— Ser Marco Gius- 



APPENDIX. 



795 



tiniaiii, Procuratore, Ser Andrea Erizzo, Procuratore, Ser 
Lionardo Giustiniani, Procuratore, t?er Andrea Contarini, 
Ser t^imone Dandolo, Ser Niccolo Volpe, Per Giovanni 
Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser 
Andrea Cornaro,Cavaliere, Ser Marco Soranzo, Ser Rinieri 
du Mosto, Ser Gazano Marccllo, Ser Marino Morosini, 
Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, Ser Filippo Orio, 
Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, Ser Giovanni 
Foscarini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the Council 
of Ten ; and they sent for my Lord Marino Faliero the 
Duke : and my Lord Marino was then consorting in the 
palace with people of great estate, gentlemen, and other 
good men, none of whom knew yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertucci Israello, who, as one of the 
ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa Croce, 
vas arrested and bound, and brought before the Council. 
Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, and 
i^e Guardiaga, were also taken, together with several sea- 
men, and people of various ranks. These were examined, 
and the truth of the plot was ascertained. 

On the 16th of April judgment was given in the Council 
of Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and Bertuccio Israello 
should be hanged upon the red pillars of the balcony o( 
the palace, from which the Duke is wont to look at the 
bull-hunt : and they were hanged with gags in their 
mouths. 

Tile next day the following were condemned :— Niccolo 
Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Blondo, Nicoletto Doro, Marco Giuda, 
Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, Ihe son of Filippo 
Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Israello Stefano Trivi- 
sano, the money-changer of Santa Margherita, and Antonio 
dalle Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, for they 
were endeavoring to escape. Afterwards, by virtue of the 
sentence which was passed upon them in the Council of 
Ten, they were hanged on successive days; some singly 
ami some in couples, upon the 'columns of the palace, be- 
ginning from the red columns, and so going onwards 
towanls the canal. And other prisoners were discharged, 
because, although they had been involved in the con- 
spiracy, yet they had not assisted in it: for they were 
given to understand by some of the heads of the plot, that 
they were to come armed and prepared for the service of 
the' state, and in order to secure certain criminals ; and 
they knew nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the Guardiaga, 
and Bartolommeo Ciricolo and his son, and several others, 
who were not guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the Ifith day ot April, judgment w;as also 
given in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that my Lord Marino 
Faliero, the Duke, should have his head cut off; and that 
the execution should be done on the landing-place of the 
stone staircase, where the Dukes take their oath when 
they first enter the palace. On the following day, the 17th 
of April, the doors of the palace being shut, the'Duke had 
his head cut off, about the hour of noon. And the cap of 
estate was taken from the Duke's head before he came 
down stairs. When the execution was over, it is said that 
one of the Council of Ten went to the columns of the 
palace over against the place of St. Mark, and that he 
showed the bloody sword unto the people, crying out with 
a loud voice — ■' The terrible doom hath fallen upon the 
traitor 1"— and the doors were opened, and the people all 
rushed in, to see the corpse of the Duke, who had been 
beheaded. 

It must be known that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the coun- 
cillor, was not present when the aforesaid sentence was 
pronounced ; because he was unwell, and remained at 
Jiome. So tiiat only fourteen balloted ; that is to say, five 
councillors, and nine of the Council of .Ten. And it was 
adjudged, that all the lands and chattels of the Duke, as 
well as of the other traitors, should be forfeited to the state. 
And, as a grace to the Duke, it was resolved in the Council 
of Ten that he should be allowed to dispose of two thou- 
sand ducats out of his own property. And it was resolved, 
that all the councillors and all the Avogadori of the Com- 
monwealth, those of the Council of Ten, and the members 
of the junta, who had assisted in passing sentence on the 
Duke and the other traitors, should have the privilege of 
carrying arms both by day and by night in Venice, and 
from Grado to Cavazere. And they were also to be allowed 
two footmen carrying arms, the aforesaid footmen living 
and boarding with them in their own houses. And he who 
did not keep two footmen might transfer the privilege to his 
sons or his brothers, but only to two. Permission of carry- 
ing arms was also granted to the four notaries of the chan- 
cery, that is to say. of the Supreme Court, who took the 
depositions: and they were, Amedio, Nicoletto di Lorino, 
SttifTanello, and Pietro de Coinpostelli, the secretaries of 
tiie Signori di Nolle. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the Duke had had 
liis head cut olT, the state remained in great tranquillity 
and pcuco. And, as I have read in a chDnicle, the corpse 



of the Duke was removed in a barge, with eight toiches, tc 
his tomb in the church of San Giovanni e Paolo, wr.ere it 
was buried. The tomb is now in that aisle in the middle 
of the little church of Santa Maria della Pace, which was 
built by BisK-D Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, 
with these words engraven thereon: '' Heic jacet Domint^a 
Marinus Faletro Dux." — And they did not ])amt his portrait 
in the hall of the Great Council ; but in the place where it 
ought to have been, you see these words : " Hie est locus 
Marini Faletro, dccapitati pro criminibiis." — And it is thought 
that his house was granted to the church of Sant' Apostolo ; 
it was that great one near the bridge. Yet this could not 
be die case, or else the family bought it back from the 
church ; for it still belongs to Ca Faliero. I must not re- 
frain from, noting that some wished to write the following 
words in the place where his portrait ought to have been, 
as aforesaid :- " Marinus Faletro Dux, tcmeritas me cepit. Patias 
lui, decapitutus pro criminibus.'' — Others, also, indited a coup 
let, worthy of being inscribed upon his tomb. 

" Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam qui prodere ienlans, 
Sceptra, dccus, censum perdidit, atque caput." 



Note 'B.'\ — Petrarch on the Conspiracy of Ma- 
rino FALIERa^ 

" Al giovane Doge Andrea Dandolo succedette un vec- 
chio, il quale tardi si pose al timone della repubblica, ma 
sempre prima di quel, die facea d' uopo a lui, ed alia patria : 
egli e Marino Faliero, personaggio a me nolo per antica di- 
mestichezza. Falsa era 1' opiui'one intorno a lui, giacchu 
egli si mostrb fornito piu di corraggio, che di senno. Non 
pago della prima dignita, entrb con sinistro piede nel pub- 
blico Palazzo : imperciocche questo Doge de Veneti, magis- 
trato sacro in tutti i secoli, che dagli antichi fu sempre ven- 
erato qual nume in quella citta, 'allr' jeri fii decoUato nel 
vestibolo dell' istesso Palazzo. Discorrerei fin dal princi- 
pio le cause di un tale evveiito, e cosi vario, ed ambiguo 
non ne fosse il grido. Nessuno perb lo scusa, tutti affer- 
mano, che egli abbia voluto cangiar qualche cosa nell' or- 
dine della repubblica a lui tramandato dai maggiori. Che 
desiderava egli di pin ? lo son d' avviso, che eg'i abbia 
ottenuto cib, che non si concedette a nessun altro : mentre 
adempiva gli ufficj di legato presso il Pontefice, e sulle 
rive del Rodano trattava la pace, che io prima di lui avevo 
indarno tentato di conchiudere, gli fu conferito 1' onore del 
Ducalo, che ne chiedeva, ne s' aspeltava. Tornato in 
patria, pensb a quello, cui nessuno non pose nienle giam- 
mai, e soff'ri quello, che a niuno accadde mai di softrire : 
giacche in quel luogo celeberrimo, e chiarissimo, e bellis- 
simo infra tutti quelli, che io vidi, ove i suoi antenati ave- 
vano ricevuti grandissimi onori in mezzo alle pompe trion- 
fali, ivi egli fit trascinato in modo servile, e spogliato delle 
insegne ducali, perdetle la testa, e macchib col proprio san- 
gue le soglie del tempio, 1' atrio del Palazzo, e le scale 
marmoree rendute spesse volte illustri o dalle solenni 
festivita, o dalle ostili spoglie. lib notato il luogo, ora nolo 
il tempo : e 1' an nodel Natale di Cristo 1355, fii il giorno 
18 d' Aprile. Si alto e il grido sparso, die se alcuno esa- 
minera la disciplina, e le cosiunianze di quella citt.a, e 
quanto mulamento di cose venga minacciato dallamorte di 
un sol uomo (quantunque molti altri, come narrano, essen- 
do complici, o subirono 1' istesso supplicio, o Io aspeltano) 
si accorger:'i, che nulla di piii grande avvenne ai nostri 
tempi nella Italia. Tu forse qui attend il mio giudizio : 
assolvo il popolo, se credere alia fama, benche abbia potuto 
e castigare piu mitemente, e con maggior dolcezza vendi- 
care il suo dolore : ma non cosi facilmente, si modera un' 
ira giusta insieme, e grande in un numeroso popolo prin- 
cipalmente, nel quale il precipitoso, ed instabile volgo 
aguzza gli stimoli dell' irracondia con rapidi, e sconsigliati 
clamori. Compatisco, e nell' istesso tem])o mi aairo con 
quell' infelice uomo, il quale adorno di un' insolito onore, 
non so, che cosa si volesse negli estremi aniii della sua 
vita: la calamila di lui diviene sempre piu grave, pcrche 
dalla sentenza contra di esso promulgala aperirn, che egli 
fii non solo misero, ma insano, e demente, e che con vano 
arti si usurpo per tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza. 
Ammonisco i Dogi, i quali gli suceederano, che questo e 
un' esempio posto inanzi ai loro occhj, quale specchio, nel 
quale veggano d' essere non Signori, ma Duci, anzi nem- 
meno Duci, ma onorati servi della Repubblica. Tu sta 
sano ; e giacche fluttuano le pubbliche cose, sforsiamosi di 



1 [" Hftd a copj^ taken of an extract from Petrcrth** Letters, with rsfcr- 
cnce to the conspiracy of the Do^e Marino Faliero, containing tLc poet'a 
opinion of the matter.' — Byron Diary, Fet. 11, 1821.] 



796 



BYRON'S WORKS 



governar modeslissimamente i privati nostri affari."— Leva- 
TI. ViiiiTfri Ji Pelrarca, vol. iv. p. 323. 

'ihc above Italian translation from the Latin epistles of 
Petrarcli proves— Istly, That Marino Faliero was a person- 
al friend of Petrarch's ; " antica dimestichezza," old inti- 
macy, is the phrase of the poet 2dly, That Petrarch thought 
that hi had more courage than conduct, " piii di corraggio 
clie di senno." 3dly, That there was some jealousy on the 
pait of Petrarch; for he says that Maiino P'aliero was 
treating of the peace which he himself liad "vainly at- 
Itmpted to conclude." 4thly, That the honor of the duke- 
dom was conferred upon hnn, which he neither sought nor 
expected, "clie ne chiedeva ne aspettava " and whicli had 
never been granted to any other in like circumstances, 
" cib che non si concedette a nessun altro," a proof of the 
high esteem iu which )ie must have been lield. 5thly, That 
he had a reputation for wisdom, onli/ forfeited by the last en- 
terprise of ids life, " si usurpb per tanti anni una falsa fama 
c!i sapienza." — " He had usurped for so many years a false 
/ame of wisdom," r.ither a diflicult task, I should think. 
People are generally found out before eighty years of 
age, at least in a republic. — From these, and the other his- 
torical notes whif n I have collected, it may be inferred 
that Marino Faliero possessed many of the qualities, 
but not the success of a hero ; and that his passions were 
too violent. The paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore 
laUs 10 the ground. Petrarch says, " that there had been 
no greater event in his times," {our times literally,; •' nostri 
tempi," in Italy. He also differs from the historian in say- 
ing tliat P'aliero was " on the banks of the Rhone,'" instead 
of at Rome, when elected ; the other accounts say, that the 
deputation of the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. 
How this may have been, it is not for me to decide, and is 
of no great iiiiportance. Had the man succeeded, he would 
have changed the face of Venice, and perhaps of Italy. As 
it is, vvliat arc they both ? 



Note [C] — Veneti.\n Society and M.\nners. 

" Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er ; 
But, in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude," &c. 

(Seep. 241.) 

" To these attacks, so frequently pointed by the govern- 
ment against the clergy — to the continual struggles between 
the different constituted bodies — to these enterprises carried 
on by the mass of the nobles against the depositaries of 
power — to all those projects of innovation, which always 
ended by a stroke of state policy ; we must add a cause not 
less fitted to spread contempt for ancient doctrines ; this 
was the excess of corruption. 

" That freedom of manners, which had been long boasted 
of as the principal charm of Venetian society, had degen- 
erated into scandalous licentiousness: the tie of marriage 
was less sacred in that Catholic country, than among those 
nations where the laws and religion admit of its being dis- 
solved. Becr.use they could not break the contract, they 
feigned that it had not existed ; and the ground of nullity, 
immodestly alleged by the married pair, was admitted wiih 
equal facility by priests and magistrates, alike corrupt. 
These divorces, veiled under another namt.-, became so 
frequent, that the most important act of civil society was 
discovered to be amenable to a tribunal of exceptions ; and 
to restrain the open scandal of such proceedings became 
the office of the police. In 1782, the Council of Ten de- 
creed, that every woman who should sue for a dissolution 
of her marriage should be compelled to await the decision 
of the judges in some convent, to be named by the court.' 
Soon afterwards the same council summoned all causes of 
that naturetiefore itself.'^ This infringement on ecclesias- 
tical jurisdiction having occasioned some remonstrance 
from Rome. i.,c council retained only the right of rejecting 
the petition of the married persons, and consented to refer 
such causes to the holy office as it should not previously 
have rejectcd.3 

" Tliere was a moment in which, douBtless, the destruc- 
tion of private fortunes, the ruin of youFh, the domestic 
disced occasioned by these abuses, determined the govern- 
ment to depart from its established maxims concerning the 
freedom of manners allowed the subject. All the courte- 
5?jis were banished from Venice ; but their absence was 



I Corrjspcnilence of M. Schlick, French charjre d'affaires. Dispatch of 
S-kh Ausu.i, 1781. 2 Ibid. Dispalch, 3tst August. 

3 Ih/i. Dispatch of 3d September, 1785. 

4 The dccTW for their recall designates teem as nostre benemertte tnere- 



not enough to reclaim and bring back good morals to a 
whole people brought up in the most scandalous licentious- 
ness. Depravity reached the very bosoms of private fami- 
lies, and even into the cloister ; and they found themselves 
obliged to recall, and even to indemnifyi women who some- 
times gained possession of important secrets, and who might 
be usefully employed in the ruin of men whose fortunes 
might have rendered them dangerous. Since that lime 
licentiousness has gone on increasing ; and we havo seen 
mothers, not only selling the innocence of their daughters, 
but selling it by a contract, authenticated by the signature 
of a public officer, and the performance of which was se- 
cured by the protection of the laws.^ 

" The parlors of the convents of noble ladies, and the 
houses of the couiiesans, though the police carefully kept 
up a number of spies about them, were the only assemblies 
for society in Venice ; and in these two places, so different 
from each other, there was equal freedom. Music, colla- 
tions, gallantry, were not more forbidden in the parlors than 
at the cas'.rrs. There were a number of casinos for the 
purpose of public assemblies, where gaming was the prin- 
cipal pursuit of the company. It was a strange sight to 
see persons of either sex masked, or grave in their magiste- 
rial robes, round a table, invoking chance, and giving way 
't one instant to the agonies of despair, at the next to thfr 
ii.us'ons of hope, and that without uttering a single word. 

" The i''ch had private casinos, but they lived incognito in 
them ; and tne wives whom fJiey abandoned found com- 
pensation in the I'berty they enjoyed. The corruption ot 
morals had deprivea them of their empire. We have just 
reviewed the whole histo." of Venice, and we liave not 
once seen them exercise the Sj.ghtest uiflueuce." — Daru ; 
Hist, de la Repub. dc Venise, vol. v. p. 15. 



THE TWO FOSCARI. 



Note ;A.] See p 287. 

The best English account of the incidents on which this play »* 
founded, is given in the second volume of the Reverend Mr. 
Smedleifs " Sketches of Venetian History," and is as follows : 

" The reign of Francesco Foscari had now been pro- 
longed to the unusual period of thirty-four years, and these 
years were marked by almost continual warfare ; during 
which, however, the courage, the firmness, and the sagacity 
of the illustrious Doge had won four rich provinces for his 
country, and increased bur glory not less than her domin- 
ion. Ardent, enterprising, and ambitious of the glory of 
conquest, it was not without much opposition that Foscari 
had obtained the Dogeship ; and he soon discovered that 
the throne which he had coveted with so great earnestness 
was far from being a seat of repose. Accordingly, at the 
peace of Ferrara, whichin 1433 succeeded a calamitous war, 
foreseeing the approach of fresh and still greater troubles, 
and weaned by ttie factions which ascribed all disasters V.j 
the Prince, he tendered his abdication to the senate, and 
was refused. A like offer was renewed by him when nine 
years' farther experience of sovereignty had confirmed his 
former estimate of its cares; and the Council, on this sec- 
ond occasion, much more from adherence to existing in- 
stitutions than from any attachment to the person of the 
Doge, accompanied their negative with the exaction of an 
oi h that he would retain his burdensome dignity for life. 
Too early, alas I was he to be taught that life, on such con 
ditions, was the heaviest of curses I Three out of his four 
sons were already dead: to Giacopo, the survivor, he 
looked for the continuation of his name and the support of 
his dechning age ; and, from that youth's intermarriage 
with the illustrious house of Contarini, and the popular joy 
with which his nuptials were celebrated, the Doge drew 
favorable auspices for future happiness. Four years, how 
ever, had scarcely elapsed from the conclusion of that well 
omened marriage, when a series of calamities began, from 
which death alone was to relieve either the son or his yet 
more wretched father. In 1445, Giacopo Foscari was de- 
nounced to the Ten, as having received presents from for 
eign potentates, and especially from Filippo-Mana VisconU 



trici; a fund and some houses, called Case rampane, were assigned to thfSD 
hence the opprobrious appellatioa o{ Carair.pane. 

6 Mayer-, Description of Venice, vol. ii. ar.J M. Archetacli, f icluie of 
Italy, vol. i. cb. 2. 



APPENDIX. 



797 



The offence, according to the law, was one of the most 
heinous which a notile could commit. Even if Giacopo 
were guiltless of infringing that law, it w^as not easy to 
establish innocence before a Venetian tribunal. Under the 
eyes of his own father, compelled to preside at the unnatu- 
ral examination, a confession was extorted from the pris- 
oner, on the rack ; and, from the lips of that father, he re- 
ceived the sentence which banished him for life to Napoli 
di Romania. On his passage, severe illness delayed him at 
Tneste ; and, at the especial prayer of the Doge, a less 
remote district was assigned for his punistiment: he was 
permitted to reside at Trevis^, and his wife was allowed to 
participate his exile. 

" It was in the cominencement of the winter of 1450, 
' hile Giacopo Foscari rerled, in comparative tranquillity, 
withi!'. the bounds to which he was restricted, that an 
assassination occurred m the streets of Venice. Hermolao 
Donate, a Chief of the Ten, was murdered on his return 
from a sitting of that council, at his own door, by uii.<nown 
liands. The magnitude of the offence and the violation of 
'.he high dignity of the Ten demanded a victim ; and the 
coadjutors of the slain magistrate caught with eager grasp 
at the slightest clew which suspicion could affoi'd. A do- 
mestic in the service of Giacopo Foscari had been seen in 
Venice on the evening of the murder ; and on the following 
moniing, when met in a boat off Mestre by a Chief of the 
Ten, and asked, ' What new.s V he had answered by re- 
porting the assassination, several hours before it W'as 
generally known. It might seem that such frankness of 
itself disproved all participation in the crime; for the 
author of it was not likely thus unseasonably and prema- 
turely to disclose its committal. But the Ten thought dif- 
ferently, and matters which to others bore conviction of 
innocence, to them savored strongly of guilt. The servant 
was arrested, examined, and barbarously tortured ; but 
even the eightieth application of tlie strappado failed to 
elicit one syllable which might justify condemnation. That 
Giacopo Foscari had experienced the severity of the Coun- 
cil's judgment, and that its jealous watchfulness was daily 
imposing some new restraint upon his father's authority, 
powerfully operated to convince the Ten that they must 
themselves in return be objects of his deadly enmity. Who 
else, they said, could be more likely to arm the hand of an 
assassin against- a Chief of the Ten, than one whom the 
Ten have visited with punishment? On this unjust and 
unsupported surmise, the young Foscari was recalled from 
Treviso, placed on the rack which his servant had just 
vacated, tortured again in his father's presence, and not 
absolved even after he resolutely persisted in denial unto 
the end 

"The wrongs, however, which Giacopo Foscari endured 
had by no means chilled the passionate love with which he 
continued to regard his ungrateful country. He was now 
excluded from all communication with his family, torn 
from the wife of his alTecf. )ns, debarred from the society 
of his children, hopeless of again embracing those parents 
who had already far outstripped the natural term of human 
existence ; and to his imagination, forever CL'ntering itself 
upon the single desire of return, life presented no other 
object deserving pursuit; till, for the attainment of this 
^v:sh, life itself at length appeared to be scarcely more than 
an adequate sacrifice. Preyed upon by this fever of the 
heart, after six years' unavailing suit for a remission of 
punishment, in the summer of 1-156, he addressed a letter to 
the Duke of Milan, imploring his good offices with the 
senate. That letter, purposely left open in a place obvious 
to the spies by whom, even in his exile, he was surrounded, 
and afterwards intrusted to an equally treacherous nand 
ior delivery to Sforza, was conveyed, as the writer intend- 
ed, to the Council of Ten ; and the result, which equally 
fulfilled his expectation, was a hasty summons to Venice to 
answer for the heavy crime of soliciting foreign interces- 
sion with his native government. 

" For a third time, Francesco Foscari listened to the ac- 
cusation of his son ; for the first time he heard him only 
avow the charge of his accusers, and calmly state that his 
offence, such as it was, had been committed designedly 
and aforethought, with the sole object of detection, in order 
that he might be brought back, even as a malefactor, to 
Venice. This prompt and voluntary declaration, however, 
was not sufficient to decide the nice hesitation of his 
judges. Guilt, they said, might be too easily admitted as 
well as too pertinaciously denied ; and the same process 
therefore by which, at other times, confession was wreslet'. 
from the hardened criminal, might now compel a too facile 
self-accuser to retract his acknowledgment. The father 
again looked on while his son was raised on the accursed 
cord no less than thirty times, in order that, under his 
agony, he might be induced to utter a lying declaration of 
innocence. But this cruelty was exercised in vain ; and, 
■when nature gave way, the sufferer was carried to the 
lipartmcnts of the Doge, torn, bleeding, senseless, a»4 dis- 



located, but firm in his original purpose. Nor had his per- 
secutors relaxed in theirs; they renewed his sentence of 
exile, and added that its first year should be passed in pris- 
on. Before he embarked, one interriew was permitted 
with his family. The Doge, as Sanuto, perhaps uncon- 
scious of the pathos of his simplicity, has narrated, was an 
aged and decrepit man, who walked with the support oi a 
crutch, and when he came into the chamber he spake with 
great firmness, so that it might seem il was not his son 
whom he was addressing, but it wns his son— his only son. 
' Go, Giacopo,' was his reply, when prayed for tlie last time 
to solicit mercy ; ' Co, Giacopo, submit to the will of your 
country, and seek nothing farther.' This effort of self- 
restraint was beyond the powers, not of the old man's en- 
during spirit, but of his exhausted frame ; and when he 
retired, he sw^; ned in the arms of his attendants. Giacopo 
reached his Candian prison, and was shortly afterwards 
released by death. 

" Francesco Foscari, far less happy in his survival, con- 
tinued to live on, but il was in sorrow and feebleness, 
which prevented attention to the duties of his high office : 
he remained secluded in his chamber, never went alsroad, 
and absented himself even from the sittings of the council. 
No practical inconvenience could result from this want of 
activity in the chief magistrate ; for t*ie constitution suffi- 
ciently provided against any accidental suspension of bis 
personal functions, ami his place in council, and on state 
occasions, was supplied by an authorized deputy. Some 
indulgence, moreover, might be thought due to the extreme 
age and domestic griefs of Foscari ; since they appeared to 
promise that any favor which might be granted would be 
claimed but for a short period. But yet ''a-ther trials were 
in store. Giacopo Lored-ano, who in 140". was appointed 
one of the Chiefs of the Ten, belonged to a family between 
which and that of Foscari an hereditary feud had long e.x- 
isted. His uncle Pietro, after gaining high distinction in 
active service, as Admiral of Venice, on his return to the 
capital headed the political faction which opposed the war- 
like projects of the Doge ; divided applause with liim by his 
eloquence in the councils ; and so far extended his influ- 
ence as frequently to obtain majorities in their divisions. In 
an evil moment of impatience, Foscari once publicly avow- 
ed in the senate, that so long as Pietro Loredano lived he 
should never feel himself really to be Doge. Not long af- 
terwards, the Admiral, engaged as Provveditore with one 
of the armies opposed to Filippo-IMaria, died suddenly at a 
military banquet given during a short suspension of arms ; 
and the evil-omened words of Foscari were connected w, ith 
his decease. It was remarked, also, that his brother Marco 
Loredano, one of the Avvogadori, died, in a somewhat 
similar manner, while engaged in mstituting a legal process 
against a son-in-law of the Doge, for peculation upon the 
state. The foul rumors partially excited by these untoward 
coincidences, for tliey appear in truth to have been no 
more, met with little acceptation, and were rejected or for- 
gotten except by a single bosom. Giacopo, the son of one, 
the nephew of the other deceased Loredano, gave full 
credit to the accusation, inscribed on his father's tomb at 
Sta. Elena that he died by poison, bound himself by a solemn 
vow to the most deadly and unrelenting pursuit of revenge, 
and fulfilled that vow to the uttermost. 

" During the lifetime of Pietro Loredano, Foscari, wil- 
ling to terminate the feud by a domestic alliance, had ten- 
dered the hand of his daughter to one of his rival's sons. 
The youth saw his proffered bride, openly expressed dislike 
of her person, and rejected her with marked disccrurtesy ; 
so that, in the quarrel thus heightened, Foscari might now 
conceive himself to be the most injured party. Not such 
was the impression of Giacopo Loredano: year after year 
he grimly awaited the season most fitted for his unbending 
purpose and it arrived at length when he found himself in 
authority among the Ten. Relying upon the ascendency 
belonging to that high station, he hazarded a proposal for 
the deposition of the aged Doge, which was at first, how 
ever, received with coldness ; for those who had twice be- 
fore refused a volvmtary abdication, shrank from the strange 
contradiction of now demanding one on compulsion. A 
junta -vtas required to assist in their deliberations, and 
among the assessors elected by the Great Council, in com- 
plete ignorance of the purpose for which t!; =y v.'ere needed, 
was Marco Foscari, a Procuratore of St. Mark, and brother 
of the Doge himself. The Ten perceived that to reject his 
assistance might excite su.spicion, while to procure his ap- 
parent approbation would give a show of impartiality to 
their process : his nomination, therefore, was accepted ; 
but he was removed to a separate apartment, excluded 
from the debate, sworn to keep that exclusion secret, and 
yet compelled to assent to the final decree in the discussion 
of which he had not been allowed to participate. The 
Council sat during eight days, and nearly as many niglits ; 
and, at the close of their protracted meetings, a committee 
was deputed to request the abdication of the Doge The 



798 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



old man received them with surprise, but with composure, 
and replied th:it he had sworn not to abdicate, and there- 
fore must maintain his faith. It was not possible that he 
could resign ; but if it appeared fit to their wisdom that he 
should cease to be Doge, they had it in their power to 
make a proposal to that effect to the Great Council. It 
was far, however, from tne intention of the Ten to subject 
themselves to the chances of debate in that larger body ; 
and, assuming to their own magistracy a pi erogative not 
attributed to it by the constitution, they discharged Foscari 
from his oath, declared his office vacant, assigned to him a 
pension of two thousand ducats, and enjoined him to quit 
the palace within three days, on pain of confiscation of all 
his property. Loredano, to whom the right belonged, ac- 
cording to the weekly routine of office, enjoyed the bar- 
barous satisfaction of presenting this decree with his own 
hand. 'Who are you, Signor7' inquired the Doge of an- 
other Oiief of the Ten who accompanied him, and whose 
person lie did not immediately recognise. ' I am a son of 
Marco Memmo.' 'Ah, your father,' replied Foscari, 'is 
my friend.' Then declaring that he yielded willing obe- 
dience to the most excellent Council of Ten, and laying 
aside the ducal bonnet and robes, he surrendered his ring 
of office, which was. broken in his presence. On the mor- 
row, when he prepared to leave the palace, it was suggest- 
ed to him that he should retire by a private staircase, and 
thus avoid the concourse assembled in the court-yard be- 
low With calm dignity he refused the proposition : he 
would descend, he said, by no other than tlie self-same 
stejis by which he had mounted thirty years before. Ac- 
cordingly, supported by his brother, he slowly traversed the 
Giant's Stairs, and, at their foot, leaning on his staff and 
turning round to the palace, he accompanied his last look 
to it with these parting words, ' My services establislied me 
within your walls; it is the mahce of my enemies which 
tears me from them 1' 

" It was to the oligarchy alone that Foscari was obnox- 
ious ; by the populace he had always been beloved, and 
strange indeed would it have been had he now failed to ex- 
cite tbeir sympathy. But even the regrets of the people of 
Venice were fettered by their tyrants ; and whatever pity 
Miey might secretly continue to cherish for their wronged 
and humiliated prince, all expression of it was silenced by a 
peremptory decee of the Council, forbidding any mention 
of his name, and annexing death as a penalty to disobe- 
dience. On the fifth day after Foscari's deposition, Pascale 
iMalipieri was elected Doge. The dethroned prince heard 
ohe annoiiucenient of his successor by the bell of the cam- 
Iwnile, s'Jupressed his ^gitation, but ruptured a blood-vessel 
in the exertion, and died in a few hours." 



REMARKS 



ON THE ROMAIC OR MODERN GREEK LANGUAGE, WITH 
SPECIMENS AND TRANSLATIONS. 

These ^^ Remarks" were written, in the spring of 1811, tohile 
Lord Byron was residing in the Capuchin Convent at Athens. 
See p. 556. 

Amongst an enslaved people, obliged to have recourse to 
loreign presses even for their books of religion, it is less to 
je wondered at that we find so few publications on general 
subjects, than that we find any at all. The whole number 
of the Greeks, scattered up and down the Turkish empire 
and elsewhere, may amount, at most, to three m.llions; 
and yet, for so scanty a number, it is impossible to discover 
any nation with so great a proportion of books and their 
authors, as the Greeks of the present century. "Ay, but," 
say the generous advocates of oppression, who, while they 
assert the ignorance of the Greeks, wish to prevent them 
from dispplling it, " ay, but these are mostly, if not all, ec- 
clesiastical tracts, and consequently good for nothing." 
Well, and pray what else can they write about 7 It is 
pleasant enough to hear a Frank, particularly an English- 
man, vi-ho may abuse the government of his own country , 
or a Frenchman, who may abuse every government except 
his own, and who may range at will over every philosoph- 
ical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or moral subject ; sneer- 
ing at the Greek legends. A Greek must not write on 
politics, and cannot touch on science for want of instruc- 
tion ; if he doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; 
thertf ire his countrymen are not poisoned with modern 



philosophy ; and as to morals, thanks to the Turks ! there 
are no such things. What then is left him, if he has u turn 
for scribbling? Religion, and holy biography: and it is 
natural enough that those who have so little in this life 
should look to the next. It is no great wonder, then, that 
in a catalogue now before me of fifty-five Greek wri 
ters, many oi whom were lately living, not above fifteen 
should have touched on any tt-.ing but religion. The catn- 
logue alluded to is contained in the twenty-sixth chapter 
of the fourth volume of Meletius's Ecclesiastical History. 
From tuiS I subjoin an extract of those who have written 
on general subjects ; which wia be followed by Rome speci 
mens'of the Romaic. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.J 

Neophitus, Diakonos (the t'^acon) of the Morea, has pub- 
lished an extensive grammar, und also some political regu- 
lations, which last were left unfinished at his death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis, (a town in Epirus,) has writ- 
ten and published a catalogue of the learned Gieeks. 

Seraplun, of Periclea, is the author of many works in the 
Turkish language, but Greek character; for the Christians 
of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, but read the 
character. 

Eustathius Psalidas, of Bucharest, a physician, made the 
tour of England for the purpose of study, Ixap'f naO^acia; : 
but though his name is enumerated, it is not stated that he 
has written any thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, Patriarch of Constantinople: many 
poems of his are extant, and also pfose tracts, and a cata- 
logue of patriarchs since the last taking of Constantinople. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal 
academy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolito, has written many 
works, particularly " A Commentary on Hesiod's Shield of 
Hercules," and two hundred tales, (of what is not speci- 
fied,) and has published his correspondence with the cele- 
brated George of Trebizond, his contemporary. 

Meletius, a celebrated geographer ; and author ol the 
book Irom whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher : his 
Hellenic works are in great repute, and he is esteemed by 
the moderns, (I quote the words of Meletius,) ^cri Tdv 
0ovKviiir}v Kat 'Ecvocpdvra npiaros 'EXAjJiu*'. I add further, 
on the authority of a well-informed Greek, that he was so 
famous amongst his countrymen, that they were accustom- 
ed to say, if Thucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he 
was capable of repairing the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor of 
chem.istry in the academy of Padua, and member of that 
academy, and those of Stockholm and Upsal. He has pub- 
lished, at Venice, an account of some marine animal, and 
a treatise on the properties of iron. 

Blarcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. He 
removed to St. Petersburg the immense rock on which the 
statue of Peter the Great was fixed m 1769. See the dis- 
sertation which he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued lexicon. 

George Ventote; a lexicon in French, Italian, and Romaic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and Ro- 
maic, Frencn, &c. ; besides grammars, in every modem 
language except English. 

Amongst the living authors the following are most cele- 
brated : — - 

Athanasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric in 
Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Acarnanian, has published, in Vienna- 
some physical treatises in Hellenic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic translator 
of Fontenelle's " Phirahly of Woilds," (a favorite work 
amongst the Greeks,) is stated to be a teacher of the Hel- 
lenic and Arabic languages in Paris ; in both of which he is 
an adept. 

Athanasius, the Parian, author of a treatise on Rhetoric 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has WTitten " ti's to fie. 
ao6dp6uoov." on logic and physics. 

John kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated mto French 
Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an excellent 
Hellenist and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geographic--!, 
work : he has also translated several Italian authors, ami 
orinted his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 



frciia lid tcting of Uo 



iilinople to the time of Alelelius. 



) arc net taken from any pubtuatioc. 



APPENDIX. 



799 



GREEK WAR SONG.i 

AEY'TE, irmSes rSv 'EW^vuvs 

h Katpo; Trj; id^vi fiXdcv, 
Of (pavHjxcv a^tot tKuvuiv 

Ttov iiai Swcav rt'iv dpx>iv' 
Aj TTarfiaontv aiSpciia; 

Tov Zvyov Trjg rvprtwiSoi, 
'EKdtKr'iiTuifitv Trarpiiog 

Ka9 Oi'Ciios n!ijxp6v. 

5rora/<(i5<ii' i^Opuiv to alalia 
a; Tpil;ri virb Troiiov. 

'OBcv cJade tSv 'EWijvwv 

K6KKa\a anipeioftiva, 
KVCi'fiaTu EaKopiTiaixiva, 

Tiupu ^dScre TTvorjv. 
ar' jjv <pti}v>}V rrjg aaXwiyySi fov^ 

avvaxdi'iTc b\a Ojiov. 
Tr)v (TtTaXoipov ^tjTUTe, 
Kat i'(K-«r£ -rpo Kavrov. 

Ta oirXa as XdSwfjicv, &C. 

TirdpTa. ^irdpTa, Ti KoijidcBs 

VTzi'ov Xt'/Oapyov [ia6vv ; 
^VTn'tjTOi' Kpd^c 'Adijvas, 

avjinaxov Tai'TOTCivijv, 
Ei'OvueidnTc Acovviiov 

tlpMii Tnv ^uKovarov, 
Toij ifipo; fVau'E/Jfi'ou 

<io6tpou Ka'i Tpoficpov, 

Ta onXa as Xa'5a)/i£v, &C. 

'Ottcv cis Tas QcpfiOTTvXas 

TdXsj.tov nvros kootcT. 
Kal Tovs Hfpcras afaviy,et 

Kal uvrdv Karij Kparei' 
Mf TpiaKoaiovs avSpas 

cis TO Kii'Tpiiv TrpdxupEi, 
Ka} w; Xfuiu $vii(!>ncvos, 

ds TO atfta TMv [iovTu. 

T(i oirXa u'j Xddwuev, &.C, 



ROMAIC EXTRACTS. 

Voasos. "AyKXos. Kal TdXXos Kopvovrts rfjv rtpifiytiaiv Ttji 
'EXXdios, Ka'i 0XiiToi'T£s Tiiv aOXinv Triv Kardaraaiv, tlpilt- 
Triaav KaTupx''S 'i''" VpaiKov (piXiXX7]i'a iia va p.d6ovv T^v 
aiTiav, ficT aiiTov iva firjTpo-roXlTriv, elra eva /SAdx/iTftv, 
tKCtTa cva TTpayiiaTtvrfjv, Kal 'iva TipotdTtOTa. 

EtTti ftns. <5 (fiiXiXXrjva^fTSis ipipeis Trlv axXaSiav 
Kal Trju a-jrapiyopriTov Twv TovpKuiv Tvpavviav • 
TTcDs Tals ^vXa'iS Kal vRpidfiohs Kal aihripo&tafxiav 
TTaiSwv, TTapBhoin. yvvaiKuv di'T^KovcTov (jtdoouav. 
Aiv tlaOai cans aTTo'yoi'oi iKciiuv twv 'EXXrivuv 
Tuiv IXivOfpwv Kill aoipm' Kal Tuiv ipiXoiraTpiSuiv' 
Kal TTwf tKuvoi diriOviquKov Sid rrjv tXtvOcf'av, 
Kal Tiipa taus VTrouKttrrdat £i'f Teroiuv Tvpavf.iv, 
Kal TTolov yii'os w( iaus itjTdBr] ipMTiayiirov 
ds Tiiv ao<piaii. hvvnjiriv. cis k' oAa X^aKovnjxivov. 
T^ioi vvv iKaTanTi'irraTC tP;i/ (pijiTivtjv EXXdia 
PaSa ! uis h'a (jKeXcdpov, J); aKoTcivrif XajxirdSav, 
'OfiiXri. ipiXTaTC TpaiKt, ct-nl fxas Tr\v airiav : 
flit KpiTtT-qs tI-uttis 'i/'Wi', Xic Tiiv airopiav. 

•O *IAE'AAHN02. 

'Po)(T:TayKXo ydXXoi, 'EXXds, Kal dxi aXXot, 
)jToi>, iis Xirs, Tdaov ^cydXrj, 
vvv i( dOXia, Kill dva{ia 
i^' ipoii dpxiotv t) ajiadia. 



I A Uarj.ii.tiOQ of thii eoag will be fsund amon^ the OcceEional Pieces, bt 



OOT fifnTopovaav vd tiiv .^vrrvriai] 
TovT CIS TO %£7poi' Trjv hSiiyovat 
aiiTri cTcvd^ci Ta TiKva Kpdl,tt, 
ctS vd vpoKdTTTovv bXa TrpoaTd^ci 
Kal t6tc Airi'^fi In Kcpii(,ci. 
tvpelv, inou' xci vvv rf/v ipXoyi'C,ci. 
Ma" SoTif ToXjj^atji vd Ti/i/ ^uti/^c); 
.irdyct aTov aiijv x^oi't Tiva Kplaii. 

The above is the commencement of a long dramatic satire 
on the Greek priesthood, princes, and gentry ; it is con- 
temptible as a composition, but perhaps curious as a spe- 
cimen of their rhyme. I have the whole in MS., but this 
extract will be found sufficient. The Romaic in this com- 
position is so easy as to render a version an insult to a 
scholar ; but those who do not understand the original will 
excuse the following bad translation of what is in itself in- 
different. 

TRANSLATION. 

A Russian, Englishman, and Frenchman, makingthetourof 
Greece, ana oDserving the miserable state of the country, 
interrogate, in turn, a Greek Patriot, to le?'-n the chuse : 
afterwards an Archbishop, then a Vlackbey,» c "VIercLant, 
and Cogia Bachi or Primate. 

Thou friend of thy country ! to .strangers record, 

Why bear ye the yoke of the Ottoman Lord? 

Why bear )"e these fetters thus tamely display'd, 

The wrongs of the matron, the stripling, and maid? 

The descendants of Hellas's race are not ye . 

The patriot sons of the sage and the free, 

Thus sprung fiom the blood of the noble and biive. 

To vilely exist as the Mussulman slave 1 

Not such were the fathers your annals can boast, 

Who conquer'd and died for the freedom you lost! 

Not such was your land in her earlier hour. 

The day-star of nations in wisdom and power ! 

And still will you thus unresisting increase. 

Oh shameful dishonor! the darkness of Greece ? 

Then tell us, beloved Acha;an I reveal 

The cause of the woes which you cannot conceal. 

The reply of the Philellenist I have not translated, as it is 
no better than the question of the travelling triumvirate ; 
and the above will sufficiently show with what kind of com- 
position the Greeks are now satisfied. I trust I have not 
much injured the original m the few lines given as faithfully, 
and as near the " Oh, Miss Bailey ! unfortunate Miss Bai- 
ley I" measure of the Romaic, as I could make them. Al- 
most all their pieces, above a song, which aspire to the 
name of poetry, contain exactly the quantity of feet of 

'* A captain bold of Halifax, wtio lived in country quarters,*' 

which is in fact the present heroic couplet of the Romaic, 



SCENE FROM 'O KA<tENES. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF GOLDONI, BY SPIRIDIOK 
VLANTI. 

SKHNH KV. 
IIAATZIAA ds TfjV -ndprav tov xaviou, Kal o\ aiuScv. 

nAA, il 0£f ! dirb rb irapadvpi fiov ((pdviq vd aKoi(r(ii rriv 
(piavijv too dvSpds liov' uv avrbs ctvai iSij). e(pdao'a ci Kaipiv 
vd Tbv ^cvrpoTTidau). [Eiiyaivct cvas SovXos dwo to ipyaaT^pi.J 
TlaXiKnpt. vis /'"u ac TrapaKaXHi ttolos clvat IkcI ds tKtivovs 
TOVS iiTdScs ; 

AOYA. Tpc7s Xpi'iainoL dvSpcs. "Evas & Kvp Evyivtos, i 
SXXos b Kvp MdpTios 'KeaKoXtTavos, Kal o TpiTos & Kip KdvTt 
AiavSpos ^Api(vTrjs. 

IIAA. {'Avdjicaa £ij avTuvs Siv clvai h (pXajiivios, ^v bj^ws 
oiv dXXa^cv ovofta.) 

AEA. N« Cf; fi KaXfi Tiy^rj Tov Kvp Evycvlov. [Eluwvra;.] 

OAOI. 'SdXfj, vd i,jj. 

IIAA. (AiiTos civai h avSpas fiov %ii)pi5 uXXo.) YiaXt av- 
dpiti-c, 'Kdyiz fiov TijV X'op'i' id ff cvvTpo(l>aiaric airdviii df 
aiiTois Toiis dipcvTdScs, Ikov SiXu) vd Toiis vai^o) ^liav. \Viait 
Tbv ioiXov.^ 



i Vlackbey, Prinoo of WoUichia 



800 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



AOT. /Opio-fj'J; uai' {avvriOiiTnirov 6<pA'iKtov twv 6ov\tv- 
T&i.^ [Ti'iv [fL-Kii^ei airb to ipyaari'ipi tov 7raiyi'ii5ioS.] 

PIA. KnpAia. Kapha. KafjiCTi: KaXiiv Kapiidv, iiv iivai ri- 
iTOTc;. [Upbi Tijv BiTTdpiav.] 

BIT. 'Eyu aiaOdvojjiaL Trwf dvtOaivw. ['Zwipx^'^"'- "5 
rbv iavrdv r>)f.] ^ ;\ t. ^ 

f'A-o TO. TzapdOvpa tuv ivrddiav (baivnvrai oAot, Ottoi; 
triinditovTai otto to Tpairi^i cvYxtT^tivol. iiii rbv 
}a(l>vi<7ijdv TOV Acdvipov (SAfTrwvra? T)> nXdrltda, 
Kal oiarl avroS Sax^ti T^S -SfXti va Tt)v (povevarj.l 
EYr. Oxi, (TTaOnTC. 
MAP. Mi/e KanrcTC. . _. 
AEA. Su-w, ipvyt air' iSii. 

nAA. BoZ/fiHa, ISo>,eua. [idyti i-iri Tr,v CKoXav,^ b Ai- 

avhpoi SiXa va Tnv aKoXovd/icr, //i t6 crT^aOi, Kal h Evy. tov 

/Jatrrii.] ^ , ,_ . n n 

TPA. [Mf cva idTo fii (payl eU fiiav vtr^iTa Trrid(f utto to 

irapaOvoi. Ka't (pciiyti £iS Tbv Ka<pui.] 

HAA. [Evyaivei a-Tb rb ipyaar/ipi tov Traiyridiov Tpix^ov- 
ra?, Knl ipciiyei di Tb X'^viP\ _ ~ rrl - 

Err. [Mt (ipiiara ds to xf'pi Trpoj dia(p£vT!:vi!ivTjj; UAa- 
T^iJnf. fi'.ivr/c:' r;S Atd'i'i^poii, iff" rtj" KaTnTp!X"-i 

MAP rEuyau'Ei koi ahrbs ctyd ciyd otto to ipya(TT,',pt, Kai 

.ttvyci Xiywi'Tas.] Rumores fuse. \:Tovix6pci <piiYt.y ^ 

O! ^ovXoi. ['Airi Tb ipyaaTi'ipi aiztpvovv us to x«i'<, kcii 

kXeiouv T))!' ffoprav.] ^ , , v .n J.,^.J T 

BIT [MfVti £(f roi- Ka(pcvi j3o>70»7M""? °'^° ''<"' l^'foA(^ov.j 

AEA. AdaiTC tottoV SiSto va ifjOoi va iiiSiads (kuvo Tb 

Xdi't. [Mi Tb ciraB] di to x^pi- iinvTiov TovEvytitov.l _ 

EYF. "Ovi. pj) yivoiTo ttotI' dnai 'ivas aAripdKapoos fvav- 
Tiov T~i; yui-dvoj co^, "al iyi) •SAet Tfjv itaipivTcvao) ws £'f 
rb vcTTcpov alfia_ ^ 

AEA. Yov Kd^lvu} SpKovvwg SiXctTo iJCTavoiwcrii. [KivTjyp 

TOJ' Eiiyf'i'iov wc' TO airaOi.] , 

EYE Afc ce <po6ovjj.at. [Karnrp/xtl tJv Afav^pov, K<ii 
Tbv pidUt va copOf] dirhui Tdaov, biTov evpiaKuivTas uvoiKTdv 
Ti CT!f}Ti tTj; xofttj'roiaf, qiBaivu ti'j aM, Kal cdviTai.l 

TRANSLATION. 

Platzidajtom the Door of the Hotel, and the others. 

Pla Oh God I from the window it seemed that I heard 
my husbamrs vo.ce. If he is here, I have a™ved m ume 
^\iake him ashamed. [A servant enters from the Shop.] 
Bov tell me pray, who are in those chambers. 

%.V« Three^gln lemen : one, Signer Eugenio ; the other 
Signer' Martio, the Neapolitan ; and the third, my Lord, the 
^PrSmo1Ino"amongstthese,unlesshehaschansed 

'"13f;. iWithm drinhing.] Long live the good fortune of 
'fmS'lpany,- Long live, &c.] (Literally, Na ?.^, 

'^pl; wftlfom^'doubt that is my husband. [To the Serv^ 
My good man do me the favor to accompany me above to 
tlir><:p g-entlemen • I have some business. 

T™^ At your commands. [-4«rfc.] The old office of us 
waiters. \He goes out of the Gaming-H,nise.-i 

Ridohho. i-fo Victoria on omthrr part of the Stage.^ Coui- 
aue courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 
^Vicforia! I feel as^ if about to die. ^Leanmg on Mm as ,/ 

^"'"Tft'L the windows above all within <^re seen rising from 
table in confusion: Leander starts at the sight of Pl&t- 
zida, and appears by his gestures to threaten her life.] 

Eugenio. No, Stop 

Martio. Don't attempt ■ 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! _ ■,,,,, 

Pla Help' help! {Flics down the stairs, Leander attempt- 
ing to follow with his sword, Eugenic hinders him.-\ 

[Trapolo, with a plate of meat, leaps over the balcony from 
the window, and runs into the Coffee-House.j . 

[Platzida runs out of the Oammg-House, and takes shtlter in 

*[ Martio steals softly out of the Gaming-House, and goes off. 



exclaiming " Rumores fuge." The Servants from the Saming- 

House enter the Hotel, and shut the door.], t, ■ i i v, - 

rVictoria remains in the Coffee-House assisted by Kidolprio., 
[Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims, Give 

way— I will enter that Hotel.] . 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scounare) 

to your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop of ray 

^Leander. I will give you cause to repent this. iMenacing 
with his sword.] , , , , 

Eugenio. I fear you not. iHe attacks l.eAnaer, and makes 
him give back so much, that, finding the door of the dancing 
girl's house open, Leander escapes through, and so finishes.:] 



AIA'AOrOI OIKIAKOI. FAJVIILIAR DIALOGUES 



Ala •'a ^VTtjarig ci'a -Kpayfia. 
155 -n&i-HKaXw, idaiTi pt dv bpi- 

^£T£. • 

^IpiTl pt. 

AavtiatTi pt. 

UriyaivtTt va ere. 

T(bpa d'diis. 

■'il ixpifif pov Kipic, Kaperi pit 

avTtjv TijV XaCi-v-__ 
'Eyu) cdi Trapa/caXui. 
'Eyco cdi t^opKii,u). 
'Eyu o-as to Cvru iid X"?'"- 
'YTTOXptwo-fTf pt. El's Tbaov. 

Abyia ipiiiTiKti, rj aydirrji. 
Zo)>] fov. 

'AicpiS)? liOV ^vx'h 
'XyairrjTf pov, axpiGe pov. 
Kapiir^a fiov. 
'AyaTTt? pov. 

Ata va dx^P^'^'^ncVS, va Kafxrig 
■JTcpiTToiriaes, Kal ^tXixaij 6t- 
|l'oj(J-£{. 

'Eyii 0-05 dxap"''''^- 

Saj yvwpit,u) xaP'"- ^ 

Su{ £(/iiii iTrdxP^"? "'"''' "■"XXa. 

'Eyu ^iXw TO Kdpu litra. x"" 

?"^- - j- 

Mf bXi'iv /"i" T'l" Kapciav. 

Mt Kah'jv 1.10V Kapiiav. 

Xdi dpal VTidxpcoS. 

E7^ai oAo; i5iKos traj. 

E7uat ^oDXof oaf. 

Taneivdraros ioiiXos. 

EtcTS KuTa TToXXa siyevtKds. 
IloXXa iTctpd^taOc. 

To ex'^ ^'^ X^P''" Z*"" ''" '^"^ ^''' 

\e6o(j>. 
ETote EuyEVif Of fcai Eiin-poo-f/yopoj. 
Ai"o dvai irplirov. 
Tt SiXcTS ; Ti hpi^trt ; 



2,1; irapaKaXoi va fU fiiraxupi- 

tjt(j6e tXcvdipa. 
Xwpk mpnroiriiyei. 
25? iyoTru l^ oX)?S p-ov Kapiia;. 

Kal fyu 6f(oiu)j. 

Tiiir'iaeTE ixi toTj irpocayal; ca;. 

''Exert -iiroTts va lit Trpoara- 



To ask for any thing. 
I pray you, give me if yon 

please. 
Bring me. 
Lend me. 
Go to seek. 
Now directly. 
My dear Sir, do me this 

favor. 
I entreat you. 
I conjure you. 
I ask it of you as a favor 
Oblige me so much. 

Affectionate expressions. 
My life. 
My dear soul. 
My dear. 
My heart. 
My love. 

To thank, pay compliment)., 
and testify regards. 

1 thank you. 

I return you thanks. 

I am much obliged to you 

I will do it with pleasure. 

With all my heart. 

Most cordially. 

I am obliged to you. 

I am wholly yours. 

I am your servant. 

Your most humble ser- 
vant. 

You are too obliging. 

You take too much trou- 
ble. 

I have a pleasure in serving 
you. 

You are obliging and kind. 

That is right. 

What is your pleasure ? 

What are your commands ? 

I beg you will treat me 
freely. 

Without ceremony. 

I love you with all my 
heart. 

And I the same. 

Honor me with your com- 
mands. 

Have you any commards 
for me ? 



1 A'yo^ XaTivj^cof, SttoS Sf'XEi va tiirfl <l>t<)ye toT; ff*yx'«J- 
cf IZt bTter Tawa thau Youug W.ldmg. Goldnn.'s c> cd.es amouut 



,o fifty; some perhaps the best in Europe, and others the w°rsK His 

life is'also one of ti.e best specimens of ?"-°0'"?"P,^''j;-"/' ^f.^^*'"™" 

L'as Observed, " more .J-.-^J-.c tljan any^of ^J,-^?'"^-,,,, J^'^^'^.-f,,-?, ■ 

w.as selected .a^^^,"";'".'" ' „,.^,s ^jr.ce there is more done than said, the 
not for any wit ^h.ch it displays, s.r.ce^^uie^e ^^^^ ^^_^^^ .^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^ 

few" comedies by GoMoui which" is w.thout the buffoonery cf the fpeakiug 
Harlequin. 



APPENDIX. 



801 



npocTa^fre tov Sou^ov cas. 
tlpocjxivij Tof TTpoaayii; caS. 
yic Kd/ivsTe jxcyaXrjv rijxrjv. 
tddvuvv !) ncpiTToiriatS aas vapa- 

TlpoaKvyr'/creTC tK)J.ipov% ixov TOf 
apxoiTa, 7] Tov Kvpiov. 

BtSatuxTCTe tov ttuj tov ivQvjiov- 

ftai. 
BtSaidaCTe rhv kw; tov ayairia. 

Aiv 5fA(i) Xeii^si va Tuv to £iirui. 

TIpoaKwiifiaTa £i'j Trjv apx<ii'Ti<T- 

cav. 
HiyaivtTE ifiTTpoada Kai aas aKo- 

\ovdu>. 
'H^lipu) Koka TO XP^°i f""- 
'H^Etj'pw TO tlvai jXOV. 
Mi Kci^vcTZ I'd IvTpiTTfiifiai p.e 

Tali Tdaaiq <pi\o<ppoaivaii cai. 
QiXcTc AoiTToi/ va. Kdjoo piav 

ap^ti6Tr]Ta ; 
'YTrdyoi iixirpoaOd &ia va od; 

viTaKoia(j). 
Ala va Kdft(d t^}v npocTay^v aa;. 
Aev iyavH Tdaai; ntptTtoiricrts. 

Aiv elfiai aTcXclwi itcpivoir]Tt- 

KOS. 

Aird tivat TO KaXiTcpov. 

Tdaov TO KaXiTtpov. 

ExcTC \6yov, c.)(/.t& iixatov. 



Command your servant. 

I wait your commands. 

You do me great honor. 

Not so much ceremony, I 
beg. ' 

Present my respects to the 
gentleman, or his lord 
ship. 

Assure him of my remem- 
brance. 

Assure him of my friend- 
ship 

I will not fail to tell him 
of it. 

My compliments to her 
ladyship. 

Gobefore, and IwillfoUow 
you. 

I well know my duty. 

I know my situation. 

You confound me with so 
much civility. 

Would you have me then 
be guilty of an incivility ? 

I go before to obey you. 
[mand 

To comply with your com- 

I do not like so much cere- 
mony. 

I am not at all ceremoni- 
ous. 

This is better. 

So much the better. 

You are in the right. 



Ala va piSaiiiuns, va apvridtj!, va To affirm, deny, consent, ifC. 

avyKaTavcvofi;, Kal t|. 
Blvat aXt]8ivbv, clvai ahidisTa- It is true, it is very true. 

TOV. 

Atd vd ca; ti'rro) T>}V d\>']deiav 

"OvTuj, £TC,ri ch'ai. 

Dolo; aii(pi6d\\ci ; 

Aiv ilvai iroaSs u/j^i6oAia. 

Td TriaTcvu), 6cv to inaTevu). 



A/yo) TO vol. 

Aiyo) TO dx'- 

BaAAo) OTixnp-i on civat. 

BaAAo) aTix'ni'^''- iTi icv eivat 

tial, ltd Tfli» irtoTiv jiO'^. 

Et'j TYiv nvvdir]aiv po-i 

Ma Tjjv l^int'iv iiov. 

Nai, ads iyLviiis. 

2as Ajivioi iLadv TcpTiiiivos av- 

dpuTTo;, 
Tds ijivioi iirdvo) di tuv tijx^v 

pov. 
niaTcvacTS jjie. 
H/iffopui vd ads Tb jiiBaiuaiiJ. 
*H9f'Aa jSaA;- tsTixnpoi, OTi -Sf- 

A£T£ Bid TOVTO. 

M>) Tvxri Kai aaTul^taOe ixop^- 

TtitTc;) 
OjiiXciTc /<£ rd S\d aas ; 
Eyi) ads lijiiXOi iit rd bXa /xov, 

Kai ads Xiyoi Tf}v dXijOctav, 
Eyi) ads Tb PcSaiuvu). 
Td nrpo^TjTcvatTc. 
Tb iTriTiixi-TC. 
"Zds -riaTtiiii). 
rtpi-rei vd aas viaTtljaui. 
AirJ iev cjvai a&ovaTov. 
Tb Xoiwbv as dvai fie KaXl)v oipav. 
KaXa, «raAa'. 
Aiv tlvat dXtjSivbv. 
Eivai \pt'j6{s- 

Acv clvai rHoTCS airb avTO. 
Blvai iva xj,'tuios pia cntdTtj 



To tell you the truth. 
Really, it is so. 
Who doubts it ? 
There is no doubt. 
I believe it, I do not be- 
lieve it. 
I say yes. 
I say no. 
I wager it is. 
I wager it is not so. 

Yes, by my faith. 

In conscience. 

By my life. 

Yes, I swear it to you. 

I swear to you as an honest 
man. 

I swear to you on my hon- 
or. 

Believe me. 

I can assure you of it. 

I would lay what bet you 
please on this. 

You jest by chance. 

Do you speak seriously 1 
I speak seriously to you, 

and tell you the truth. 
I assure you of it. 
You have guessed it. 
You have hit upon it. 
I believe you. 
I must believe you. 
This is not impossible 
Then it is very well. 
Well, well. 
It is not true. 
It is false. 

There is nothing of this. 
It is a falsehood, an impos 

ture 



"Eyu darei^oiJiovv {IxopaTtva.) 

'Eyci TO tiTra i5id vd yiXdaii). 

Tfi dXr]9ti(f., 

Mf dpiaii KaTa TroXXd. 

SiiyicaTavEu'd) ds tovto. 

Ai&io Ti]V \p!j(pov fiov. 

Aiv dvTtaTiKoixai ds tovto. 

Ei'^iai avii6wvos, fV avn<j>dvov. 

'Eyii iiv diXui. 

'Eyd) IvavTiuivofiai tis tovto. 

Ala vd avpSovXcvdiis, vd cto- 

XaaQrjs, r) vd anzoipaaiaris. 
Ti wpiTTU vd Kaftwficv ; 
Ti Bd Kdiiiofiev ; 
Ti lii avfiSovXcvcTc vd Kap-J ; 

'O-olov TpS-rrov SiXopcv ptTa 

xttpia6n I'lpds ; 

'.ij Kajjuij-icv iTC,rj. 

Elvai KaXiTtpov iyi> vd 

2^a6I)T^ '^tyov. 

Aiv ijOeXcv chai KaXirepov vd 

'Eyu) dyavovTa KaXhcpa. 

BiXere xafin KaXlTC{>a av 

''KipfiatTi fxs. 

'Av fijiovv ds rbv rd-rrov aas 



lyo) 



El vai TO 'iSiov. 



I was in joke. 

I said it to laugh. 

Indeed. 

It pleases me much. 

I agree with you. 

I give my assent. 

I do not oppose this. 

I agree. 

I will not. 

I object to this. 

To consult, consider, oj re 

solve. 
What ought we to do t 
What shall we do ? 
What do you advise me tc 

do? 
What part shall we take ? 

Let us do this. 

It is better that I 

Wait a little. 

Would it not be bettei 

that 

I wish it were better. 

You will do better if 

Let me go. 

If I were in your place 

I 

It is the same. 



The reader by the specimens below loill be enabled to compare the 
modern with the ancient tongve. 

PARALLEL PASSAGES FROM ST. JOHiy'S 
GOSPEL. 



N/ov. 
Kc<pdX. a. 

1. 'EIS Ttiv dpx'l" VTov h 
X6yos' Ka\ h Xdyoj rjTOV jitrd 
Oiou' Kal Bibs ilTOV b Xoyos. 

2. ^EtOVTOS t'lTOV £IJ TIJV 

dpx!iv fjiCTd Gcov. 

3. "OXa [rd TToa'y/jaTu] iid 
fitaovTov \X6yov\ iyivr]Kav Kal 
Xwpif aiiTOV Siv eyivs Kavlva 
UTi cyive. 

4. E(j avrbv ^tov ^oii)' Kal 
(/ ^wfi riTOV rb (puis Toiv dvOpii- 

■KblV. 

5. Kai rb <pZs ds Tfjv aKo- 
rdav <piyy£i, Kal >i aKorda 
biv rb KardXaoE. 

6. "Eyivev 'ivas avdpiiiiros 
aTTCaTaXjihoS dirb tov Qtbv, 
TO ovojid TOV iDidvvris. 



AiQcvTiKdv, 
Kf^aX. (I. 

1. 'EN apxfi V" S XiJyof 
Kal b Xdyos ^v vpbs tov Qebv, 
Kal Qebs >jv b Xdyos. 

2. Ouroj rjv ev dpxv irpoj 
Tbv Qtiv. 

3. Ilui'ra a alrov eyivcTo' 
Kal X&ipis avTov iyiviTo ov&c 
ev, 8 yiyovev. 

4. 'Ev auri3 ^u?) ^i/, Kal 
{] ^oiri rjv TO <pws tUv avdpii' 
vwv. 

5. Kal fb ipSrs iv Tff aKO' 
Tia (paivti, Kal fi aKOTia aird 
oil KaTiXaBev. 

6. 'Ey/:'£ro avOpawos ave- 
aTaX/xivos irapd Btov, &vopa 
avrS 'loidvvris. 



THE INSCRIPTIONS AT ORCHOAIENUS FROM 
MELETIUS. 

'OPXOMENO^S, Koii'ii)S "^KpiTTov, Xl6Xts T-ori nXovaioi- 
Tarrj Kal iax'i'p'^TdTrj. -n-pircpov KaXoviJievrj BoiuiTiKai ^AOfjvai, 
ds Ttiv hitoiav ^rov h Nuof rail' Xapirwv, ciS rbv birolov ikXij- 
owvov riXr) o'l Qrifialoi, oirivos rb Hafos dveaKd<pOe irore viri 
Twv 'AaraXdyKuiv. 'ET7avr}yvpt(,ov tis ahrqv t>)v IIiJXiv ri 
"KapiTriaia, tov birolov ^Aydvos evpov iiriypnipds h aTrjXati 
eviov TOV KTiaOivTos NaoS £7r' 6v6iiaTi rfis QeoTbKov. vnb ro3 
TIpoiToaraOapiov A/ovroj, fTri tCjv BaaiXioiv BaatXdoJt, 
AiovTos, Kal KuvaTavrh'ov, ixovaas oSrwf. 'Ev ner t^ ittf 

KOlvioS. 

" OMe ivixiiiv Tbv oyCva riSv x'^P'TtjiriiMiv. 

" XaX-KiaTiis. 
"M^i'iS 'AiroXXuviou ^AvTioxcvs dnb MaidvSpov, 



101 



802 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



" Zwi'Xof ZiuiXou rio'cAiof. 

" Nou/ii/i'iof tiovfiriviov ' A.9t]ia7o{. 

'" TloirjTfii fVoii/. 
" '' A.fitjviai Ar/noK^^iuvi Qr/Saios. 

" Av\rjT>'/i. 
" 'AttoXXiJ^oto? 'AjtoXXouotou Kpl${. 

" AiiXa)(5(i?. 
"'P^^tiriroy 'Poi5i7rjroy 'Apyrjos. 

" Ki6apioT^j. 
"♦av/aj 'AiroXXo(5orou Tou <I>a>'fou AioXtuj aird KC/tiis, 

' Ariiti'iTpioi Unp^tiitTKot Ka^xvS^vto;. 

" 'f'pay(()6/5s'. 
" ' liTJTOKpdTris 'AptdTopfvo'JS 'PdSlos. 

" Ka)fia)i5(ij. 
" KaXXiVrpuToj 'Efn/cfarou Gijfiaioj 
■' noi);Ti;5 yiarvpuv. 
Aprjviai AripoK^iov; Qrfialos. 

'■ 'YTTOKpirfli. 

" AuipdOeos A(i)podeou TapavTivds. 

" Iloif/r/;; Tpay(i)5iuv. 
" Xo^okX^j Yo-liOKXcovi ' A6>;vatos. ■— 

'■ 'Yffoifpir/;?. 
" yi-aUpix^i Bco^iipov 6rj6aios. 

'" noirjTiii KiapujSiSv. 
" 'A^ifai'Spog 'ApiVroji'of 'AOiyvaToj. 

" 'Y7ro(fp(r/5;. 
" 'ArraXoj 'AttoXov 'AOiji'aioj. 

" 0"^£ Iv'iKuiv Tov rijfirjTov aydpa tCv biioSiiuv. 

" n«?l5u{ QLlXT/ffTaJ. 

" AlO(cX;)s KuXX(/ii;(5ot) e^6u?oj. 

" nuTcJaf t'lycpdvai. 
" D'parii'Oj Eiii'ficou 0r;Su?of. 

■■ "Ai'^pa? AuXijraj. 
Alo/fX^f KuXX(;i^(5ou GEfiaiof. 

'■ "Ai'^pws I'lytpdvas. 
" 'F66tTn!Oi 'PuiiKnov 'Apycios. 

'• Tp^iywios. 
" 'iTrroKparris 'Aptaropivovs 'Fdito;. 

" K(jipw&6<;. 
" KaXXiVrparoj 'Efuicforou Gi;6afOf. 

■■ Tu fTiii'ffia. 

" 'AXffai'^poj 'ApioTiuvoj 'AQ^vaioj." 

" 'Ev ^f Tfj (Tcpa SoipiKwl. 

" Mvaaivd) ap^ovTo; aymvoOsTioiTo; rdv 

" XapiTeiaiov, evapidarui !^«'^ruv ot ruiJfi ivixiatui tt 

" xap"""'''ia. 

" S«X7riy<craf. 

" ^IXlVOS 'ttXl'l'd) 'A^JVtlOf. 

Ka'pouij. 
"Eipii^nj 'ZwKpnTios OciScios. 

" IIuciTaf. 
" M)}oTup M;;f-opi); ifwicaisuf. 

"Kparuiv KXi'wvof 6£i6ciof. 

" AvXtiraf. 
"Utpiyevtif 'UpaKXciSao Kov^iKrjv6s. 

"■ AiiXa£D(5(S5. 
" AapijviTos VXavKii) "Apyio;. 

" Ki6api<Traf. 
" AdftaTpo; 'ApaXdoj AioXcv; and Moupfvoj. 

'■ TpayatvSdi. 
A<7/cXawi(55(ijpo5 Iloufftrt'o Tapovnvi5f. 

" Kwpacvidi. 
" NiKdarpaTos inXoarpaTu) QtiStio;. 

Eiiap;;^;os 'Hpooorw Kopurc^J." 
'Ev a'XX({) Ai'Sm. 
' Mupi;^of IIoXuKparoi); 'lapui'upof Sioytrtjivoi avSpiaat %"' 
paysiaiivTcg viKdaavng hioiiaov aviOrjKav Tipuvos apxovTOi 
' avKiovTo'; kX('os aiovTog dXKiadivios" 
'Er ITlOh) Al9q). 

" Suvnp^^o) <ip;^o;/TOf, fisivos ^ei\ov9t<i), apxi oiy EiJSw- 

" Xi apx£i<i><ai (puiKCia og i-aiSiiiKa diro tus covyypa(pu 



' -nioa yHiv voXepdpxoiv, ktj twv KaroitTdtav. dvtXdptvc; rdi 
' aovyypacpus rag Kifievai Tap tvtppdpa, Kri (piiiav kI) naci- 
' fX£(v Ki) Tipdpeiiov (poiKcias. Kfj SaporcXsTv Xvm&d- 

pw, Kri ciovvaov /ca0iffO(5uu) X'JP"*'^''' tar to ^l-a(j>iap.a tH 

idpiw. 



' Swapxtu apxovTos, pctvo; d\a\Koptviui P afvCiv j7oX«/cXetO{ 
Tapiai aniiuiKt cvSwXv dpx^idpu (piDKtt'i dnb ra; trovyypa- 
(pa TO KaraXiiTov Kar to ^l^dipiapa Tm idpii), dt/tXdptvus Td{ 
aovyypa<pOti ra; Kijitvag -nap atiipiXov, k!) ivfpova (f>(i>Kias. 
Ki) Trap (iiitjviiJiov KacptaoSuipto x^/puvfa, k>i Xvaiiapov Sapio- 
TiXio; TTtSa Tuv TtoXcpdpx^^v , ti) Ttov KaToiTTdu:^. 



' 'Ap^ovTo; IV ipxopcxG Suvapxo), peibg 'AXaXKopcito), fv Si 
p iXariri Mfi'oi'rao 'ApxtXdo) p-tivos Trparu. 'OpoXoya 

" Ei'fiuiXu /^ fXoTi'iy, b Kri tt) -rrdXi ipxbj>-tviwv. 'Ettei']/) KtKo- 
liicTj] EiJCuXos Trap rljg irdXtos ri idt>ciov airav kot rdi 
bpoXoyia'; Tii; TiBiaag Svvdpxij} dpxovTog, petvog &eiXov6i(i), 

" Kri ovT 6<p€tXiTti airti cti ovdiv nap Tuv ndXiv, aXX' djrixt 
irdvTa Tipl TavToi, Kri d-noitoiavbi Ttj tt&Xi to Jx'^''"£S ^^i 
bpoXoyiai, ci jiiv ttoti Sciopivov XP"''0>' EiJfiwXii in] vopiai 
/- £Tt diTiTTapa Povccci oohv 'iirrrvg iia Karirig J^i kuti 
:rpo6dTvg aoiiv rjyv; X£'^"7S apx'i tw xP'ii'w 6 iviavrog b psrd 
biivapxov upx">'Ta fpj^optiiDj dnuypaipeadri ie Eii'fjuXov 
*CQr' hiaVTov 'iKaoTov Trap TOf Tapinv Kri tov rSpuv uv Tare 
KadpaTa tuv vpoGdrw-j, ki) tZv fiydv, Ki) tuv fiovuv, Ktj 
TUV 'imrvv. xi) Kariva daapaiuv SiKri to irXeWog pd ano- 
ypntpcao uSc irXiova tuv ytypappivuv iv Ttj covyvuptiai 
' 17 iiKaTig >7 to ividpiov EijBuXov (i(pt.iXit 

"Aif TUV ipxopcviuv dpyovpiu rCTTapaKovra 

' EuSuXu kuO' 'iKaaTov hnavTov, Kn t6kov (piphu ipaxpaf 
Tag pvag iKdcTag kotu pttva tov Kri eft 

" TpaKTog EOTu) TOV ipxopfvwv Ka\ tu fi^rjg." 

'El/ a'AXoij hiQoig. 

" Avottipa avv(popov xa'ipc." NOKYES. " KaXXiniTov ip- 
^dpixot Kal dXXai.'^ 'Ev ohbtpia E-iypacprj Mov rii^ov, i| 
nveijpa, a ic fiptls i)Ttoypd<{>optv, ol naXaiol iTpoaiypa(p3v. 
Kat Ta Ij^ns" 



The following is the Prospectus of a translation of Ana- 
charsis into Romaic, by my Romaic master, Marmarotouri, 
who wished to publish it in England. 

EiAH'sis TrnorPA.nKH\ 

npof Tovg iv <piXoyevt7s Kat (pt\iX\)]vas. 

"0201 £15 PiSXla -KavToband ivTpv(puaiv, ii^cvpovv rScov 
cJvai TO ^p^mpuv Trig 'laropiug, Si' avrriS yap i^evpiaKiTal r) 
nXfov pepaKpvcrpivr] iraXaidTrig, Kal dcupovvTai ug iv KaTdiiTpip 
fidri, irpd^eig Kui dioiKijactg iroXXuv Kal'Sintpdpuv Edvuv Kat 
Vcvuv uv Tiiv pvrjprjv iiccuaaTo Kat itaauaet >) 'loTopiKi) 
A'trjyrjcng tig aiuva tov anavra, 

Mi'a TCTOta 'ETTitrTt^prj cTvat cvnirSKTriTog, Kat iv raurip 
ufiXtpr;. jj KpuTTOv ciTreiv avayKaia' StaT. Xotniv riptlg pdvoi 
va Ti]v vaTcpovpcOa, pq ii^tvpovTtg oiirt Tag dpx<ii ™>' Tlpo- 
ydvuv pag, -KoQtv itutc kch nug ivpiBriaav dg Tag XlaTpiiag 
pag, OVTS Tu iiOrj. tu KaTopBupaTa Kal tiiv itoUriaiv tuv ; "Av 
tpuTijaupcv Toiig 'AXXoycvug, ri^cvpovv vd pag iuffovv oxip6- 
vov ioToptKug Triv dpx'iv Kai Trjv npdudov tuv npoydiuv png, 
dXXd Kat TonoypaipiKug pag Sdx^'ovv Tag Scattg tuv naTpiiuv 
pag, Kat otovd xi^'payuyot ytvdpcvot p) Toig yeuypa(piKovg tUv 
HivaKag, pag Xiyovv, iiu clvni at 'AOfjvat, f(5ui i; UTrdprri, ixei 
at QnSat, Tdcra OTdSia Ij piXia u;r/x£' '/ f"'« 'ETTMpx'a dnb Trjv 
dXXrjv, TovTog oiKoiopriat Trjv piav ndXtv. iKuvog tiiv dXXrjy 
Kal T^. Tlpoairt av ipuTijdupcv uvToiig Tovg pii 'EXX>]vag x^l- 
payuyovg pag, ndOtv inapaKtvt'iOriaav vd i^iptvvficrovv apx^i 
t6<tov naXatdg, dvvnocTdXug pag dnoKpivovrat pf avrcvg Tois 
Xdyovg. " KaOug b ck TKvdiag 'Avdxapatg, dv Siv inepdpxtTO 
" Ta iravcv(pp6a\iva iKtiva KXtuara r^s 'EAAdiJoy, av Ov 



APPENDIX. 



803 



'' ifiipopclTo Ta dftwfiara, rd fjOrj Kai Tovs NiJ^ou? tZv 'EXXiJ- 
" ywv. ijdcXc ijcivfl "ZKidrji Kai to ovofia Kai ro xpayjia' ovtu) 
" Kai b I'jiiirtflos 'larpb;, av iiv f/jdfdavE rd Toti 'iTTiroKp/XTOVS, 
" isv iivvaro vd rrpox<^P>i<^!l £'J '■'/" rix^'V '"oP- "Av b cv 
" fiiilv JiofioBtTri; ill/ i^iTa'^c rd rov SrfAwi'Oj. AvKoipyov, Kat 
" YliTTOKOv, Sev iSvvaTO vd pvdnfiar] Kai vd KaXtcpyija;] rd 
'^ rjOr) tCii/ ' O fioytvijiv toV av b 'fijTwp 5fv d-izrjvBi^CTO rd; 
" iv(ppii66tas Kai tou; xapiei'TKr^c'jf rov i^rifioadivovq, iev 
" ivspyuvatv £IS Tuf ij.vxdi rdv aKpoarCiv rov. "Av b N/oj 
" 'Aidxcpati, b Kvptoi 'AfiSa? BapSoAo/iQios iev dvtyivijiCKC 
" n'l j.i.tyd\riv iinnov'qv Ka\ uKii^iv roii? tt'Siov lyKpiTov; avyypa- 
" (pug Ta)i''EAX^j'aii'. i^cpsvvuiv auroO? Kard fidOos f rri rpuiKovTa 
" ivu) err;, iiv ijOcXcv f^odai,') touti/v Tr/v Trepl 'E\)^>ivo)v 
'"'laropiav tov, rirts Tlcpirjyrjaii rov Nf'ou 'A.vaxdp(TCuii trap' 
" airov vpocruvopdaOr). Kai cis b\af rdi Eipiarra'iKdi AioXffC- 
" tov; pcTcyXiiiTTiadt]." Kui cv ivi Xrfyw, oi Ntoirtpoi, dv 
iev iiTCpvav iia birjyovg Toii; Vlpoydiov; fjag, rj9e\av tcra>; wepi- 
(pfpitivTai paTalug I'lXP' '''"^ ^"^^ Aira iiv eivai Adyia 
ivOovaiaapivnv itd to (ptXoycvii TpaiKou, uvai ie <p XaX/jflouf 
Vtpjtavov, ooTif f^ieTd<ppaae tov Nfov 'A.vdxapcriv iiro tou 
VaWiKoiJ £i'j TO VcpnaviKov. 

'Av Xoi-bv Kai fifiug SiXafiev vd fieSl^iafiev Trig y .o-£(i)j 
tSiv Xa/iTTpoiv KaTopBuynaTijiv inov eKajjiav oi ^avpaCToi IKelvoi 
TIpoT-nTopcs '|^l(il'. dv iitSvudijiev vd jxadiaixev Triv Trpdoiov Kai 
av^r/civ Tii)v ciV Tdg Tf'-\i'a5 Kai ^EmcTi'/pag Kai (l; Kade a'AXo 
tioog fiadr'/aeo);, dv e)(^ujfiev itepiipyeiav vd yvtiipiawyiev irddtv 
KaTaydiieda, Kai bvoiuvg ^avpnaTovg Kai peydXovg dvipag, ei 
Kai irpoydiovs I'lpdv, (iev, lijieii iev yviapi^oijev. eig Kaipbv iffoC 
01 'A\Xoyeve7g SavixdC,nvaiv avTovg, Kai log -KUTtpag iravToia- 
covv ftaBrjaeiag aiSovrai, a; ovvipdjiii}p.ev dvavTtg 7rpo66/Ji<){ 
<!h Ti)v eKioaiv tov Savpaaiov rovrov avyypdfijxaTog tuu N/ou 
^Avaxdpotiijg. 

'Ufietg ovv ol viroyeypapnivoi SiXopcv iKTeXeaei Trpodvijwg 
Triv fieTd(ppa(!iv tou BtSXiovue riiv KaTu to ivvoTov !iinv 
KaXijV ippdaiv ri?; vuv Kad' !ipag bfttXiag. Kai iKiovTeg tovto 
eig TVTTov, SeXo/iev rd /caXAwriVti fte Toiis TetoypacpiKuig Tliva- 
Kag ixe dirXag 'FwfiaiKdg Xi^eig iyKex'^paypfvovg etg eiiKapag 
YpdjipaTa. TipooTidivTeg oti dXXo ■^pfiaipov Kai apftdiiov eig 
Ti]v 'laTopiav. 

'GXov to ciiyypafifta SiXci yivti eig TS/xovg iiiieKa KaTd 
jtifiijaiv Trig 'iTuXiKrig eKioireujg. 'H Ttpij bXov tov Tvyypdp- 
jiaTog elvai ipioplvia iexai^t] Trig Bi/i'i'i;; ^lu Ti)v TpocOfjKrjv 
tUv yeii)ypa(piK(7)v -KivaKuiv. 'O (piXoyevi'ig ovv Twipo/iriTtig 
Trpiirei vd r.Xrip'hari eig Kade Tdjiuv (ptopivi eva Kai KapavTavia 
eiKnai rijf Bievvrig, Kai tovto X'^P'S Kajijiiav irpdiociv, aX\' 
evdiig Sttou ^tXei tm TcapaioQrj b Td/<os rvTcuipivog Kai iepivog. 

'Epfju)fiivoi Kat eviaijioveg iiaStdoiTe 'EXXiivoiv naiits. 
Trjs IpeTepag dydirrig l^'ipTrjpivoi. 

'ludvvcg NapiiapoTovptjg. 

AriprJTptug Jievieprig. 

Ywpiiijiv UpeStTog. 
'Ev Tpiearlix), Tfj jrpwrr/ 'OKTujBpiov, 1799. 



THE LORD'S PRAYER IN ROMAIC. 

il nATE'PAMAS b ttov eiaai etg Tovg ovpavovg, Sg dyi- 
acOfj TO ovopd (TOV. "Aj eXOp i; fiaaiXeia cov. 'Aj yivij to 
&(Xijjid (TOU, KaOiSig eig tov Ohpavov. cr^ij Kai eig Trjv yfiv. Tb 
x^uiji/iag to KaOripeptvbv, iog /^n; rd crtjpepov. Kai ak-y\hipr]ai 
pag Ta Xpi'>l"'^7 KaOUg Kai ipcig irvy^ijipovpcv Tovg KpeoipetXc- 
Tag ftag. Kai jxi]v pdg ^foetg veipaafiov, aXXd IXevBipiaai jiag 
OTTO TOV -novTjpov. 'Oti iSiK/j aov eJvat f; PaatXeia ii, ^ ivva- 
plg, Kai f) id^a, eig Tovg alCjvag. 'Aptjv. 

IN GREEK. 

rtA'TEP I'liiiov b ev To'ig ovpavoig, dytaaOi'/Toi to Hvoixd aov. 
'EAOfVoj !] [iaatXeia aov' yevriBiJTtj) rb SeXrjiid aov. uig ev ovpavio, 
Kai iiri Trjg yr/g. Tov doTOv i')/i(3y Tbv iiTiovatov ibg f/piv cfjue- 
pov. K((( d(peg fi/Jiiv Td 6(f)etXr']i_iaTa I'litdv, uig Kai^peig d(piepev 
TaTj itpeiXitaig SifiMV. Kill fii] iianiyKrig (inds ilg Tretpaanbv, 
dXAiJ livaai fipidg onrb tov Trovr/pov. "On aoij lariv fj [iaatXeia, 
Kai i ivvaiiig, Kai i} id^a eig Toig aii^vag. 'Anijv. 



DON JUAN. 



Note [A.]- 



-Letter to the Editor of " My Gkand- 
motiier's Review."' 

[See "Testimonies of Authors," ante, p. 591.] 

My Dear Roberts, 

As a believer in the church of England — to say nothirg 
of the State — I have been an occasional reader and great 
admirer of, though not a subscriber to, your Review, which 
is rather expensive. But I do not know that any part of its 
contents ever gave me much surprise till the eleventli article 
of your twenty-seventh number made its appearance. You 
have there most vigorously refuted a cali'iinious accusation 
of bribery and corruption, the credence of v '.-ch in the public 
mind might not only have damaged yoi.i imputation as a 
clergyman'2 and an editor, but, what would have been .sti]'. 
worse, have injured the circulation of your journal ; which, 
I regret to hear, is not so extensive as the " purity" (as you 
well observe) " of its, &c., &c.," and the present taste for . 
propriety, would induce us to expect. The charge itself is 
of a solemn nature, and, although in verse, is couched in 
terms of such circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief 
little short of that generally accorded to the tbirty-niiie arti- 
cles, to which you so frankly subscribed on taking your de- 
grees. It is a charge the most revolting to the heart (. man 
from its frequent occurrence ; to the mind of a statesman, 
from its occasional truth ; and to the soul of an editor, from 
its moral impossibility. You are charged, then, in the last 
line of one octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the 
next, viz. 209th and 2I0lh of the first canto of that " pestilent 
poem" Don Juan, with receiving, and still more foolishly 
acknowledging the receipt of, certain moneys, to eulogize 
the unknown author, who, by this account, must be known 
to you, if to nobody else. An impeachment of this nature 
so seriously made, there is but one way of refuting ; and it 
is my firm persuasion, that whether you did or did not (and 
/ believe that you did not) receive the said moneys, of which 
I wish that he had specified the sum, you are quite right in 
denying all knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this 
nefarious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the 
solemnity of circumstance, and guarantied by the veracity 
of verse, (as Counsellor Phillips' would say,) what is to 
become of readers hitherto implicitly confident in the not 
less veracious prose of our critical journals ? what is to be- 
come of the reviews ? And, if the reviews fail, what is 
to become of the editors ? It is common cause, and you 
have done well to sound the alarm. I myself, in my humble 
sphere, will be one of your echoes. In the words of the 
tragedian, Liston, " I love a row," and you seem justly de- 
termined to make one. 

It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the writer 
might have been in jest ; but tliis only aggravates his crime. 
A joke, the proverb says, " breaks no bones ;" but it may 
break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of bones being 
broken. The jest is but a bad one at the best for the author, 
and might have been a still worse one for you, if your co- 
pious contradiction did not certify to all whom it may con- 
cern your own indignant innocence, and the immaculate 
purity of the British Review. I do not doubt your word, 
my dear Roberts ; yet I cannot help wishing that, in a case 
of such vital importance, it had assumed the more substan- 
tial shape of an aflidavit sworn before the Lord Mayor 
Atkins, who readily receives any deposition ; and doubti'fess 
would have brought it in some way as evidence of the de- 
signs of the Reformers to set fire to London, at the same 
time that he himself meditates the same good office towards 
the river Thames. 

I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these ob- 
servations of mine in good part : the'- are written in a spirit 
of friendship not less pure than your own editorial integrity. 



I ["Bolojna, Aug-. 23, 1819. 1 send you a letter to Roberts, sig-n?a 
• Wortlev Clullerbuck,' which you may puldlsh iiV what form you pleise, 
in answer to his article. I have liad manv proofs of msn's absjnliiy, but 
he beats all in folly. Why, the wolf in sheep's clothing has tunnblea into 
the very trap I" — Lord Byron to Mr. Murrajj,] 

a [Mr. Roberts is not, as Lord Bvrori seems to have supposed, a clergy- 
man, but a barrister at law. In 17S2, he esiabhshed a paper ca;leJ " Tho 
Looker-on," which has since been admitted into the collection of Briiisli 
Essayisis ; and he is known, in h.s profession, for a treatise on the La'v of 
Fraudulent Bankruptcy, in 1S34, he also published the Memoirs of Hannah 
More.) 

3 [Charles Phillips, Barrister, was in Ihose days celebrated for t^llra-iruh 
eloquence. See the Edmburgh Review, No. Ivu. J 



804 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I have always admired you ; and, not knowing any shape 
wliich friendsliip and admiration can assume more agreea- 
ble and useful than that of good advice, I sliall continue my 
lucubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory hint as 
to what I conceive to be the line you should pursue in case 
you should ever again be assailed with bribes, or accused 
ol taking them. By the way, you don't say much about the 
poem, except that it is " flagitious." This is a pity — you 
should have cut it up ; because, to say the truth, in not doing 
so, you somewhat assist any notions which tlie malignan* 
might entertain on the score of the anonymous assevera- 
tion which has made you so angry. 

You say no bookseller " was willing to take upon himself 
the publication, though most of them disgrace themselves 
oy selling it." Now, my dear friend, though we all know 
that those fellows will do any thing for money, methinks 
the disgrace is more with the purchasers: and some such, 
doubtless, there are ; for there can be no very extensive 
selling (as you will perceive by that of the British Review) 
wu.iout buying. You then add, " What can the critic 
say?" I am sure I don't know; at present he says very 
little, and that not much to the purpose. Then comes 
'' for praise as far as regards the ■poetry, many passages 
might be exhibited : for condemnation, as far as regards 
the morality, alt." Now, my dear good Mr. Roberts, I feel 
for you, and for your reputation : my heart bleeds for both ; 
and" I do ask you, whetlier or not such language does not 
come po.sitively under the description of " the puff collu- 
sive," for which see Sheridan's farce of " The Critic," (by 
t.he way, a little more facetious than your own farce under 
the same title,) towards the close of scene second, act the 
first. 

The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord Byron ; 
but you feel yourself " at liberty to suppose it not Lord B.'s 
composition." Why did you ever suppose that it was ? I 
approve of your indignation— I applaud it— I feel as angry 
as you can ; but pevhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a 
little too far, when you say that " no misdemeanor, not 
even that of sending into the world obscene and blasphe- 
mous poetry, the product of studious lewdness and labored 
impiety, appears to you in so detestable a liglit as the ac- 
ceptance of a present by the editor of a review, as the con- 
dition of praising an author." The devil it doesn't I— 
Think a little. This is being critical overmuch. In point 
of Gentile benevolence or Christian charity, it were surely 
less criminal to praise for a bribe, than to abuse a fellow- 
creature for nothing; and as to the assertion of the com- 
parative innocence ol blasphemy and obscenity, confronted 
with an editor's " acceptance of a present," I shall merely 
observe, that as an Editor you say very well, but, as a 
Christian divine, I would not recommend you to transpose 
this sentence into a 3?rmon. 

And yet you say, the miserable man, (for miserable he 
is, as having a soul of wnich he cannot get rid.")— But here 
I must pause again, and inquire what is the meanmg of this 
parenthesis? We have heard of "little soul," or of "no 
soul at all," but never till now of " the misery of having a 
soul of which we cannot get rid ;" a misery under which 
you are possibly no great sufferer, having got rid apparent- 
ly of some of the intellectual part of your own when you 
penned this pretty piece of eloquence. 

But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always sup- 
posing him not the author, to disclaim " with all gentle- 
manly haste," &c. &c. I am told that Lord B. is in a 
foreign country, some thousand miles off it may be ; so that 
it will be difficult for him to hurry to your wishes. In the 
mean time, perhaps you yourself have set an example of 
more haste than gertili bat " the more haste the worse 
speed." 

Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts, 
which appears to me to be in some degree not quite ex- 
plicitly worded: 

" I bribed my Grandmother's Review, the British." 

I recollect hearing, soon after the publication, this subject 
discussed at the tea-table of Mr. Sotheby the poet, who ex- 
pressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised that 
you had never reviewed his epic poem of " Saul," nor any 
of his six tragedies ; of which, in one instance, the bad 
taste of the pit, and, in all the rest, the barbarous re- 
pugnance of the pyncipal actors, prevented the performance. 
Mrs. and the Misses S. being in a corner of the room, peru- 
sing the proof sheets of Mr. S.'s poem in Italy, or on Italy, 
as he says, (I wish, by the by, Mrs. S. would make the tea 
a little str< nger,) the male part of the conversazione were at 
liberty to niake a few observations on the poem and pas- 



1 [" Whether it oe Uie British Crilic, or the British Review, against 
wbii;h the noble lord prefers so grsLve a charge, or rather so facetious an 
accusation, we are at a loss to (letermiae. The latter has thoug-ht it worth 



sage in question : and there was a difTerence of opinion. 
Some thought the allusion was to the " British Critic ;"" 
others, that by the expression, " My Grandmother's Re- 
view," it was intimated that " my grandmotner" was not 
the reader of the review, but actually the writer : thereby 
insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you were an old woman'i 
because, as people often say, " Jeffrey's Review," " Giflbrd's 
Review," in lieu of Edinburgh and Quarterly; so "my 
Grandmother's Review" and Roberts's might be almost 
syno".ymo :s. Now, whatever color this insinuation might 
derive from the circumstance of your wearing a gown, as 
well as from your time of life, your general style, and 
various passages of your writings,— I will take upon myself 
to exculpate you from all suspicion of the kind, and as'seit, 
without calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if ever you 
should be chosen Pope, you will pass through all the pre- 
vious ceremonies with as much credit as any pontiff since 
the parturition of Joan. It is very unfair to judge of sex 
from writings, particularly from those of the Britisli Reviev 
We are all liable to be deceived ; and it u an indisputable 
fact, that many of the best articles in your iournal, which 
were attributed to a veteran female, were i>c. nally written 
by you yourself ; and yet \^ this day vi.ere ai j people who 
could never find out the diilerence. But let us return to 
the more immediate question. 

I agree with von, that it is impossible Lord Byron should 
be the author, not only because, as a British peer and a 
British poet, it would be impracticable for him to have 
recourse to such facetious fiction, but for some other 
reasons which you have omitted to state. In the first 
place, his Lordship has no grandmother. Now, the author 
— and we may believe him in this — doth expressly state 
that the "British" is his " Grandmother's Review ;" and if, 
as I think I have distinctly proved, this was not a mere 
figurative allusion to your supposed intellectual age and 
sex, my dear friend, it follows, whether you be she or no, 
that there is such an elderly iady still extant. And I can 
the more readily credit this, having a sexagenary aunt of 
my own, who perused you constantly, till unfortunately 
falling asleep over the leading article of your last number, 
her spectacles fell off ana ware broken against the fender, 
after a faithful service of fifteen years, and slie has never 
been able to fit her eyes since ; so that 1 have been forced 
to read you aloud to her ; and this is in fact the way 
in which I became acquainted with the subject of my 
present letter, and thus determined to become your public 
correspondent. 

In the next place. Lord B.'s destiny seems in some sort 
like that of Hercules of old, who became the author of all 
unappropriated prodigies. Lord B. has been supposed the 
autlior of the " Vampire," ot a " Pilgrimage to Jerusalem," 
" To the Dead Sea," of " Death upon the Pale Horse," of 
odes to " La Valette," to " Saint Helena," to the " Land of 
the Gaul," and to a sucking child. Now, he turned out tc 
have written none of these tilings. Besides, you say he 
knows in what a spirit of, &c. you criticise : — Are you sure 
he knows all this ? that he has read you like my poor dear 
aunt? They tell me he is a queer sort of a man; and I 
would not be too sure, if I were you, either of what h has 
read or of what he has written. I thought his style i.-id 
been the serious and terrible. As to his sending you money, 
this is the first time that ever I heard of his paying his re- 
viewers in that coin ; I thought it was rather in their own, to 
jiidge from some of his earlier productions. Besides, though 
he may not be profuse in his expenditure, I should con- 
jecture' that his reviewer's bill is not so long as his tailor's. 

Shall I give you what I think a prudent opinion? I don't 
mean to insinuate, God forbid ! but if, by any accident, there 
should have oeen such a correspondence between you and 
the unknown author, whoever he may be, send him back 
his money : I dare say he will be very glad to have it again ; 
it can't be much, considering the value of the article and 
the circulation of the journal ; and you are too modest to 
rate your praise beyond its real worth.— Don't be angry,— 
I know you won't, — at this appraisement of your powers of 
eulogy ; for on the other hand, my dear friend, depend upon 
it your abuse is worth, not its own weight, — that's a feather, 
—but your weight in gold. So don't spare it : if he has bar- 
gained for that, give it handsomely, and depend upon your 
doing him a friendly office. 

But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as I said be- 
fore, I cannot believe, in tlie first instance, that you would 
receive a bribe to praise any person whatever ; and still less 
can I believe that your praise could ever produce such an 
offer. You are a good creature, my dear Roberts, and a 
clever fellow ; else I could almost suspect that you had 
fallen into the very trap set for you in verse by this anony- 



its while, in a public paper, to make a serious reply. As wc are not sn 
seriously inclined, we shall leave our share of this accuss'.ion '.o :,s fate."— 
Bril. Critic.] 



APPENDIX 



805 



mons wag, who will certainly be hut too nappy to see you 
saving him the trouble of making you ridiculous. The fact 
is, that the solemnity of your eleventli article does make 
you look a little more absurd than you ever yet looked, in 
all probability, and at the same time does no good ; for if 
anybody believed before in the octave stanzas, they will 
aelieve still, and you will find it not less difficult to prove 
your negative, than the learned Partridge found it to de- 
monstrate his not being dead, to the satisfaction of the read- 
erfe of almanacs. 

What tlie motives of this writer may have been for (as 
70U magnificently translate his quizzing you) " stating, with 
the particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery of a 
groundless fiction," (do pray, my dear R., talk a little less 
" in King Cambyses' vein,") I cannot pretend to say ; per- 
haps to laugh at you, but that is no reason for your benevo- 
lently making all the world laugh also. 1 approve of your 
being angry ; I tell you I am angry too ; but you should not 
have shown it so outrageously. Your solemn " tj somebody 
personating the Editor of the, &c. &c. has received from 
Lord B., or from any other person," reminds me of Charley 
Incledon's usual exordium when people came into the tav- 
ern to hear him sing without paying their share of the reck- 
oning— "if a maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun," &c. 
iScc. ; you have both the same redundant eloquence. But 
why should you think anybody would personate you 1 
Nnjiody would dream of such a prank who ever read your 
compositions, and perhaps not many who have heard your 
conversiition. But I have been inoculated with a little of 
your prolixity. The fact is, my dear Roberts, that some- 
body has tried to make a fool of you, and what he did not 
succeed in doing, you have done for hiin and for yourself. 

With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom I 
cannot find out, (can you ?) I have nothing to say ; my 
business is with you. I am sure that you vvili, upon second 
thoughts, be really obliged to me for the intention of this 
letter, however far short my expressions may have fallen 
of the sincere good-will, admiration, and thorough esteem, 
with which I am ever, my dear Roberts, 
Most truly yours, 

WORTLEY ClUTTERBUCK 



p. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post is going. 
1 forget whether or not I asked you the meaning of your 
last words, " the forgery of a groundless fiction." Now, as 
all forgery is fiction, and all fiction a kind of forgery, is not 
this tautological ? The sentence would have ended more 
strongly with " forgery ;" only, it hath an awful Bank of 
England sound, and would have ended like an indictment, 
besides sparing you several words, and conferring some 
meaning upon the remainder. But this is mere verbal 
j'-iticisHi. Good-by — once more, yours truly, 

W. C. 

P S. 2d. — Is it true that the Saints make up the loss of 
the Review ? — It is very handsome in them to be at so 
great an expense. Twice more, yours, 

W. C. 



Note [B.] — Some Observations upon an Article 
IN Blackwood's Magazien, No. XXIX., August, 
1819. 

" Wliy, how now, Hecate ? you look a.:gri!y." — Macbeth. 
[See " Testimonies of Authors," No. XVII. ante, p. 591. J 



J. D'ISRAELI, ESQ. 

THE AMIABLE AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF 

' THE calamities" AND " QUARRELS OF AUTHORS ; 

THIS ADDITIONAL QUARREL AND CALAMITY 

IS INSCRIBED BY 

ONE OF THE NUMBER. 



R.ivenna, March 15, 1880. 

• The life of a writer" has been said, by Pope, I believe, 
to oe " a warfare upon earth." As far as my own experience 



l [In Sheridan's comedy of •' The Rivals."] 

-J [Sec Blackwood, vol. iii. p. 329. LorJ B., as it appears from one of 
hU letters, ascribeil (though unjustly^ this paper to the Rev. Dr. Chalmers!] 

3 r'*As the passage was curtailed ii». the press, I take this opportunity of 
lObToring it. In the Q,uarteriy lleview, (vol. xxi. p. 366,) speaking inci- 



has gone, I have nothing to say against the proposition, 
and, like the rest, having once plunged into this state of 
hostility, must, however reluctantly, carry it on. Ar. article 
has appeared in a periodical work, entitled " Remarks on 
Don Juan," which has been so full of this spirit, on the part 
of the writer, as to require some observations on mine. 

In the first place, I am not aware by what right the wri- 
ter assumes this work, which is anonynnous, to" be my pro- 
duction. He will answer, that there is in.ernal evidence ; 
that is to say, that there are passages which appear to be 
written in niy name, or in my manner. But might not this 
have been done on purpose by another 1 He will say, why 
not then deny it? To this I could answer, that of all the 
things attributed to me within the last five years,— Pilgrim- 
ages to Jerusalem, Deaths upon Pale Horses, Odes to the 
Land of the Gaul, Adieus to England, Songs to Madame 
La Valette, Odes to St. Helena, Vampires, and what not, — 
of which, God knows I never composed nor read a syllable 
beyond their titles in advertisements, — I never thought it 
worth while to disavow any, except one which came linked 
with an account of my " residence in the Isle of Mitylene," 
where I never resided, and appeared to be carrying the 
amusement of those persons, who think my name can be 
of any use to them, a little too far. 

I should hardly, therefore, if I did not take the trouble to 
disavow these things published in my name, and yet not 
mine, go out of my way to deny an anonymous work , 
which might appear an act of supererogation. With regard 
to Don Juan, I neithtr deny nor admit it to be mine— every- 
body may form their own opinion ; but, if there be any 
who now, or in the progress of that poem, if it is to be con- 
tinued, feel, or should feel themselves so aggrieved as to 
require a more explicit answer, privately and personally, 
they shall have it. 

I have never shrunk from the responsibility of what I 
have written, and have more than once incurred obloquy by 
neglecting to disavow what was attributed to my pen with- 
out foundation, f 

The greater part, however, of the " Remarks on Don 
Juan" contain but little on the work itself, which receives 
an extraordinary portion of praise as a composition. With 
the exception of some quotations, and a few incidental re- 
marks, the rest of the article is neither more nor less than 
a personal attack upon the imputed author. It is not the 
first in the same publication : fori recollect to have read, 
some time ago, similar remarks upon " Beppo," (said to have 
been written by a celebrated northern preacher ;) in which 
the conclusion drawn was, that " Chiide Harold, Byron, 
and the Count in Beppo, were one and the same person ;" 
thereby making me turn out to be, as Mrs. Malaprop' says, 
" like Cerberus, three gentlemen at once." That article was 
signed "Presbyter Anglicanus ;" wliich, I presume, being 
interpreted, means Scotch Presbyterian.^ I must here ob- 
serve, — and it is at once ludicrous and vexatious to be com- 
pelled so frequently to repeat the same thing, — that my 
case, as an author, is peculiarly hard, in being everlastingly 
taken, or mistaken, for my own protagonist. It is unjust 
and particular. I never heard that my friend Moore was 
set down for a fire-worshipper on account of his Guebre ; 
that Scott was identified with Roderick Dhu, or with Bal- 
four of Burley ; or that, notwithstanding all the magicians 
in Thalaba, anybody has ever taken Jlr. Southey for a con- 
juror ; whereas I have had some difficulty in extricating 
me even from Manfred, who, as Mr. Southey slyly observes 
in one of his articles in the Quarterly, "met the devil on 
the Jungfrau, and bullied him :"'' and I answer Mr. Southey, 
who has afiparently, in his poetical life, not been so suc- 
cessful against the great enemy, that, in this, Manfred 
exactly followed the sacred precept, — "Resist the devil, 
and he will flee from you." — I shall have more to say on the 
subject of this person— not the devil, but his most humble 
servant Mr. Southey — before I conclude; but, for the 
present, I must return to the article in the Edinburgh 
Magazine. 

In the course of this article, amidst some extraordinary 
observations, there occur the following words : — " It ap- 
pears, in short, as if this miserable man, having exhausted 
every species of sensual gratification, — having drained the 
cup of sin even to its bitterest dregs, were resolved to show 
us that he is no longer a human being even in his frailties, — 
but a cool, unconcerned fiend, laughing with a detestable 
glee over the wliole of the better and worse elements of 
which human life is composed." In ano'ther place tliere 
appears, " the lurking-place of his selfish and polluted 
exile." — " By my troth, these be bitter words!"— With re- 
gard to the first sentence, I shaL content myself with ob- 



dentally of the Jungfrau, I said, * It was the scene wh^^re Lord Bvron's Man- 
fred met the devil, and bullied him— though Iho devjl must have won his 
cause before any tribunal in this world, or the nezt, if he had not pleaded 
more feebly for liimself than his advocate, in a cause of canonization, ever 
pleaded for him.* " — Southey.^ 



806 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



!-erving that it appears to liave been composed for Sarda- 
napdji!, Tiberius, the Regent Duke of Orleans, or Louis 
XV, ; and that I have copied it with as much indifference 
as I would a passage from Suetonius, or from any of the 
private memoirs of the regency, conceiving it to be amply 
refuted by the terms in which it is expressed, and to be 
utterly inapplicable to any private individual. On tlie 
words, " lurking-place," and " selfish and polluted exile," I 
have something more to say.— How far the capital city of a 
gov«;rnment, which survived the vicissitudes of thirteen 
hundred years, and might still have existed but for the 
treachery of Bonaparte, and the iniquity of his imitators,— 
a oily, which was the emporium of Europe when London 
and Edinburgh were dens of barbarians, — may be termed z. 
"lurking-place," I leave to those who have seen or heara 
of Venice to decide. How far my exde may have been 
" polluted," it is not for me to say, because the word is a 
wide one, and, with some of its branches, ?Tiay chance to 
overshadow the actions of most men ; but that it has been 
*' scl/ish" I deny. If, to the extent of my means and my 
power, and my information of their calamities, to have 
assisted many miserable beings, reduced by the decay of the 
place of their birth, and their consequent loss of substance 
— if to have never rejected an application which appeared 
founded on truth — if to have expended in this manner sums 
far out of proportion to my fortune, there and elsev/here, be 
selfish, then have I been selfish. To have done such things 
I do not deen^ much ; but it is hard indeed to be compelled 
to recapitulate them in my own defence, by such accusa- 
tions as that before me, like a panel before a jury calling 
testimonies to his character, or a soldier recording his 
services to obtain his discharge. If the person who has 
made the cliarge of " selfishness" wishes to inform himself 
further on the subject, he may acquire, not what he would 
wish to find, but what will silence and shame him, by apply- 
ing to the Consul-General of our nation, resident in the 
place, who will be in the case either to confirm or deny 
wliat I have asserted.' t 

I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions to 
sanctity of demeanor, nor regularity of conduct ; but my 
means have been expended principally on my own gratifi- 
cation, neither now nor heretofore, neither in England nor 
cnt of it ; and it wants but a word from me, if I thought 
that word decent or necessary, to call forth the most will- 
ing witnesses, and at once witnesses and proofs, in Eng- 
land itself, to show that there are those who have derived 
not the mere temporary relief of a wretched boon, but the 
means which led them to immediate happiness and ulti- 
iPHte independence, by my want of that very ^^ seJfishness," 
as grossly as falsely now imputed to my conduct. 

Had I been a selfish man— had I been a grasping man — 
had I been, m the worldly sense of the word, even a prudent 
man, — I should not be where I now am ; I should not have 
taken th? step which was tlie first that led to the events 
which ha : jmk and swoln a gulf between me and mine ; 
but in this respect the truth will one day be made known : 
in the mean time, as Durandearte says, m the Cave of Mon- 
tesinos, " Patience, and shuffle the card"." 

I bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, the first of 
the ki .:! I have ever made : I feel the degradation of being 
compel. 3 i to make it ; but I also feel its iruth, and I trust 
to feel it on my death-bed, should it be my lot to die there. 
I am not less sensible of the egotism of all this ; but, alas ! 
who have made me thus egotistical in my own defence, if 
not they, who, by perversely persisting in referring fiction 
to truth, and tracing poetry to life, and regarding charac- 
ters of imagination as creatures of existence, have made 
me personally responsible for almost every poetical deline- 
ation which fancy, and a particular bias of thought, may 
have tended to produce ? 

The writer continues : — " Those who are acquainted— os 
toho is not 7 — with the main incidents of the private life of 
Lord B." &c. Assuredly, whoever may be acquainted with 
these "main incidents," the writer of the "Remarks on 
Don Juan" is not, or he would use a very different language. 
That which I believe he alludes to as a " main incident," 
happened to be a very subordinate one, and the natural and 
almost inevitable consequence of events and circumstances 
long prior to the period at which it occurred. It is the last 
drop which makes the cup run over, and mine was already 
full.— But, to return to tliis man's charge : he accuses Lord 
B. of " an elaborate satire on the character and manners 
of his wife." From what parts of Don Juan the writer 
bas inferred this he himself best knows. As far as I recol- 
lect of the female cliaracters in that production, there is 
but one who is depicted in ridiculous colors, or that could 



1 f" Lord Byror was ever ready to assist (lie distressed, and he was 
most unostentatious in hia charities; for, besides coneiderabie sums which 
he gave iiway to applicants at his own bouse, he contributed largely, by 



be interpreted as a satire upon anybody. But here my 
poetical sins are again revisited upon me, supposing Diat 
the poem be mine. If I depict a corsair, a misanthropf;, a 
libertine, a chief of insurgents, or an infidel, he is set down 
to the author ; and if, in ;- poem by no means ascertained 
to be my production, there appears a disagreeable, casuistl 
cal, and by no means respectable female pedant, it is se 
down for my wife. Is there any resemblance 1 If tliere 
be, it is in those wiio make it: I can see none. In my 
writings I have rarely described any character under a 
fictitious name : those of whom I have spoken have had 
their ow;n — in many cases a strong:er satire in itself than 
any which could be appended to it. But of real circum- 
stances I have availed- myself plentifully, both in the seri- 
ous and the ludicrous- tliey are to poetry what landscapes 
are to the painter; but my figures are not portraits. It 
may even Jiave happened, that I have seized on some 
events that have occurred under my own observation, or in 
my own family, as 1 would paint a' view from my grounds, 
did it harmonize v.ith my picture; but I never would in- 
troduce the likenesses of its living members, unless their 
features could be made as favorable to themselves as to 
the effect ; wliich, in the above instance, would be ex- 
tremely difficult. 

My learned brother proceeds to observe, that " it is in 
vain for Lord B. to attempt .i any way to justify his own 
behavior in that aft'air ; and r.c ■ " that he has so openly and 
audaciously invited inquiry and reproach, we do not see any 
good reason why he should not be plainly told so by the 
voice of his countrymen." How far the " openness" of an 
anonymous poem, and the " audacity" of an imaginary 
character, which the writer supposes to be meant for Lady 
B., may be deemed to merit this formidable denunciation 
from their " most sweet voices," I neither know nor care ; 
but when he tells me that I cannot "in any way juslifij my 
own behavior in that affair," I acquiesce, because no 
man can "justify" himself until he knows of what he is 
accused ; and I have never had— and, God knows, my 
whole desire has ever been to obtain it— any specific 
charge, in a tangible shape, submitted to me by the adver- 
sary, nor by others, unless the atrocities of public rumor 
and the mysterious silence of the lady's legal advisers may 
be deemed such. But is not the writer content with wliat 
has been already said and done? Has not "the general 
voice of his countrymen" long ago pronounced upon the 
subject— sentence without trial, and condemnation with- 
out a charge 1 Have I not been exiled by ostracism, ex- 
cept that the shells which proscribed me were anonymous? 
Is the writer ignorant of the public opinion and the public 
conduct upon that occasion ? If he is, I arn not : the 
public will forget both, long before I shall cease to remem- 
ber either. 

The man who is exiled by a faction has the consolation 
of thinking that he is a martyr ; he is upheld by hope and 
the dignity of his cause, real or imaginary : he who with- 
draws from the pressure of debt may indulge in the thought 
that time and prudence will retrieve his circumstances: 
he who is condemned by the law has a term to his banish 
rnent, or a dream of its abbreviation ; or, it may be, the 
knowledge or the belief of some injustice of the law, or of 
its administration in his own particular ; but he who is 
outlawed by general opinion, without the intervention of 
hostile politics, illegal judgment, or embarrassed circum- 
stances, whether he be innocent or guilty, must undergo 
all the bitterness of exile, without hope, without pride, 
without alleviation. This case was mine. Upon what 
grounds the public founded their opinion, I am not aware ; 
but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me or of mine 
they knew little, except that I had written what is called 
poetry, was a nobleman, had married, became a father, 
and was involved in differences with my wife and her rela- 
tives, no one knew wliy, because tlie persons complaining 
refused to state their grievances. The fashionable world 
was divided into parties, mine consisting of a very small 
minority : the reasonable world was naturally on the 
stronger side, which happened to be the lady's, as was 
most proper and polite. The press was active and scur- 
rilous ; and such was the rage of the d.ay, that the unfor- 
tunate publication of two copies bf verses, rather compli- 
mentary than otherwise to the subjects of both, was 
tortured into a species of crime, or constructive petty trea- 
son. I was accused of every monstrous vice by public 
rumor and private rancor: my name, which had been a 
knightly or a noble one since my fathers helped to conquer 
the kingdom for William the Norman, was tainted. I felt 
that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured 



•weeli'iyand monlhlv allowances, to persons whom he had never Eeett, aoi 
who, as the money reached thera by other hands, did not even lino-v who v/oc 
their benefactor.''— ITo/i^ner.] 



APPENDIX. 



807 



was true, I was unfit for England ; if false, England was 
unfit for me. I withdrew : but this was not enough. In 
other countries, in Switzerland, in the shadow of the Alps, 
and by the blue depth of the lakes, I was pursued and 
breathed upon by the same blight. 1 crossed the moun- 
tains, but it was the same; so I went a little farther, and 
settled myself by the waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at 
bay, who betakes him to the waters. 

if I may judge by the statements of the few friends who 
gathered round nie, the outcry of the period to which I al- 
lude was beyond all precedent, all parallel, even in those 
cases where political motives have sharpened slander and 
doubled enmity. I was advised not to go to the theatres, 
lest I should be hissed, nor to my duty m parliament, lest I 
should be insulted by the way ; even on the day of my de- 
parture, my most intimate friend told me afterwards, that 
he was under apprehensions of violence from the people 
who might be assembled at the door of the carriage. How- 
ever, 1 was not deterred by these counsels from seeing 
Kean in his best characters, nor from voting according to 
my principles ; and with regard to the tliird and last ap- 
prehensions of my friends, I could not share in them, not 
being made acquainted with their extent till some time 
after I had crossed the Channel. Even if I had been so, I 
am not of a nature to be much affected by men's anger, 
though I may feel hurt by their aversion. Against all in- 
dividual outrage, I could protect or redress myself; and 
i-sainst that of a crowd, I should probably have been en- 
abled to defend myself, with the assistance of cfthers, as 
has been done on similar occasions. 

I retired from the country, perceiving that I was the ob- 
ject of general obloquy ; I did not indeed imagine, like 
Jean Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a conspi- 
racy against me, though I had perhaps as good grounds for 
siich a chimera as ever he had : but I perceived that I had 
1c a great extent become personally obnoxious in England, 
perhaps thror.gh my own fault, but the fact was indisputa- 
ble : the public in general would hardly have been so much 
excited against a more popular character, without at least 
an accusation or a charge of some kind actually expressed 
or substantiated, for I can hardly conceive that the com- 
mon and every-day occurrence of a separation between 
man and wife could in itself produce so great a ferment. 
I shall say nothing of the usual complaints of " being pre- 
judged," "condemned unheard," " unfairness," " partiali- 
ty," and so forth, the usual changes rung by parties who 
have had, or are to have, atrial; but I was a little sur- 
prised to find myself condemned without being favored 
with the act of accusation, and to perceive in the absence 
of tliis portentous charge or charges, whatever it or they 
were to be, that evc-y possible or impossible crime was 
rumored to supply its place, and taken for granted. This 
could only occur in the case of a person very much dis- 
liked ; and I knew no remedy, having already used to their 
extent whatever little powers I might possess of pleasing 
in socisty. I had no party in fashion, though I w-as after- 
wards told that there was one — but it was not of my forma- 
tion, nor did I then know of its existence— none in litera- 
ture ; and in politics I had voted with the Whigs, with 
precisely that importance which a Whig vote possesses in 
these Tory days, and with such personal acquaintance 
with the leaders in botli houses as tlie society m which I 
lived sanctioned, but without claim or expectation of any 
thing like friendship from any ons, except a few young 
men of my own age and standirg, and a few others more 
advanced in life, which last it 2=A been my fortune to 
sarve in circumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to 
stand alone : and I recollect, some time after, Madame de 
Stael said to me in Switzerland, " You should not have 
warred with the world— it will not do— it is too strong al- 
ways for any individual: I myself once tried it in early 
life, but it will not do." I perfectly acquiesce in the truth 
of this remark ; but the world had done me tlie honar to 
begin the war ; and assuredly, if peace is only to be ob- 
tained by courting and paying tribute to it, I am not 
qualified to obtain its countenance. I thought, in the words 
of Campbell, 

" Then wed thee to an exiled lot, 
And if the world hath loved thee not, 
Its absence may be borne." 

I recollect, however, that, having been much nurt by 
JRomilly's conduct, (he, having a general retainer for me, 
had acted as adviser to the adversary, alleging, on being 
7'jmmded of his retainer, that he had forgotten it, as his 
clerk had so many,) I observed that some of those who 
■were now eagerly laying the axe to my roof-tree, might 
see their own shaken, and feel a portion of what they had 
mfiicted.— His fell, and crushed him. 

I have heard of, and believe, that there are human beings 



so constituted as to be insensible to injuries ; but I believe 
that the best mode to avoid taking vengeance is to get out 
of the way of temptation. I hope that I may never have the 
opportunity, for I am not quite sure that I could resist it, 
having derived from my mother something of the " perfer- 
vidum ingenium Scoiorum." I have not sought, and shall not 
seek it, and perhaps it may never come in my path. I do 
not in this allude to the party, who might be right or wrong : 
but to many who made her cause the pretext of their own 
bitterness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me in her 
own feelings ; for whatever her reasons may have been, 
(and she never adduced them to me at least,) she probably 
neither contemplated nor conceived to what she became 
the means of conducting the father of her child, and the 
husband of her choice. 

So much for " tl>e general voice of his countrymen :" I 
will now' speak of scn.e in particular 

In the beginning of the year 1817, an article appeared in 
the Quarterly Review, written, I believe, by Walter Scott,' 
doing great honor to him, and no disgrace to me, though 
both poetically and personally more than sufScipntly favor- 
able to the work and the author of whom it treated. It was 
written at a time when a selfish man would not, and a timid 
one dared not, have said a word in favor of eil'^er ; it was 
written by one to whom temporary public o{ .; ion had 
elevated me to the rank of a rival— a pic.'.d distinction, and 
unmerited ; but which has not prevented me from feeling as 
a friend, nor him from more than corresponding to that 
sentiment. The article In question was written upon the 
Third Canto of Childe Harold ; and after many observations, 
which it would as ill become me to repeat as to forget, con- 
cluded with " a hope that I might yet return to England." 
How this expression was received in England itself I am not 
acquainted, but it gave great ofl^ence at Rome to the respect- 
able ten or twenty thousand English travellers then and 
there assembled. I did not visit Rome till some time after, 
so that I had no opportunity of knowing the fact : but I was 
informed, long afterwards, that the greatest indignation had 
been manifested in the enlightened Anglo- circle of that 
year, which happened to comprise within it — amidst a con- 
siderable leaven of Welbeck Street and Devonshire Place, 
broken loose upon their travels — several really well-born 
any well-bred families, who did not the less participate in 
the feeling of the hour. " Why should he return to Eng- 
land ?" was the general exclamation — I answer whi/ ? It is 
a question I have occasionally asked myself, and "I never 
yet could give it a satisfactory reply. I had then no 
thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, they are 
of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the ties that have 
been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, though the 
chain itself be broken. There are duties, and connections, 
which may one day require my presence— and I am a 
father. I have still some friends whom I wish to meet 
again, and, it may be, an enemy. These things, and those 
minuter detail's of business, which time accumulates during 
absence, in every man's affairs and property, may, and 
probably will, recall me to England ; but I shall return 
with the same feelings with which I left it, in respect to it- 
self, though altered with regard to individuals, as I have 
been more or less informed of their conduct since my de- 
parture ; for it was only a considerable time after it that I 
was made acquainted with the real facts and full extent of 
some of their proceedings and language. My friends, like 
other friends, from conciliatory motives, withheld from me 
much that they could, and some things which they should 
have unfolded : however, that which is deferred is not lost 
—but it has been no fault of mine that it has been deferred 
at all. 

I have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome 
merely to show that the sentiment which I have described 
was not confined to the Enghsh in England, and as forming 
part of my answer to the reproach cast upon what has been 
called my " selfish exile," and my " voluntary exile." 
" Voluntar>'" it has been ; for who would dwell among a 
people entertaining strong hostility against him ? How far 
it has been " selfish" has been already explained. 

I have now arrived at a passage describing me as having 
vented mv " spleen against the lofty-minded and virtuous 
men," men " whose virtues few indeed can equal ;" mean- 
ing, I humbly presume, the notorious triumvirate known by 
the name of ■' Lake Poets" in their aggregate capacity, and 
by Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, when taKcn singly. 
I wish to say a word or two upon the virtues of one of 
those persons, public and private, for reasons which will 
soon appear. 

When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, in oody, 
and in circumstances, I took up my residence at Coligny, 
by the lake of Geneva. The sole companion of my journey 



1 [See Quarterly ReTiew, vol. xvi. p. ITS J 



808 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



was a young physician, i who had to make his way in the 
world, and havii.g seen very little- of it, was naturally and 
laudably desirous of seeing more society than suited my 
present habits or my past experience. I tlrerefore presented 
tinn to those gentlemen of Geneva for whom I had letters 
ol introduction ; and having thus seen him in a situation to 
make his own way, retired for my own part entirely from 
eociety, with the exception of one English family, living at 
a.out a quarter of a mile's distfince from Diodati, and with 
the further exception of some occasional intercou: ?e with 
Coppet at the wish of Madame de Stael The English 
family to which I allude consisted of two ladies, a gentle- 
man and his son, a boy of a year old.2 

One of " these lofty-minded and virtuous men,'''' in the words 
of the Edinburgh IMagazine, made, I understand, about this 
time, or soon after, a tour in Switzerland. On his.return to 
England, he circulated— and, for any thing I know,' invented 
—a report, that the gentleman to whom I have alluded and 
myself were living in promiscuous intercourse with two 
sisters, "having formed a league of incest," (I quote the 
words as they were stated to me,) and indulged lumself on 
the natural comments upon such a conjunction, which are 
said to have been repeated publicly, with great complacency, 
by another of that poetical fraternity, of whom I shall say 
only, that even had the story been true, he should not have 
repeated it, as far as it regarded myself, except in sorrow. 
The tale itself requires but a word in answer — the ladies 
were not sisters, nor in any degree connected, except by the 
second marriage of their respective parents, a widower with 
a widow, both being the olTspring of former marriages : 
neither of them were, in 1816, nineteen years old. " Pro- 
miscuous intercourse" could hardly have disgusted the 
great patron of pantisocracy, (does Mr. Southey remember 
such a scheme ?) but there was none. 

How far this man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, has been 
proclaimed by the Lord Chancellor guilty of a treasonable 
and blasphemous libel, and denounced in the House of 
Commons, by the upright and able member for Norwich, as 
a " rancorous renegado," be fit for sitting as a judge upon 
others, let others judge. He has said that for this expres- 
sion " he brands William Smith on the forehead as a ca- 
lumniator," and that " tlie mark will outlast his epitaph." 
How long William Smith's epitaph will last, and in what 
words it will be written, I know not, but William Smith's 
words form the epitaph itself of Robert Southey. He has 
■written Wat Tyler, and taken the office of poet laureate- 
he has, in the Life of Henry Kirke White, denominated re- 
viewing " the ungentle craft," and has become a reviewer 
-^he was one of the projectors of a scheme, called "pan- 
tisocracy," for having all things, including women, in com- 
mon, (que-^ti common women?) and he sets up as a moralist 
— he denounced the battle of Blenheim, and he praised the 
battle of Waterloo— he loved Mary WoUstoncraft, and he 
tried to blast the character of her daughter, (one of the young 
females mentioned)— he wrote treason, and serves the king 
—he was the butt of the Antijacobin, and he is the prop of 
the Quarterly Review ; licking tlie hands that smote him, 
eating the bread of his enemies, and internally writhing 
beneath his own contempt,— he would fain conceal, under 
anonymous bluster, and a vain endeavor to obtain the es- 
teem of others, after having forever lost his own, his leprous 
sense of his own degradation. What is there in such a man 
to " envy V' Who ever envied the envious ? Is it his birth, 
his name, his fame, or his virtues, that I am to " envy V 
I was born of the aristocracy, which he abhorred ; and am 
sprung, by my mother, from the kings who preceded those 
whom he has hired himself to sing. It cannot, then, be his 
birth. As a poet, I have, for the past eight years, had nothmg 
to apprehend from a competition ; and for the future, "that 
life to come in every pot-, creed," it is open to all. I will 
only remind Mr. Southey, m tlie words of a critic, who, if 
Btill living, would have annihilated .Southey's literary ex- 
istence now and hereafter, as the sworn foe of charlatans 
and impostors, from Macpherson downwards, that "those 
dreams were Settle's once and Ogilby's ;" and, for my own 
part, I assure him, tliat whenever he and his sect are re- 
membered, I sliall be proud to be " forgot." That he is not 
content with liis success as a poet may reasonably be be- 
lieved—he lias been the nine-pin of reviews ; the Edinburgh 
knocked him down, and the Quarterly set him up ; the gov- 
ernment found him useful in the periodical line-, and made 
a point of recommenling his works to purchasers, so that 
he is occasionally bought, (I mean his books, as well as the 
iiuthor,) and may be found on the same shelf, if not upon 
Uie table, of most of the gentlemen employed in the differ- 



J?. Polidori — author of the ** Vampire."] 
a [Mr. and Mrs. Shelley, Miss Clermont, and Master ShcUty.] 
8 [8c3 Notices of I ord BjTon's Life.] 
« [Tassoni V7as almost the only Italian poet of the era in which he flour- 



ent offices. With regard to his private virtues, I know 
nothing— of his principles, I have heard enough. As far as 
having been, to the best of my power, benevolent to others, 
I do not fear the comparison ; and for the errors of the 
passions, was Mr. Southey c/ways so tranquil and stainless? 
Did he never covet his neighbor's wife ? Did he never 
calumniate his neighbor's wife's daughter, the off"spring of 
her he coveted ? So much for the apostle of pantisocracy. 

Of the " lofty-minded, virtuous" Wordsworth, one anec 
dote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In a conversation 

with Mr. upon poetry, he concluded with, "After all, 

I would not give five shillings for all that Southey has ever 
\vritten." Perhaps this calculation might rather show his 
esteem for five shillings than his low estimate of Dr. 
Southey ; but considering that when he was in his need, 
and Southey had a shilling, Wordsworth is said to have had 
generally sixpence out of it, it has an awkward sound in 
the way of valuation. This anecdote was told me by per- 
sons who, if quoted by name, would prove that its genealogy 
is poetical as well as true. I can give my authority for this ; 
and am ready to adduce it also for JMr. Southey's circulation 
of the falsehood before mentioned. 

Of Coleridge, I shall say nothing— wAv, he may divine.3 

I have said more of these people thaii I intended in this 
place, being somewhat stirred by the remarks which induced 
me to commence upon the topic. I see nothing in these men, 
as poets, or as individuals— little in their talents, and less 
m their characters, to prevent honest men from expressing 
for then\ considerable contempt, in prose or rhyme, as it 
may happen. Mr. Southey has the Quarterly for his field 
of rejoinder, and Mr. Wordsworth his' postscripts to " Lyri- 
cal Ballads," where the two great instances of the sublime 
are taken from himself and Milton. " Over her own sweet 
voice the stockdove broods ;" that is to say, she has the 
pleasure of listening to herself, in common with Mr. Words- 
worth upon most of his public appearances. " What di- 
vinity doth hedge" these persons, that we should respect 
them ? Is it Apollo ? Are they not of those who called 
Dryden's Ode "a drunken song?" who have discovered 
that Gray's Elegy is full of faults, (see Coleridge's Life. vol. 
i. note, for Wordsworth's kindness in pointing this out to 
him,) and have published what is allowed to be the very 
worst prose that ever was written to prove that Pope was 
no poet, and that William Wordsworth is ? 

In other points, are they respectable, or respected ? Is 
it on the open avowal of apostacy, on the patronage of gov- 
ernment, that their claim is founded I Who is there who 
esteems those parricides of their own principles ? They 
are, in fact, well aware that the reward of their change has 
been any thing but honor. The times have preserved a re- 
spect for political consistency, and, even though change- 
able, honor the unchanged. Look at Moore : it will be 
long ere Southey meets with such a triumph in London as 
Moore met with in Dublin, even if the government sub- 
scribe for it, and set the money down to secret service. It 
w as not less to the man than to the poet, to the tempted 
but unshaken patriot, to the not opulent but incorruptible 
fellow-citizen, that the warm-hearted Irish paid the proud- 
est of tributes. Mr. Southey may applaud himself to the 
world,' but he has his own heartiest contempt ; and the fury 
with which he foams against all who stand in the phalanx 
which he forsook, is, as William Smith described it, "the 
rancor of the renegado," the bad language of the prostitute 
who stands at the corner of the street, and showers her 
slang upon all, except those who may have bestowed upon 
her her "little shilling." 

Hence his quarterly overflowings, political and literary, 
in what he has himself termed " the ungentle craft," and his 
especial wrath against Mr. Leigh Hunt, notwithstanding 
that Hunt has done more for Wordswortli's reputation, as 
a poet, (such as it is,) than all the Lakers could in their 
interchange of self-praises for iJie last twenty-five years. 

And here I wish to say a few words on the present state 
of English poetry. That this is the age of the decline of 
English poetry will be doubted by few who have calmly 
considered the subject. That there are men of genius 
among the present poets makes little against the fact, be- 
cause it has been well said, that " next to him who forms 
the taste of his country, the greatest genius is he who cor- 
rupts It." No one has ever denied genius to Marino,'' who 
corrupted not merely the taste of Italy, but that of all Eu 
rope for nearly a century. The great cause of the present 
deplorable state of English poetry is to be attributed to that 
absurd and systematic depreciation of Pope, in which, for 
the last few years, there has been a kind of epidemical con- 



islied, who withstood the gfeneral corruption of taste introduced by Marino 
and his followers, and by the " imitated i^iitators" of Lnpe ile Veg^a ; and 
he opened a new path, in which a crowd of pretenders have vainly endfc£.\01^' 
to follow hini. — Foscolo.} 



APPENDIX. 



809 



currence. Men of the most opposite opinions have united 
upon this topic. Warton and Churoliill began it, having 
borrowed the liint probably from thn heroes of the Dunciad, 
and their own internal conviction that their proper reputa- 
tion can be as nothing till the most perfect and harmonious 
of pofccs— he who, having no fault, has had reason made 
nis" reproach — was reduced to what they conceived to be 
his levoi ; but even they dared not degrade him below Dry- 
den. Goldsmith, and Rogers, and Campbell, his most suc- 
cessful disciples ; and Hayley, who, however feeble, has 
-Oft one poem " that will not be willingly let die," (the Tn- 
umphs of Temper,) kept up the reputation of that pure and 
perfect style ; and Crabbe, the first of living poets, has 
almost equalled the master. Then came Darwin, who was 
put down by a single poem in the Antijacobin ;' and the 
Cruscans, from Merry to Jerningham, who were annihilated 
(it Nothing can be said to be annihilated) by Gifford, the 
last of the wholesome satirists. 

At the same time Mr. Southey was favoring the public 
with Wat Tyler and Joan of Arc, to the great glory of the 
Drama and Epos. I beg pardon, Wat Tyler, with Peter 
Bell, was still in MS. ; and it was not till after Mr. Southey 
had received his Malmsey butt, and Mr. Wordsworth- be- 
came qualified to gauge it, that the great revolutionary 
tiagedy came before the public and the Court of Chancery. 
Wordswortii ■'■as peddling his lyrical ballads, and brooding 
a preface, to be succeeded in due course by a postscript ; 
both couched in sucii prose as must give peculiar delight to 
those who have read the prefaces of Pope and Dryden ; 
scarcely less celebrated for the beauty of their prose, than 
for the charms of their verse. Wordsworth is the reverse 
of Moliere's gentleman who had been " talking prose all his 
life, without knowing it ;" for he thinks that he has been 
all his life writing both prose and verse, and neither of 
what he conceives to be such can be properly said to be 
either one or the other. Mr. Coleridge, the future rates, 
poet and seer of the Morning Post, (an honor also claimed 
by Mr. Fitzgerald, of the "Rejected Addresses,")^ who 
ultimately prophesied the downfall of Bonaparte, to which 
he himself mainly contributed, by giving him the nickname 
of " the Cersicnn," was then employed in predicating the 
damnation of Mr. Pitt, and the desolation of England, in 
the two very best copies of verses he ever wrote : to wit, 
the infernal eclogue of " Fire, Famine, and Slaughter," 
and the " Ode to the departing Year." 

These three personages, Southey, Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy to Pope ; 
and I respect them for it, as tho only original feeling or 

Erinciple which they have contrived to preserve. But they 
ave been joined in it by those who have joined them in 
nothing else : by the Edmburgli Reviewers, by the whole 
heterogeneous mass of living English poets, excepting 
Crabbe, Rogers, Gifibrd, and Campbell, who, both by pre- 
cept and practice, have proved their adherence ; and by 
me, who have shamefully deviated in practice, but have 
ever loved and honored Pope's poetry with my whole soul, 
and hope to do so till my dying day. I would rather see all 
I have ever written lining the same trunk in which I ac- 
tually read the eleventh book of a modern epic poem^ at 
Malta, in 1811, (I opened it to take out a change after the 
paroxysm of a tertian, in the absence of my servant, and 
found it lined with the name of the maker. Eyre, CocKspur 
Street, and with the epic poetry alluded to,) than sacrifice 
what I firmly believe in as the Christianity of EngUsh 
poetry, the poetry of Pope. 

But the Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, and Hunt 
and his school, and everybody else with their school, and 
even Moore without a school, and dilettanti lecture.j U in- 
stitutions, and elderly gentlemen who translate and imitate, 
and young ladies who list^ and repeat, baronets who draw 
indilTerent frontispieces ror b'ld poets, and noblemen who 
let them dine with them in the ; .^ uitry, the small body of the 
wits and the great body of the b..;3s, have latterly united in 
a depreciation, of which their fathers would have been as 
much ashamed as their children will be. In the mean time, 
what have we got instead ? The Lake school, which began 
with an epic poem, " written in six weeks," (so Joan of Arc 
proclaimed herself,) and finished with a ballad composed in 
twenty years, as " Peter Bell's" creator takes care to inform 
the few who will inquire. What have we got instead 7 A 
deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, imitated from 
Scott and myself, who have both made the best of our bad 



1 *' The LoTia of the Trianglee," (he joint projuclion of Messrs. Caa- 
ringand Frere.] 

5 Goldsmith has anticipated the dcSniliDn sf the Lake poetry, as far ai 
such tliinors can he defined. '• Genflemen ih: present piece is not of your 
conjrcn epic poer.vt, ivhich come from the press lilte paper kires in summer ; 
lh(re arc r.one of your Turmtses or Didos in it; it is an historical description 
of nature, 1 only be» you'll en Jeavor to make your souls in unison with 
miud, ar^ hear with the same enthusiasm with which I have written,^^ 



102 



materials and erroneous system. What have we got instead: 
Madoc, which is neither afl epic nor any thing else. Tha- 
laba, Kehama, Gebir, and such gibberish, written in all 
metres and in no language. Hunt, who had powers to have 
made " the Story of Rimini" as perfect as a fab.c of Dryden, 
has thought fit to sacrifice his genius and his taste to some 
uninteUigible notions of Wordsworth, which I defy him to 

explain. Moore has But why continue ? — All, with the 

exception of Crabbe, Rogers, and Campbell, who may be 
considered as having taken their station, will, by the blessing 
of God, survive their own reputation, without attaining any 
very extraordinary period of longevity. Of course there 
must be a still further exception in favor of those who, 
having never obtained any reputation at all, unless it be 
amongst provincial literati, and their own families, have 
none to lose ; and of Moo.^, who, as the Burns of Ireland, 
posse.^ses a fame which cannot be lost. 

The greater part of the poets mentioned, however, have 
been able to gather together a few followers. A paper of 
the Connoisseur says, that " il 's observed by the "'rench, 
that a cat, a priest, and an old wen an, are sufficiem o con- 
stitute a religious sect in England." Tlie same nui.iber of 
animals, with some difference in kind, will suffice for a 
poetical one. If we take Sir George Beaumont instead of 
the priest, and Mr. Wordsworth for the old woman, we shall 
nearly complete the quota required ; but I fear that Mr. 
Southey will but indifferently represent the c.\t, having 
shown himself but too distinctly to be of a species to which 
that noble creature is peculiarly hostile. 

Nevertheless, I will not go so far as Wordsworth in his 
postscript, who pretends that no great poet ever had imme- 
diate fame ; which being interpreted, means that William 
Wordsworth is not quite so much read by his cotemporaries 
as might be desirable. This assertion is as false as it is 
foolish. Homer's glory depended upon his present popu- 
larity: he recited, — and without the strongest impression 
of the moment, who would have gotten the Iliad by heart, 
and gi\en it to tradition? Ennius, Terence, Plautus, Lu 
cretius. Horace, Virgil, jEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, 
Sappho, Anacreon, Theocritus, all the great poets of an 
tiquity, were the delight of their cotemporaries. The very 
existence of a poet, previous to the invention of printing, 
depended upon his present popularity ; and how often has 
it impaired his future fame 1 Hardly ever. History informs 
us, that the best have come down to us. The reason is 
evident ; the most popular found the greatest number of 
transcribers for their ]\1SS. ; and that the taste of their 
cotemporaries was corrupt can hardly be avouched by the 
moderns, the mightiest of whom have but barely approach- 
ed them. Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, were all 
the darlings of the cotemporary reader. Dante's poem was 
celebrated long before his death; and, not long after it. 
States negotiated for his ashes, and disputed for the sites 
of the composition of the Divina Commedia. Petrarch was 
crowned in the Capitol. Ariosto was permitted to pass free 
by the public robber who had read the Orlando Furioso. I 
would not recommend Mr. Wordsworth to try the same 
experiment with his Smugglers. Tasso, notwithstanding 
the criticisms of the Cruscanti, would have been crowned 
in the Capitol, but for his death. 

It is easy to prove the immediate popularity of the chief 
poets of the only modern nation in Europe that has a 
poetical language, the Italian. In our own, Shakspeare, 
Spenser, Jonson, Waller, Dryden, Congreve, Pope, Young, 
Shenstone, Thomson, Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, were all 
as popular in their lives as since. Gray's Elegy pleased 
instantly, and eternally. His Odes did not, nor yet do they, 
please like his Elegy. Milton's politics kept him down. 
But the Epigram of Dryden,^ and the very sale of his work, 
in proportion to the less reading time of its publication, 
prove mm to have been honored by his cotemporaries. I 
will venture to assert, that the sale of the Paradise Lost 
was greater in the first four years after its publication, than 
that of " The Excursion" in the same number, with the dif- 
ference of nearly a century and a half between them of 
time, and of thousands in point of general readers. Not- 
withstanding Mr. Wordsworth's having pressed million into 
his service as one of those not presently popular, to favor 
his own purpose of proving that our grandchildren will 
read him, (the said William Wordsworth,) I would recom- 
mend him to begin first with our grandmothers. But he 
need not be alarmed ; he may yet live to see all the envies 



Would not this have made a proper proem to the Excursfci^ s.r.c the posU 
and his pedler ? It would have answered perfectly for that purpoK, !iii3 it 
not unfortunately been written ui good English. 

3 [See ante, p. 431.] 

4 [Sir James liland Burgess's " Richard 1." See ante, p 4S9.] 
6 [The well-known lines under Milton's picture,— 

" Three poets, in three distant ages born," tic. 



810 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



paFS away, as 7)arwin and SewaTd, and Iloole, and Hole,' 
and llovle^ have passed away ;• but their declension will 
not be his ascension ; he is essentially a bad writer, and all 
the failures of others can never strengthen hnn. He may 
have a sect, but he will never have a public ; and his 
" audience" will always be "few," without being "fit," — ex- 
cept for Bedlam. 

It may be asked, why, having this opinion of the present 
stale of poetry in England, and having had it long, as my 
friends and others well knew — possessing, or having pos- 
sessed too, as a writer, the ear of the public for the time 
being — I have not adopted a different plan in my own com- 
positions, and endeavored to correct rather than encourag;e 
the taste of the day. To this I would answer, that it is 
easier to perceive the wrong than to pursue the right, and 
that I have never contemplated the prospect " of filling 
(with Peter Bell,^ see its preface) permanently a station in 
the literature of the country." Those who know me best 
know this, and that I have been considerably astonished at 
the temporary success of my works, having fluttered no 
person and no parly, and expressed opinions which are not 
those of the general reader. Could I have anticipated tlie 
degree of attention which has been accorded me, dS'Tredly 
I would have studied more to deserve it. But I have Aved 
in far countries abroad, or m the agitating world at home, 
which was not favorable to study or reflection ; so that al- 
most all I have written has been mere passion, — passion, it 
ic true, of different kinds, but always passion : for in me (if 
it be not an Irishism to say so) my indifference was a kind of 
passion, the result of experience, and not the philosophy of 
nature. Writing grows a habit, like a woman's gallantry ; 
there are women who have had no intrigue, but few who 
have had l)ut one only; so there are millions of men who 
have never written a book, but few who have written only 
one. And thus, having written once, I wrote on ; en- 
couraged no doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no 
means anticipating its duration, and, I will venture to say, 
scarcely even wishing it. But then I did other things 
ue.sides write, which by no means contributed either to im- 
prove my writings or my prosperity. 

I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of the day 
the opinion I have long entertained and expressed of it to all 
who have asked it, and to some who would rather not have 
heard it: as I told Moore not very long ago, "we are all 
wrong except Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell."-' Without 
being old in years, I am old in days, and do not feel the 
adequate spirit within me to attempt a work which should 
show what I think right in poetry, and must content myself 
with having denounced what is wrong. Tliere are, I trust, 
younger spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the 
contagion whic^. tis swept away poetry from our literature, 
will recall it to their country, such as it once was and may 
still be 

In tae mean time, the best sign of amendment will be 
repentance, and new and frequent editions of Eope and 
Dryden. 

There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, and ten 
times more poetry, in the " Essay on Man," than in the 
" Excursion." H you search for passion, \Oiere is it to be 
found sti-.or.ger than in the Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or 
in Palamon and Arcite ? Do you wish for invention, imagin- 
ation, sublimity, character ? seek them in the Rape of the 
Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode of Saint Cecilia's Day, 
and Absalom and Achitophel : you will discover in these 
two poets only u'l for which you must ransack innumerable 
metres, and G.,. jnly knows how many loriters of the day. 



1 [The Rev. Richard Hole. He published in ear.v iite Et versificiKion 
of Fiiigal, and ia 1789, "Arthur, a Pceticul Romaiice." He died in 
1803.] 

2 [Charles Hoyle, of Trinity CoUeffe, Ciimbridg-e, author of "Exodus," an 
epic in thirteen books.] 

3 [Peter Bell first saw the li?ht in 1798. Durino^ this long interval, pains 
have been taken at diU'erent times to make the production less unworthy 
of a favorable reception; or rather, to fit it for filling permnnently a 
■tation however humble, in the literature of my conniiy. — iVordsworth, 
1819.] 

4 [I certainly ventured to differ from the idgment of my ncUe friend, 
no less in his attempts to depreciate that pecuuar walk of the art in which 
he himself so grandly trod, than in the inconsistency of which I thought 
him guilty, in condemning all those who stood up for particular "schools" 
of poetry, and yet, at the same time, maintaining so exclusive a theory of 
the art liimself. How liltle, however, he attended to either the grounds or 
degrees of my dissent from him will appear by the following wholes.ile 
report oi my opinion in "Detached Thoughts:" — "One of my notions 
dinerent from those of my contemporaries, is, that the present is not a high 
Bge of English poetry. There are more poeii ,'soi-disant) than ever there 
M'ere,and proportionally less poetry. This thesis I have maintained for some 
yaars, bit, strange to say, it nieeteih not with favor from my brethren of the 
aaj.^. h'ii Moore shakes liis head, and firmly celieves that it is the g^raud 
8gr.i of B.; _;U poesy." — JV/oore.] 

i\\n 1812, Mr. Mo:re pub'.ished " The Two-penny Post-bag; by Thomai 
Bro\i-n the Youngei ;" nod iu 1818, " The Fudge Family iu Paris.''] 



without finding a tittle of the same qualities, — Mith the 
addition, too, of wit, of which the latter have none. 1 have 
not, however, forgotten Thomas Brown the Younger, nor 
the Fudge Family.s nor Whistlecraft : but that is not wit- 
it is humor. I will say nothing of the harmony of Pope and 
Dryden in comparison, for there is not a living poet (except 
Rogers, Gilford, Campbell, and Crabbe) who can write an 
heroic couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beauty of 
their versification has withdrawn the public attention from 
their other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest more 
upon the splendor of the uniform than 'the quality of the 
troops. It is this very harmony, particularly in Pope, 
which has raised the vulgar aiul atrocious cant against 
him: — because his versification is perfect, it is assumed that 
it is his only perfection ; because his truths are so clear, it 
is asserted that he has no invention ; and bectiuse he is al- 
ways intelligible, it is taken for granted that he has no 
genius. We are .sneeringly told that he is the " Poet of 
Reason," as if this was a reason for his being np poet. 
Taking passage for passage, I will undertake to cite more 
lines teeming with imagination from Pope than from any two 
living poets, be they who they may. To take an instance 
at random from a species of composition not very favorable 
to imagination — Satire : set down the character of Sporus,^ 
with all the wonderful play of fancy which is scattered over 
it, and place by its side an equal number of verses, from 
any two existing poets, of the same power and the same 
variety — where will you find them ? 

I merely mention one instance of many, in reply to the 
injustice done to the memory of him who harmonized our 
poetical language. The attorneys' clerks, and other self- 
educated genii, found it easier to distort themselves to the 
new models than to toil after the syininetry of him who had 
enchanted their fathers. They were besides smitten by be- 
ing told that the new school were to revive the language of 
Queen Elizabeth, the true English; as everybody in the 
reign of Queen Anne wrote no better than French, by a 
species of literary treason. 

lilank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one except 
Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the order of 
the day, — or else such rhyme as looked slill bhinker than 
the verse without it. I am aware that Johnson has said, 
after some hesitation, that he could not "prevail upon him- 
self to wish that Milton had been a rhymer." The opinions 
of that truly great man, whom it is also the present fashion 
to decry, will ever be received by me with that deference 
whichtimewill restore tohimfromall; but, with all humility, 
I am not persuaded that the Paradise Lost would not have 
been more nobly conveyed to posterity, not perhaps in 
heroic couplets, although even they could sustain the subject 
if well balanced, but in the stanza of Spenser or of Tasso, 
or in the terza rima of Dante, which the powers of Milton 
could easily have grafted on our language. The Seasons 
of Thomson would have been better in rhyme, although still 
inferior to his Castle of Indolence ; and Mr. Southey's Joan 
of Arc no worse, although it might have taken up six 
months instead of weeks in the composition. I recommend 
also to the lovers of lyrics the perusal of the present 
laureate's Odes by the side of Dryden's on Saint Cecilia, 
but let him be sure to re&A first those of Mr. Southey. 

To the heaven-born genii, and inspired young scriveners 
of the day much of this will appear paradox: it will appear 
so even to the higher order of our critics ; but it was a 
truism twenty years ago, and it will be a reacknowledged 
truth in ten more. In the mean time, 1 will conclude with 
two quotations, both intended for some of my old classical 



[" Let Sporus tremblt 
Sporus, that mere i 



Satii 



-A. What? that thing of silk? 
ite curd of iiis's nilk ? 
can Saprus fed 



Wlio breaks a butterfly upi 

P. Yet let me Hap this bug with gilded wings. 

This painted child of din, that siinks and sings; 

Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, 

Yet wit ne*er tastes, and beauty neVr enjoys 

So well-bred spaniels civilly ilelight 

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray. 

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. 

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 

And, as the prompter breaihcs, ihe puppet squefA* 

Or at the ear of Eve, familiar load. 

Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, 

In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies. 

Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies, 

His wit all see-saw, between thnt and thisy 

Now hi^h, now low, now master up, now miss, 

And he nimself one vile aniithesis. 

Amphibious thing ! that acting either part. 

The trilling head, or the corrupted heart. 

Fop at the toilet, flatterer at toe Doord, 

Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 

Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have exprcss'd, 

A cherub's face, a reptile aii the rest. 

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none wi,- trus",. 

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks Uie duet.*' 



APPENDIX. 



811 



friends who have still enough of Cambridge about them to 
tliiniv tiiemselves honored by having liad John Dryden as a 
predecessor in their college, and to recollect t'liat their 
earliest English poetical pleasures were drawn from the 
" little nightingale" of Twickenham. The first is from the 
notes to the Poem of the " Friends."' 

" It is only within the last twenty or thirty years that 
those notable discoveries in criticism have been made which 
have taught our recent versifiers to undervalue this ener- 
getic, melodious, and moral poet The consequfences of 
this want of due esteem for a writer whom the good sense 
C'f our predecessors had raised to his proper station, have 
been numerous and degrading enough. This is not the 
place to enter into the subject, even as far as it affcc's our 
poetical numbers alone, and there is matter of more im- 
portance that requires present reflection." 

The second is from the volume of a young person leain.ng 
to write poetry, and beginning by teaching the art. Hear 
him ;- 

" But ye were dead 
To things ye knew not of— were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile ; so that ye taught a school' 
0{ dolts to smooth, inlay, and chip, s.\\dfd. 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race, 
That blasphemed the bright lyrist to his face. 
And did not know it ; no, they went about 
Holding a poor decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 
The name of one Boileau I" 
A little before, the manner of Pope is termed, 
" A scism,^ 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land."* 
I thought "foppery" was a consequence of refinement ! but 
nHmporte. 

The above will suffice to show the notions entertained by 
the new performers on the English lyre of him who made 
it most tuneable, and the great improvements of their own 
" variazioni." 

The writer of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young 
disciple of the six or seven new schools, in which he has 
learned to write such lines and such sentiments as the above. 
He says "easy was the task" of imitating Pope, or it may 



1 [Written by Lord Byron's early friend, the Rev. Francis Hodg 



2 [In a manuscript note on this passao'e of the pamphlet, dated Nov. 12, 
1821, Lord Byron saye,— " Mr. Keats died at Rome about a year after tliis 
Mas UTillen, of a decline produced by his having burst a blood-vessel on 
reading the article on his ' Endymion' in the Quarterly Review. I liave 
read trie article before and since ; and although it is bitter, 1 ilo not think 
tilat a man should permit himself to be killed by it. But a yJiung- man 
little dreams what he must inevitably encounter'in ihe course of a life 
ambitious of public notice. My indig-nalion at Mr. Keals's depreciation 
of Pojie has hardly permitted me to do juelice to his own g-cnius, whicli, 
rnalgre all the fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great 
promise. His fragment or * Hyperion* seems actually inspired by the 
Titans, and is as sublime a5 yEschylus. He is a loss to our literature ; and 
the more so, as he himself, before his death, is said to have been persuaded 
that he bad not taken the right line, and was re-forraing his style upon the 
more classical models of the language.*'] 

3 It was at least a grammar ** school." 

4 So spelt by the author. 

s As a balance to these lines, and to the sense and sentiment of the new 
Pope's earliest poeuis, taken 



" Envy her own snakes shall feel, 

And Persecution mourn her broken wheel, 
Tliere Faction roar, Rebellion bite her chain. 
And gasping Furiti tli'rst for blood in vain." 



* Ah ! what avails 1 
His purple crest, i 



:plun 



cled 



dyes, 
■es- 
•old. 



His painted wings, and breast that dames witk gold. 

^ Round broken columns clasping ivy twined, 
O'er heaps of ruin slalk'd the stately hind; 
The Ibx obscene to gaping tombs retires. 
And savage bowlings nil the sacred quires " 

" Hail, bards triumphant I born in happier days 
Immortal heirs of universal praise! 
Whose honors with increase of ages grow. 
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow; 
Nations unborn vour mighty names shell sound, 

'And worlds applaud that must not yet be found! 
Oh miiy some spark of your celestial fire, 
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire, 
{That on weak winffs, from far pursues your flights; 
iilows while he reads, but trembles as lie writes,) 
To ttBch vain wils a science little known, 
T^ odiDirc superior !,eu£e, and doubt their own I" 



be of equalling him, I presume. I recommend him to try 
before he is so positive on the subject, and then compare 
what he will have then wrilten and what he has now written 
with the humblest and earliest compotitions of Pope, pro- 
duced in years still more youthful than Ihose of Mr. Keats 
when he invented his new " Essay on Criticism," entitled 
"Sleep and Poetry," (an ominous title,) from whence -he 
above canons are taken. Pope's was written at ninetcsn, 
and published at twenty-two. 

Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and such their 
scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, Goldsmith, 
Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Gilford, M;itthias,6 Ilayley, and 
the author of the Paradise of Coquettes ;' to whom may be 
added Richards, Heber, Wrangham, Bland, Hodgson, Mcri 
vale, and others who have not had their full fame, because 
"the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the 
strong," and because there is a fortune'in fame as in all other 
things. Now, of all the new schools— I say all, for, " like 
Legion, they are many"— has there appeared a single scholar 
who has not made his master ashamed of him ? unless it 
be Sotheby, who has imitated everybody, antl occasionally 
surpassed his models. Scott found peculiar favor and imi- 
tation among the fair sex : there was Miss Holford,^ and 
Miss Mitford,9 and Miss Francis ;io but, with the greatest 
respect be it spoken, none of his imitators did much honor 
to the original, except Hogg, the Eitrick shepherd, until 
the appearance of" The Bridal of Triermain," and" Harold 
the Dauntless," which in the opinion of some equalled if not 
surpassed him ; and lo ! after three or four years they 
turned out to be the Master's own compositions. Have 
Southey, or Coleridge, or t'other fellow, made a follower 
of renown ? Wilson never did well till he set up for him- 
self in the " City of the Plague." Has Moore, or any other 
living writer of reputation, had a tolerable imitator, or 
rather disciple ? Now, it is remarkable, that almost all the 
followers of Pope, whom I have named, have produced 
beautiful and standartl works ; and it was not the number 
of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, but the despair 
of imitation, and the ca.se o{ not imitating him sufficiently. 
This, and the same reason which induced the Athenian 
burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides, "because 
he was tired of always hearing him called the Just," have 
produced the temporary exile of Pope from the State of 
Literature. But the term of his ostracism will expire, and 
the sooner the better, not for him, but for those who bail 
ished him, and for the coming generation, who 

" Will blush to find their fathers were his foes." 



" Amphion there the loud creating Ivre 
Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire! 
Citbairon's echoes answer to his call. 
And half the mountain rolls into a wall." 

" So Zembla's rocks, the beauteous work of frost, 
Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast ; 
Pale suns, unfell, at distance roll away. 
And on th' impassive ice the lightninjrs play ; 
Eternal snows the growing mass supply, 
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky. 
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears. 
The gather'd winter of a thousand years. 

•' Thus, when we view some well-proportion'il dome. 
The world's just wonder, and even thine, O Rome ! 
No single parts unequally surprise. 
All comes united to the admiring eyes: 
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; 
The whole at once is bold and regular.'*^ 

A thousand similar passages crowd upon me, all composed by Pope before 
his Iwo-und-lwentieth year; and yet it is contended that he is no poet, and 
we are told so in such lines as I beg the reader to compare with ihese youth- 
ful verses of ihe " no poet." Must we repeat the question of Johnson, " If 
Pope is not apoet, tchere is poatry to be found /" Even in desciiptive poetry, 
the lo-weat department of the art, he will be found, on a fair examinalioni to 
surpass any living writer. 

6 [Thomas James Matthias, Esq., the well-known author of Ihe Pursuits 
of Literature, Imperial Epistle to Kieu Long, &.C. In 1814, Mr. M. edited 
an edition of Gray's Works, which the University of Cambridge published V. 
its own expense. Lord Byron did not admire this venerable poet tiie less 
for such criticism as the following :— " After we have paid our primal homage 
to the bards of Greece and of ancient Latium, we are invited to contemplate 
the literary and poetical dignity of modern Italy. If the influence of their 
persuasion and of their example should prevail, a strong and steady light 
may be relumined and diflused amongst us, a light which may once again 
conduct the powers of our rising poets tcomwild whirlniff words, from crude, 
rapid, and uncorrected productions, from an overweening presumption, and 
from the delusive conceit of a pre-established reputation, to the labcr of 
thought, to patient and repealed revision of what they write, to a reverec'.c 
for themselves and for an enlightened public, and to tlie fixed unbend tf 
principles of legitimate composition," — Preface to Gray.] 

7 [Dr. Thomas Brown, professo' inoral philosophy in the Universi!} of 
Edinburgh, who died in 1820.] 

8 [Author cf " Wallace, or thfc T.ght of Falkirk," " Margaret cf AdJou," 
and other poems.] 

9 [Miss Mary Riissel Mitfnrd, author of " Christina, or the Maid of (bs 
South Seas," " Wallington Hall," " Our Villtge," & ■. ic] 

10 [Mies Eliia Francis published, in .815, "Sir Wi.libert do Wavcrljy ct 
the Bridal Eve."] 



812 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



I will now r Jturn to the writer of the article which has 
drawn forth these remarks, whom I honestly take to be 
John Wilson, a man of great powers and acquirements, 
well known to the public as the author of the " City of the 
Plague," " Isle of Palms," and other productions. I take 
tlie liberty of naming him, by the same species of courtesy 
which has induced him to designate me as the author of 
Don Juan Upon the score of the Lake Poets, he may per- 
haps recall to mind that I merely express an opuiion long 
ago entertained and specified in a letter to i\Ir. James 
Hogg,i which he the said James Hogg, somewhat contrary 
to the law of pens, showed to Mr John Wilson, in the year 
3814, as he himself informed me m his answer, telling me 

by way of apology that " he'd be d cl if he could help it ;" 

and I am not conscious of any thing like " envy" or " ex- 
acerbation" at this moment which induces me to think bet- 
ter or worse of Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge as 
poeid than 1 do now, although I do know one or two things 
more which have added to my contempt for them as indi- 
viduals. 

And, in retum foi Mr. Wilson's invective,^ I shall con- 
tent myself with asking one question ; Did he never com- 
pose, recite, or sing any parody or parodies upon the Psalms, 
(of what nature this deponent saith not,) in certain jovial 
meetings of the youth of Edinburgh V-' It is not that I think 
any grc -_ harm if he did ; because it seems to me that all 
depends jpon the intention of such a parody. If it be meant 
to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it is a sin : if it be 
Intended to burlesque the profane sub'ect. or to mculcate a 
moral truth, it is none. If it were, tiie Unbelievers' Creed, 
the many politic? ' parodies of various parts of the Scriptures 
and liturgy, particularly a celebrated one of the Lord's 
Prayer, and the beautiful moral parable in favor of tolera- 
tion by Franklin, which has often been taken for a real 
extract from Genesis, would all be sins of a damning nature. 
But I wish to know if Mr. Wilson ever has done this, and 
if he has, why he should be so very angry with similar por- 
tions of Don Juan ?— Did no " parody profane" appear in 
any of the earlier numbers of Blackwood's Magazine? 

I will now conclude this long answer to a short article, 
repenting of having said so much in my own defence, and 
so little on the '• crying, left-hand fallings off and national 
defections" of the poetry of the present day. Having said 
tills I can hardly be expected to defend Don Juan, or any 
other ^'.living", poetry, and shall not make the attempt. 
And although I do not think that Mr. John Wilson has i;i 
Uiis instance treated me with candor or consideration, I 
trust that the tone I have used in speaking of him personally 
will prove that I bear him as little malice as i really be- 
lieve at the boUom of his heart he bears towards me ; but the 
duties of an editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, are para- 
mount and peremptory. I have done. 

BYRON. 



Note [C] — Lord Bacon's Apothegms. 
675.* 



See 



bacon's APOTHSGMS. OBSERVATIONS. 

91. 

Michael Angelo, the famous This was no< the por- 
paintci, ^ainting in the pope's cha- trait of a cardinal, but 
pel the portraiture of hell and of the pope's master of 
damned souls, made one of the the ceremonies, 
damned souls so lik i a cardinal 
that was his enemy, as everybody 
at first sight knew it : whereujion 
the cardinal complained to Pope 
Clement, humbly praying it might 
be defaced. The pope said to him, 
Why, you know very well I have 
power to deliver a soul out of pur- 
gatory, but not out of hell. 



ad the most amu 



letter from Hojrj, tlie Ettriclt 
le to recommend him to Murray; and, 
lose * bills' are never * lifted,' he adds, 
them both.' I litu^hed, 



ation 



iitroduced. 
outh, powe 



1 ("Oh! I have I 
minstrel and sheplierd. He want 
speaking of his present bookseller 
totidem verbis, *God d — n him, a 
you loo, at the way in whicli this 
IS a strano;e beino^, but of ^reat 
highly of him as a poet ; but he, and half of ih 
budors are epoiled by living in liltle circles and petty soc 
CetVers-'i 

2 [This is one of the many mistakes into which his distance from the scene 
of liler^y operations led hiin. The gentleman, to whom the hostile article 
in the Magazine la here attributed, has never, either then or since, written 
upon tli£ biibjfcct of the ncble poet's character or geniuH, without giving vent 



rhe said Hogg 

I think very 

nd Lake trou- 

ties." — Byran 



155. 

Alexander after the battle of 
Gramcum, had very great offers 
made him by Darius. Consulting 
with his captains concerning them, 
Parmenio said. Sure, I would ac- 
cept of these otters, if I were as 
Alexander. Ale.rander answered. 
So woulil I, if I we.e as Parmenio. 

158. 
Antigonus, when it was told him 
that the enemy had such volleys of 
arrows that they did hide the sun, 
said, That falls out well, for it is hot 
weather, and so we shall fight in 
the shade. 

162. 
There was a philosopher that 
disputed with Adri.-in the Emperor, 
and did it but weakly. One of his 
friends that stood by afterwards 
said unto him, Methinks you were 
not like yourself last day, in argu- 
ment with the Emperor : I could 
have answered bettermyself. Why, 
said the philosopher, would you 
have me contend with him that 
commands thirty legions ? 

164. 
There was one that found a 
great mass of money digging under 
ground in his grandfather's house, 
and being somewhat doubtful of 
the case, signified it to the emperor 
that he had found such treasure. 
The emperor made a rescript thus : 
Use it. He writ back again, that 
the sum was greater than his state 
or condition could use. The em- 
peror writ a new rescript thus : 
Abuse it. 

178. 
One of the seven was wont to 
say, that laws were like cobwebs : 
where the small flies were caught, 
and the great break through 

209. 
An orator of Athens said to De- 
mosthenes, The Athenians will kill 
you if they wax mad. Demos- 
thenes teplied, And they will kill 
you, if they be in good sense. 

221. 
There was a philosopher about 
Tiberius that, .ooking into the 
nature of Cait s, said of him. 
That he was mire mingled with 
blood. 



There was a king of Hungary 
took a bishop in battle, and kept 
him prisoner : whereupon the pope 
writ a monitory to hirn, for that he 
had broken the privilege of holy 
church and taken his son; the king 
sent an embassage to him, and sent 
withal the armor wherein the 
bishop was taken, and this only in 
writing — Vide num hac sit vestis filii 
tui ? Know now whether this be 
thy son's coat 1 



It was after 'Jie baitle 
of Issus and during the 
siege of Tyre, and not 
immediately after the 
passage of the Grarii- 
cus, that this is saiQ W) 
have occurred. 



This was not said by 
Antigonus, but by a 
Spartan, previou.s!y to 
the battle of Thermo- 
pyls. 



This happened under 
Augustus c.iiar, and 
not during the reign of 
Adrian 



This happened to the 
father of Herodes Atti- 
cus, and the answer was 
made by the Emperor 
Nerva, who deserved 
that his name should 
have been stated by the 
" greatest — wisest — 
meanest of mankind."* 



This was said by Ana- 
charsis the Scythian, 
and not by a Creek. 



This was not said iy 
Demosthenes, but to 
Demosthenes by Pho- 
cion. 



This was not said of 
Caius, (Caligula, I pre- 
sume, is intended by 
Caius,) but of Tibtriua 
himself. 



This reply was not 
made by a king of Hun 
gary, but sent by Rich- 
ard the First, Coeur de 
Lion, of England to the 
Pope, with the breast- 
plate of the bishop of 
Beauvais. 



to a feeling of adn 

fully expressed. — Moore.'] 

3 [The allusion here is to so; 
circulated bv the radical press, 
date for the Chair of Moral Ph 



as enthusiastic as it is always etoquenlly ant power • 



1 now forgotten calumnies 
t the time when Mr. W .sen 
sophy in the University of Ed 



hich li 



id been 
. ;=ndi- 
h.] 



4 [" Ordered Fletcher (at foi 
eight apothegms of Bacon, in 
schoolboy might detect, rather than comi 
must they be, when such as I can stumble < 
I will go to bed, for I find that I 



o'clock this afternoon) to copy out 

hich I have detected su ^h blunde 

Such are ine sages I 

ir mistakes or misslat 

Byron L'tary, Jan 



Whot 
ernents 3 
i, 621 



[" Tf parts allure Ihcc, think how Bacon shined 

The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind.' — Pc^e ] 



APPENDIX. 



813 



267. 
Demetrius, king of Macedon, had This did not happen 
a petition offered him divers times to Demetrius, but to 
by an old woman, and answered he Philip King of Mace- 
had no leisure ; whereupon the don. 
woman said aloud, Why then give 
over-to be king. 

VOLTAIRE. 

Having stated that Bacon was frequently incorrect in his 
citations from history, I have thought it necessary in what 
regards so great a name (however trifling) to support the 
assertion by such facts as more immediately occur to me. 
Thev are but trifles, and yet for such trifles a schoolboy 
■would be whipped, (if still in the fourth form ;) and Voltaire 
for half a dozen similar errors has been treated as a super- 
ficial writer, notwithstanding the testimony of the learned 
Warton : — ■" Voltaire, a writer of much deeper research than 
IS imagined, and the first who has displayed the literature 
and customs of the dark ages with arty degree of penetration 
and comprehension."' For another distinguished 'estimony 
to Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also Lord Hol- 
land's excellent Account of the Life and Writings of Lope 
de Vega. vol. i. p. 215, edition of 1817.2 

Voltaire has even been termed "a shallow fellow," by 
some of the same school who called Dryden's Ode " a 
drunken song ;" — a school (as it is called, I presume, from 
their education being still incomplete) the whole of whose 
filthy trash of Epics, Excursions, &c. &c. &c. is not worth 
the two words in Zaire, " Vous pleurrz"^ or a single speech 
of Tancred :— a school, the apostate lives of whose renega- 
does.with their tea-drinking neutrality of morals, and their 
convenient treachery in politics— in the record of their 
accumulated pretences to virtue can produce no actions 
(were all their good deeds drawn up in array) to equal 
or approach the sole defence of the family of Calas, by 
that great and unequalled genius — the universal Voltaire. 

I have ventured to remark on these little inaccuracies of 
" the greatest genius that England, or perhaps any other 
country, ever produced,"^ merely to show our national in- 
justice in condemning generally the greatest genius of 
France for such inadvertencies as these, of which the 
highest of England has been no less guilty. Query, was 
Bacon a greater intellect than Newton ? 

CAMPBELL.5 

Being in the humor of criticism, I shall proceed, after 
having ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch upon one 
or two as trifling in their edition of the British Poets, by the 
justly celebrated Campbell. But I do this in good-will, and 
trust it will be so taken. If any thing could add to my 
opinion of the talents and true feeling of that gentleman, it 
would be his classical, honest, and triumphant defence of 
Pope, against the vulgar cant of the day, and its existing 
Grub-street. 

The inadvertencies to which I allude are, — 

Firstly, in speaking of Ansteij, whom he accuses of having 
taken " his leading characters from Smollett." Anstey's 
Bath Guide was published in 176fi. Smollett's Humphry 
Clinker (the only work of Smollett's from which Tabitha, 
&c. &c. could have been taken) was written during Smollett's 
last residence at Leghorn in 17 '0 — " Argal," if there has been 
any borrowing, Anstey must be the creditor, and not the 
debtor. I refer ]\Ir. Campbell to his own data in his lives of 
Smollett and .\nstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says in the life of Cowper (note 
to page 358, vol. vii.) that he knows not to whom Cowper 
alludes in these lines : — 

" Nor he who, for the banc of thousands born, 
Built God ^ church, and laugh'd his word to scorn." 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Femey, 
with its inscription " Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. Campbell quotes Shak- 
speare thus :^ 



1 Dissertation I. 

2 [Till Voltaire appcarjJ, there vas no nation more ig-norant of its 
neijrnbors* literature than the French. He first exposed; and then cor. 
rected, this neglect in his countrvmen. There is no writer to whom the 
authors of otner nations, especially of Eng-land, are so indebted for the ex- 
tension of their fame in France, and, throujh France, in Europe. There 
is no critic who has employed more time, wit, ingenuity, and diligence in 
promoting the literary nitercourse between country and country, and in 
celebrating- in one language the triumphs of another. Yet, by a stranare 
fatality, he is constantly represented as the enemy of all literature but his 
own; and Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italians vie with each other in in- 
veighing against his occasional exaggeration of faulty passages; the authors 
of which, till he pointetl out their beauties, were hardly known beyond the 
country in which iheir language was spolten. Those who feel such indigna- 
tiou at his misrepi;eicnlaiions and oversights, would find it difficult to pro- 
duce a critic in any'modeni langna?e, who, in speaking erf foreign literature. 
Is belter iiifonncd or more candi'I thaa Voltaire ; and they certainly never 



" To gild refined gold, to paint the rose, 
Or add fresh perfuiue to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, winch is 
as follows : — 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 

To th'^ov) a perfume on the violet," &c. — King John 

A great poet quoting another should be correct ; he should 
also be accurate, when he accuses a Parnassiai' brother of 
that dangerous charge '' borrowing :" a poet had better 
borrow any thing (excepting money) than the thoughts of 
another — they are always sure to be reclaimed ; but it is 
very hard, having been the lender, to be denounced as the 
debtor, as is the case of Anstey versus Smollett. 

As there is " honor amongst thieves," let there be some 
amongst poets, and give each his due, — none can afford to 
give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, with a high 
reputation for originality, and a fame which cannot be 
shaken, is the only poet of the times (except Rogers) who 
can be reproached (and in him it is indeed a reproach) with 
having written too little. 

Ravenna, Jan, 5, 1821, 



Co.NTERSATIONS ot' LoRD ByRON, AS RELATED By 

Thomas Medwin, Esq., compared with a Por- 
tion OF HIS Lordship's Correspondence. 

The volume of " Lord Byron's Conversations" with Mr. 
Med win contains several statements relative to Mr. Murray, 
his lordship's publisher, against which, however exception- 
able they might be, he was willing to trust his defence to the 
private testimony of persons acquainted with the real par- 
ticulars, and to liis general character, rather than resort to 
any kintl of public appeal, to which he has ever been ex- 
ceedingly averse. But friends, to whose judgment Mr. 
Murray is bound to defer, having decided that such an ap- 
peal upon the occasion is become a positive duty on his 
part, he hopes that he shall not be thought too obtrusive in 
opposing to those personal allegations extracts from Lord 
Byron's own letters, with the addition of a few brief notes 
of necessary explanation. 

Capt. Medwin, p. 167. 

"Murray offered me, of his own accord, 1000^. a canto 
for Don Juan, and afterwards reduced it to 500?. on the plea 
of pir.acy, and complained of my dividing one canto into 
two, because I happened to say something at the end of the 
third canto of having done so." 

Lord Bykon's Letter. 

" Ravenna, February 7, 1820. 
" Dear Murray, 

" / hatie copied and cut the third canto of Don Juan 
INTO TWO, because it loas too long, and I tell you this before- 
hand, because, in case of any reckoning between you and me, 
these two are only to go for one, as this was the original form, 
and in fact the two together are not longer than one of the first ; 
so remember, that I have not made this division to DOUBLE upon 
YOU, but merehj to suppress some tediousness in the aspect of the 
thing. I should have served you a pretty trick if I had sent you, 
for example, cantos of fifty stanzas each." 



Capt. Medwin, p. 169. 

"I don't wish to quarrel with Murray, but it seems in- 
evitijle. I had no reason to be pleased with him the other 



would be able to discover one who to those qualities unites so m-ich sagacity 
and liveliness. His enemies would fain persuade us that such exuberance 
of wit implies a want of information ; but they ordy succeed in showing that 
a want ot wit by no means implies an exuberance of information. — Lord 
Holland.] 

3 "II est trap vrai que I'honneur me I'ordonne, 

Que je vous adorai, que je vous abamlonne, 

Que je rencrce k vous, que vou.s le desirez. 

Que sous une autre loi . . . Zaire, vous plrurez ?" — 

Z-iire, acte ir. sc. ii 

4 Pope, in Spence's Anecdotes, p. 153. Malone's ed.ticn. 

5 ["Read Campbell's Poels. Ccrrected Tom's slips df the pen. A gro<l 
work, though— stvie affected— but his defence of Pope is glorious. To be 
sure, it is his own cause too,— but no matter, it is very gccc and iloos hhn 
^reat credit." — Byron Diary, Jan. 10, 1821.] 



814 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



day. Galignani wrote to me, offering to purchase the copy- 
right of my works, in order to obtam an exclusive privilege 
of pnnting them in France. I might have made mv own 
terms, and put the money in my own pocket ; instead oi 
which, I enclosed Galignani's letter to Murray, in order 
that he might conclude the matter as he pleased. He did 
so, very advantageously for his own interest ; but never 
had the complaisance, the common politeness, to thank me, 
or acknowledge my letter." 



Lord Byron's Letter. 

" Ravenna, Qbre 4, 1820. 
" / have received from Mr. Galignani the enclosed letters, 
duplicates, and receipts, which will explain themselves. As the 
poems are your property by purchase, right, and justice, ALL 
MATTERS OF PUBLICATION, tSfC. <!fC. ARE FOR YOU TO DECIDE 
UPON. I knoic not how far my compliance with Mr. C's request 
might he legal, and I doubt that it would not be honest. In case 
you choose "to arrange with him I enclose the permits to you, and 
in so doing I wash my hands of the business altogether. I sign 
them merely to enable you to exert the power you justly possess 
more properly. I will have nothing to do with it further, except 
vn my answer to Mr. Galignani, to state that the letters, ^c. •!fC. 
are sent to you, and the causes thereof. If you can check these 
foreign pirates, do; if not, put the permissive papers in the fire. 
I can have no view nor object whatever but to secure to you your 
property." 

Note.— Mr. Murray derived no advantage from the pro- 
posed agreement, which was by no means of the importance 
here ascribed to it, and therefore was never attempted to be 
carried into effect : the documents alluded to are still in his 
possession. 



Capt. Medwin, pp. 169-171. 

" Murray has long prevented the ' Quarterly' from abusing 
me. Some of their bullies have had their fingers itching 
to be at me ; but they would get the worst of it in a set-to. 

" Murray and I have dissolved all connection : he had 
the choice of giving up me or the Navy List. There was 
no hesitation which wav he should decide : the Admiralty 
carried the day. Now' for the Quarterly their batteries 
will be opened : but I can fire broadsides loo. They have 
been letting off lots of squibs and crackers against me, but 
they only make a noise and * * *." 

" ' Werner' was the last book Murray published for me, 
and three months after came out the Quarterly's article on 
my Plays, when ' Marino Faliero' was noticed for the first 
time." 

joord Byron's Letter 

" Genoa, Wbre 25, 1822. 
" / had sent you back the Quarterly without perusal, having re- 
solved to read no more reviews, good, bad, or indifferent ; but loho 
can control his fate? ' Galignani,' to lehom my English studies 
are confined, has forwarded a copy of at least one half of it in his 
indefatigable weekly compilation, and as, ' like honor, it came vn- 
looked for,' I have looked through it. I must say that upon the 
WHOLE — that is, the whole of the HALF which I have read (for 
the other half is to be the segment of Gal.'s next week's circular) 
— it is certainly handsome, and any thing but unkind or unfair." 

Note.— The passage about the Admiralty is unfounded in 
fact, and no otherwise deserving of notice than to mark its 
absurdity ; and with re£'-rd to the " Quarterly Review," his 
lordship ivell knew that il was established, and constantly 
conducted, on principles which absolutely excluded Mr. 
Murray from all such interference and influence as is im- 
plied in the " Conversations." 



Capt. Medwin, p. 168. 

" Because I gave Mr. Murray one of my poems, he want- 
ed to make me believe that I had made him a present of 
two others, and hinted at some lines in ' English Bards' 
that were certainly to the point. But I have altered my 
mind considerably upon that subject : as I once hinted to 
him, I see no reason why a man should not prilt by the 
sweat 01 his brain as well as that of his brow, &c , besides, 
I was poor at that time, and have no idea of aggrandizing 
bookselltrs." 



Lord Byron's Letter. 

"January 2 1816, 
" Dear Sir, 

" Your offer is liberal in the extreme, and much more than 
the two poems can possibly be xoorth — but I cannot accept it, r.oT 
will not. You are most loelcome to them, as additions to ihc 
collected volumes, without any demand or expectation on my pert 
whatever 

"BYRON. 

" P. S. — I have enclosed your draft TORN, for fear of ac- 
cidents by the way. — I wish you would not throw temptation in 
mine ; it is not from a disdain of the universal idol — nor from a 
present superfluity of his treasures — I can assure you, that I refuse 
to worship him — but what is right is right, and must not yield to 
circumstances 

" To J. Murray, Esq." 

Note. — The above letter relates to a draft for 1,000 
guineas, offered by Mr. Murray for two poems, the Siege of 
Corinth and Parisina, which his lordship had previously, at 

a short interval, presented to Mr. Murray as donations. 

Lord Byron was afterwards induced by Mr. Murray's 
earnest persuasion, to accept the 1,000 guineas, and Mr. 
Murray has his lordship's assignment of the convright of 
the two pieces accordingly. 



Capt. Medwin, p. 166. 

" Murray pretends to have lost money by my -writings, 
and pleads poverty ; but if he is poor, which is somewhat 
problematical to me, pray who is to blame ? 

" Mr. Murray is tender of my fame. How kind in him ! 
He is afraid of my writing too fast. Why ? because he has 
a tender regard for his own pocket, and does not like the 
look of any new acquaintance in the shape of a book of 
mine, till he has seen his old friends in a variety of new 
faces ; ID est, disposed of a vast many editions of the 
former works. I don't know what would become of me 
without Douglas Kinnaird, who has always been my besf, 
and kindest friend. It is not easy to deal with Mr. Mur- 
ray." 

Note.— In the numerous letters received by Mr. Murray 
yearly from Lord Byron, (who, in writing them, was not a;- 
customed to restrain the expression of his feelings,) not one 
has any tendency towards the imputations here thrown 
out : the incongruity of which will be evident from the fact 
of Mr. Murray having paid at various times, for the copy- 
right of his lordship's poems, sums amounting to upwards 
of 15,000/., VIZ. 



Childe Harold, I. II 
III. 

ir. 

Giaour - - 

Bride of Abydos 

Corsair - - - - 

Lara - - 

Siege of Corinth 

Parisina ... 

Lament of Tasso 

Manfred ... 

Beppo . . - - 

Don Juan, I. II. 

///. IV. V. 

Doge of Venice - . - 

Sardanapalus, Cain, and Foscari 
Mazeppa ... 

Chilian - . - - 

Sundries - - 



£ 600 

1,515 

2,100 

525 

525 

525 

700 

525 

525 

315 

315 

525 

1,525 

1 525 

1,050 

1 100 

525 

625 

450 

£15,455 



Capt Medwin p 170 

" My differences with Murray are not over. When lia 
purchased ' Cain,' ' The Two Foscari,' and ' Sardanapalus, 
he sent me a deed, which you may remember witnessing 
Well ; after its return to England it was discovered that 
******* 
******* 
But I shall take no notice of it."— 



APPENDIX. 



815 



Note.— Mr. Murray of course cannot answer a statement 
which he does not see ; but pleilges himself to disprove any 
inf.ulpation the suppressed pas.'^age may contain, whenever 
disclosed. He has written twice to Captain Medwin's pub- 
lisher, desiring, as an act of justice, to have the passage 
printed entire in any new edition of the book, and in the 
mean time to be favored with a copy of it. As this has not 
y-ct been obtained, and as the context seems to imply that 
It accuses hini of endeavoring to take some pecuniary ad- 
vantage of Lord Byron, he thinks he shall be forgiven for 
stating the following circumstance.s. 

Mr. Murray having accidentally heard that Lord Byron 
was in pecuniary difficulties, immediately forwarded 1,500/. 
to him, with an assurance that another such sum should be 
at his service in a few months : and that, if such assistance 
should not be sufficient, Mr. Murray would be ready to sell 
the copyright of all his lordship's works for his use. 

The following is Lord Byron's acknowledgment of this 
offer. 

" JVovemher Uth, 1815. 
" Dear Sir, 

" I return you your bills not accepted, but certainly not 
UNHONORED. Yoiir present offer is a favor which I would accept 
from you if I accepted such from any man. Had such been my in- 
tention, I can assure you i would have asked you fairly and as 
fteely as you would give , and I cannot say more of my confidence 
or your conduct. The circumstances which induce me to part 
with my boohs, though sufficiently are not iyiMEDiA.TELY pressing. 
I have made up my mind to them, and there is an end. Had I 
been disposed to trespass on your kindness in this icay, it would 
have been before now ; but I am not sorry to have an opportunity 
of declining it, as it sets my opinion of you, and indeed of human 
nature, in a different light from that in which I have been ac- 
customed to consider it. 

" Believe me, very truly, 

" Your obliged and faithful servant, 
"BYRON. 
" To John Murray, Esq." 

Note. — That nothing had occurred to subvert these 
friendly sentiments will appear from the three letters sub- 
joined, the second of them written by Lord Byron a few 
weeks before his death, and the last addressed by his lord- 
ship's valet to Mr. Murray as one of his deceased master's 
most confidential friends. 

Lord Byron's Letters. 

" May Sth, 1819. 
" / have a great respect for your good and gentlemanly 
qualities, and return your personal friendship towards me 
******. You deserve and possess the esteem of those whose 
esteem is worth having, and of none more {however useless it may 
be) than 

" Yours, very truly, 

"BYRON." 

" Missolonghi, Feb. 25, 1824. 
' I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that you state 
a revort of a satire on Mr. Gifford having arrived from Italy, said 
to be written by ME, but that YOU do not believe it ; I dare say 
you do not, nor anybody else, I should think. Whoever asserts 
that I am the author or abettor of any thing of the kind on Gifford, 
lies in his throat : I always regarded him as my literary father, 
and myself as his prodigal son. Jf any such composition exists, 
it is none of mine. You know, as well as anybody, upon WHOM 
/ have or have not written, and YOU also know whether they do 
or did not deserve the same — and so much for such matters. 
, ** You will, perhaps, be anxious to hear some news from this 
part of Greece, (which is most liable to invasion,) but you will 
hear enough through public and private channels, on that head. I 
will, however, give you the events of a week, mingling my own 
private peculiar with the public, for we are here jumbled a little 
together at present. 

" On Sunday, (the I5th, I believe,) I had a strong and sudden 
convulsive attack which left me speechless, though not motionless, 
for some strong men could not hold me ; but whether it was epi- 
lepsy, catalepsy, cacnexy, apoplexy, or what other exy or epsy, 
the doctors have not decided, or whether it was spasmodic or ner- 
vous, ^c, but it was very unpleasant, and nearly carried me off, 
and all that. On Monday they put leeches to my temples, no dif- 
ficult matter, but the blood could not be stopped till eleven at night, 
{they had gone too near the temporal artery for my temporal safe- 
ty,) and neither styptic nor caustic would cautcrite. the orifice 
till after a hundred attempts. 

" On Tuesday, a Turkish brig of war ran on '^nrg. On 
Wednesday, great preparations being nurf? lu nttuck her, though 
protected by her consorts, the Turks burned her, and retired to 
Patras. On Thursday, a quarrel ensued betwee-^ the Suliotes 
and <Ae Frank guard at the arsenal ; a Swedish ofjictr w >« 



killed, and a Suliote severely woundtJ and a general fight ex- 
pected, and with some difficulty prevntod. On Friday, the 
officer buried, and Captain Parry's English artificers mutinied, 
under pretence that their lives were in danger, and are for quit- 
ting the country— they may. On Saturday, we had the smartest 
shock of an earthquake which I remember, {and 1 have felt thirty, 
slight or smart, at different periods ;' they are common in the 
Mediterranean,) and the whole army discharged their arms, upon 
the same jyrinciple that savages beat drums or howl, during an 
eclipse of the moon ; it was a rare scene altogether. If you had 
but seen the English Johnnies, who had never been out of a Cock- 
ney loorkshop before, nor will again if they can help it ! And on 
Sunday we heard that the Vizier is come down to Larissa with 
one hundred and odd thousand men. 

" In coming here I had two escapes,— from the Turks, {one of 
my vessels was taken, but afterwards released,) and the other 
from shipwreck ; we drove twice on the rocks near the Scrophes, 
{islands near the coast.) 

" / have obtained from the Greeks the release of eight and 
twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, and sent 
them to Patras and Prevesa at my own charge: One little 
girl of nine years old, who proposes remaining with ,ne, I shall 
{if I live) send with her mother, probably, to Italy, or to Eng- 
land, and adopt hti Her name is Hato Hatagee ; she is a very 
pretty lively child. Al her brothers were hilled by the Greeks, 
and she herself and her motnti were spared by special favor, 
and owing to her extreme youth, she being then but frcf or six 
years old.. 

" My health is rather better, and I can ride about again. 
My office here is no sinecure — so many parties and difficulties 
of every kind ; but I will do what I can. Prince Mavrccordati 
is an excellent person, and does all in his power ; but his situa- 
tion is perplexing in the extreme: still we have great hopes of 
the success of the contest. You will hear, however, more of 
public news from plenty of quarters, for I have little time to icrite. 
Believe me, 

" Yours, tjc. Ac. 
" N. B. 

" To John Murray, Esq." 



Letter of Lord Byron's Valet. 

"Missolonghi, April 'il, 1824. 
" Sir, 

" Forgive me for this intrusion which I now am under tfii 
painful necessity of writing to you, to inform you of the mel- 
ancholy news of my Lord Byron, who is no more. He departed 
this miserable life on the I9th of April, after an illness of onbj 
ten days. His lordship began by a nervous fever, and terminated 
wilh an injlammation on the brain, for want of being bled in time, 
which his lordship refused till it was loo late. I have sent the 
Hon. Mrs. Leigh's tetter enclosed in yours, which I think would 
be better for you to open and explain to Mrs. Leigh, for I fear 
the contents of the letter will be too much fur her. A nd you will 
please to inform Ijody Byron and the Honorable Miss Byron, 
whom I am wished to see when I return wilh my lord's effects, and 
his dear and noble remains : Sir, you will please manage in the mild- 
est way possible, or I am tnuch afraid of the conseyuences 
Sir, you will please give mi/ duty to Lady Byron ; hoping she 
will allow me to see her, by my lord's particular wish, and Miss 
Byron likewise. Please to excuse all defects, for I scarcely 
know what I either say or do, for after twenty years' service 
with my lord, he was more to me than a father, and I am too 
much distressed to now ^ive a correct account of every particu- 
lar, which I hope to do at mi/ orrival in England. — Sir, you 
will likewise have the goodness lO forward the letter to the Hon- 
orable Captain George Byron, who, as the representative of the 
family and title, I thought it my duty to send him a line. But 
you. Sir, will please to explain to htm all particulars, as I have 
not time, as the express is now ready to make liis voyag" day and 
night till he arrives in London. — 1 must. Sir, praying forgive- 
ness, and hoping at the same time that you will so far oblige me 
as to execute all my wishes, which I am well convinced you will 
not refuse. 

" / remain, Sir, 
" Your most obedient and very humble servant. 
" W. FLETCHER, 
" Valet to the late L. B.for twenty years. 

" P. S. — / mention my name and capacity that you may re- 
member and forgive this, when you remember the qwintity of times 
I have been at your house in Albcmarle-street. 

" To John Murray, Esq." 

Note.— Other letters from Lord Byron, of the same tenor 
and force with these now produced, might have been added. 
But it is presumed that these are sufficient to demonstrate 
in the present case, what has been demonstrated in many 



816 



BYRON'S WORKS. 



others, that desultory, ex-parte conversations, even if ac- 
cuiately reported, will often convey imperfect and erroneous 
notions of llie speaker's real sentiments. 

JOHN MURRAY. 
Albemarle Street, 
30th Oct. 1824. 



Capt. Medts^in, p. 170. 

" My differences with Murray are not over. When he 
purchased ' Cain,' ' The Two Foscari,' and ' Sardanapalus,' 
he sent me a deed, which you may remember witnessing. 
Well ; after its return to England, it was discovered that 
it contained a clause which had been introduced without my 



knowledge, a clause by which I bound myself to offer Mr. Mur- 
ray all my future compositions. But I shall take no notice 
6f- it." 

Note.— The words in italic are those which were sup- 
pressed in the two first editions of Captain Medvvin's book, 
and which Mr. Murray has received from the publisher 
after the foregoing statement was printed. He has only to 
observe upon the subject, that on referring to the deed in 
question, no such clause is to be found ; that this instrument 
was signed in London by the Hon. Do'-ylas Kinnaird, as 
Lord Byron's procurator, and wilnessed"'by Richard Wil- 
liams, Esq., one of the partners in Mr. Kinnaird's banking 
house ; and that the signature of Captain Medwin is not 
affixed. 

J M. 

fid Nov 



817 




INDEX. 




A. 


Albanian dialect of the Illyric, speci- 


Andrews, Miles Peter, esq., his pro 




mens of, 773. 


logues, 441. Some account of, 441. n. 


Abelard, 183. 


Albanians, their character and m&r.rers, 


Andromache, 543. 


Abencerrage, 539. 576. 


32, 33. 772. Their resemblance to 


Anent, 725. 


Aberdeen, town of, 715. 


the highlanders of Scotland, 772. 


Angelo, Jlichael, his tomb in the church 


Aberdeen, (Georpe Hamilton Gordon,) 


Albano, 70. 


of Santa Croce, 58. His Statue ol 


fourth earl of, 27. 438 446. 


Albano, Francesco, 742. 


Moses, 512. His Last Judgment, 513. 


Abernethy, John, surgeon, 717. 


Albion, sensations at the first sight of 


His copy of Dante, 603. Treatment 


Abruzzi, 495. 


her chalky belt, 719. 


of, by Julius II., 308. Neglect of, by 


Absalom and Achitophel, 649. 810. 


Albrizzi, Countess, 240. 578. 


Leo X., 513. Anecdote of, 812. 


Absence, results of, 641. 


Albrizzi, Giuseppe, 578. 


Angelo, St., Castle of, 68. 323. 


Absent friend, pleasure of defending, 


Albuera, battle of, 19. 25. 


Angiolini, dancer, 440. 


769. 


Alcibiades, beauty of his person, 313. 


Anger, 75. 107. 617. 


Abydos, Bride of, 57. 661. 


General charm of his name, 313. 


Ai>gling, ' the cruelest and stupidest of 


Acarnania, 34. 


His character, 325. 754. 


sports,' 745. 


Achelous, river, 34. 


Ale.xander the Great, his visit to the 


Anne, Lines to, 545. 


Acheron-, lake, 31. 


tomb of Ajax, 92. 657. His sarcoph- 


Annesley, hill near, 485. 


Acherusia, lake, 31. 


agus, 536. His chastity, 035. 665. His 


Annuitants, alleged longevity of, 626. 


Achilles, liis person, 313. 751. Tomb 


reply to Parmenio after the battle 


Anstey's Bath Guide, 765. 813. 


of, 658. 660. 


of Issus, 612. 


Anteros, 192. 


Achitophel, 610. 


Alexander, Emperor of Russia, 540. 


Anthony, St., his recipe for hot blood. 


Achmet III., 132. 


685. 752. 


607. 


Acroceraunian mountains, 60. 


Alexander III., submission of Barba- 


Antigonus, 812. 


Acropolis of Athens, 26. 722. 771. 


rossa to, 780. 


Anti-Jacobin, 524. 


Actium, 30, 31. Sea-fight of, 31. 678. 


Alfieri, Vittorio, his life quoted, 52. His 


Antilochus, tomb of, 92. 658. 


Ada. See Byron, Augusta-Ada. 


tomb in the church of Santa Croce, 


Antinous, his heroic death, 26. 


Adams. John, a carrier, who died of 


58. His memoiy deartothe Itajians, 


Antoninus Pius, 790 


drunkenness, epitaph on, 547. 


784. 


Antony, 31. His person described, 313. 


Addison, 723. His account of a remark- 


Alfonso III., 55, 50. 117 489, 490. His 


The slave of love, 638. 678. 


able dream, 653. His ' faint praise,' 


wife Isabella, 117. 


Apelles, 512. 


769. 


Algiers, 614. 784. 


Apennines, 60. 509. 


'Address, spoken at the opening of 


Albania, 576. 


Apicius, 529. 


■Drury Lane Theatre,' 562. 


Ali Pacha of Yanina, portrait of, 31, 33. 


Apollo, 651. 


' Address intended to be recited at the 


His letter in Latin to Lord Byron, 


Apollo Belvidere, 69. 


Caledonian INIeeting,' 568. 


33. His assassination, 33. His mur- 


Appearances, ' the joint on -which good 


'Adieu, the ; written under the impres- 


der of Giaffar, Pacha of Argyro Cas- 


society hinges,' 743. 


sion that the author would soon die,' 


tro, 94. The original of Lambro, 654. 


Appetite, 667. 


544. 


' All is vanity, saith the Preacher,' 476. 


Applause, popular, 646. 


•Adieu, adieu ! my native shore,' 14. 


Alia Hu ! 80. 695. 


Arabs, life of the, 96. 


Admiration, 639. 671. 


Allegra, (Lord Byron's natural daugh- 


Ararat, Mount, 242. 


' Adrian's Address to his Soul vv'hen 


ter,) 428. 


Arcadia, 773. 


dying,' trans. =ition of, 389. 


Alliance, the Holy, 540. 678. 


Archidamus, 179. . 


Adriatic, the, 53. 


yvlphaius, river, 32. 


Archimedes, 752, 


Adversity, 733 743. 


Alpinula, Julia, her death, 45. Her af- 


Archipelago, 46. 182. 


Advice, 616. 75 i. 


fecting epitaph, 45. n. 


Ardennes, forest of, 41. 


^geansea. 111. 463. 


Alps, the, 45. 60. 


Aretino, Pietro, 787. 


JEginn, 56. 111. 


Alterkirchen, 44. 


Aretino, Leonardo, 509. 


jEschylus, his ' Prometheus,' 202. His 


Alypius, 791. 


Argos, 130, 


' Seven before Thebes,' 202 Trans- 


Amber, susceptible of a perfume, 92. 


Argus, Ulysses' dog, 641. 


lation from his 'Prometheus Vinc- 


Ambition, 42, 43. 62. 198. 314. 712. 


Argyle Institution, 441. 


tus,' 390 His ' Persians' quoted, 647. 


Ambracian Gulf, Stanzas written in 


Argyro- Castro, 94. 


jEsietes, toui: of, 92. 


passing the, 554. Reflections on the 


Ariosto, his portrait by Titian, 156 


JEsop, 540. 


past and present state of, 31. 


His bust, 56. 783. Contrasted with 


JEtns 66. 


Ambrosian library at Milan, 781. 


Tasso, 511. His person respected by 


.^toha, 34. 


America, 62. 491. 756. 


the public robber, 809. 


Africa and Africans, described, 655. 


' Amiti6 est I'Amour sans Ailes,' 422. 


Aristides, 811. 


Agamemnon, 601. 


Amulets, the belief in, universal in the 


Aristippus, 638. 


Age, 38. 227. 


East, 93. 


Aristophanes, 635. 


' Age of Bronze ; or. Carmen Seculare 


Anacreon, his ' 0£Xg) XcyEiv Arpti^nj' 


Aristotle, 611. 755. 


et Annus baud Mirabilis,' 536. 


translated, 390. His MeaovvKTiat; 


Arithmetic, poets of, 769. 


Age of Gold, 682. 


■Kod' copai; translated, 390. His mor- 


' Armageddon,' Townshend's, 451. 


Ages, changes produced by the lapse of. 


als worse than those of Ovid, 605. 


Army, 695. 


651. 


Anastasius Jlacedon, 798. 


Army tailor, 80. 


Agesilaus, 179. 


Anastasius, Hope's, 448. 


Arnaouts, or Albanese, 772. Their re- 


Agis, King of Sparta, 240. 


Ancestry, ,685. 


semblance to the highlanders of Scot- 


AgiluK, Duke of Turin, 783. 


' And wilt thou weep when I am low,' 


land, 772. 


Aglietti, Dr., 52. 240. 


550. 


Arno, river, 57. "14. 


Agostini, Leonard, 784. 


' And hou art dead, as young and fair,' 


Arqua, 55. 782. 


Agrarian law, 716. 


50J. 


' Art of Happiness,' Horetf s, 739. 


Ajax, 26. Sepulchre of, 93. 658. 


' And thou wert sad !' 482. 


' A spirit passYi before inc 478. 


Alamanni, 241. 


Andalusian nolileman, adventures of. 


' As o'er the cold sepulchra. stone,' f 63 


Alaric, 28 464. 


604. 


Asdrubal, 175. 


Alban Hill, description of the, 70. 792. 


Andernach, 44. 


Askalon, 388. 


Albania, 30. 772. 


Andrtjvs, Bishop, a punster, 450. 


Asphaltes, lake, 43. 



103 



818 



Asturias, 18. 

' Atalanlis,' Account of Mrs Manley's, 
728. 

Athanasian creed, 680. 

' Atheista Fulminato,' the old religious 
play of, 600, 601. 

Athen,Teus, 635. 

Athenians, character of the, 774. 

Athens, apostrophe to, 26. Reflections 
on the past and present condition of, 
26. Its situation and climate, 26. 
773. On the plunder of the works of 
art at, 27. 

Athens, Maid of, 555. 

Athos, Mount, 29. 66. Project for hew- 
ing it into a statue of Alexander, 730. 

Atlas, 60. 

' Attic Bee,' 764. 

Atticus, 462. 

Attila, his harangue to his army pre- 
vious to the battle of Chalons, 470. 

Augury, 652. 

' Augusta, Stanzas to,' 480. ' Epistle 
to,' 480. 

Augustin, St., his confessions, 600. 
761. 

Augustus Caesar, 472. 791. 

Auld lang syne, 717. 

Aurora Borealis, 527. 'Don Juan,' a 
versified, 687. 

Austerlitz, battle of 468. 

Authors, 161. 432. 667. 

Autocrat,. 709. 

Autumn, an English, described, 742. 

Avarice, ' a good old gentlemanly vice,' 
619. Panegyric on, 729. 

Ave Maria ! 649. 

Avenches, 45. 

Aventicum, 45. 

Avignon, 781. 

' Away, away, ye notes of wo,' 560. 

' Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens 
of roses !' 411. 

' A year ago you swore,' &c. 573. 



B. 



Babel, tower of, 668. 

Babylon, ruins of, 668. 

Bacchus, 635. 768. Temple of, 791. 

Back-woodsmen, Kentuckian, 700. 

Bacon, Friar, his brazen head, 620. The 
discoverer of gunpowder, 697. 

Bacon, Lord, 648. 754. Essay on Em- 
pire, 675. Inaccuracies in his Apo- 
thegms, 812. Saying of, 746. 

Baillie, Joanna, 206. Her ' Family Le- 
gend,' 206. 

Bafllie, Dr. Matthew, 717. His visit to 
Lord Byron, 603. Remarkable for 
plainness of speech, 717. 

Balgownie, brig of, 715. 

Baltic, 465. 

Bandusian Fountain, 792. 

Banis, S'r Joseph, 12. 

Bankts William, esq., 639. 

Banshie, superstition of the, 764. 

Barbarossa, Frederic, his submission to 
Pope Alexander the Third, 53. 780. 

Barings, the, 729. 

Barnave, Pierre-Joseph, 601. 

Barometer, marine, its great value, 601. 

Barossa, battle of, 465. 

Barrataria, account of the buccaneer 
establishment at, 117. 

Barrey, Ludovick, 468. 

Barrow, Dr. Isaac, his Sermons, 635. 

Barrow, Sir John, his ' Life of Peter 
the Great,' 171. His 'Eventful His- 
tory of the Mutiny of the Bounty,' 
171 His testimony to the accuracy 
of Lord Byron's description of a 
shipwreck, 625. His account of the 
cyanometer, 661. And of the marine 
barometer, 661. 

Barthtlirai, M., 775. 

Basili, Lord Byron's Athenian servant, 
772. 

Bashfulness, 89. 

Bath Guide, Anstey's, 766. 813. 

Bathnrst, Capteiin, 555. 



INDEX. 



Battle, 40. 108. 137, 138. 694, 095. 

B.aviad and Mreviad, extinguishment of 
tlie Delia Cruscans by the, 443. 

Baxter, Richard, 454. His Shove, 454. 

Bay of Biscay, 15. 

Bayard, Chevalier, ,^21. 

Bayes, his expedient, 456. 

Beatrice of Dante, 507. 640. 

Bealtie, Dr., his reflections on dreams, 
653. 

Beauharnais, Eugene, his testimony to 
the correctness of Loid Byron's de- 
lineation of Napoleon Bonaparte, 
600. 

Beaumont, Sir George, 521. 809. 

Beauty, 20. 77, 78. 88, 89. 607. 645. 737. 
757. 

Becher, Rev. John, ' Answer to his 
complaint that one of Lord Byron's 
descriptions was rather too warmly 
drawn,' 412. ' Lines addressed to, on 
his advising Lord Byron to mix more 
with society,' 4'20. 

Becket, Thomas a, his tomb, in Canter- 
bury Cathedral, 720. 

Beckford, William, esq., his residence 
at Cmtra described, 16. Character 
of his ' Vathek,' 16. Some account 
of, 16. 

Bed of Ware, 679. 

Bedlam, 724. 

Beggar's Opera, Gay's, 454. 484. 

Behmen, Jacob, his reveries, 678. 

Belisarius, 791. ' A hero, conqueror, 
and cuckold,' 638. 

Belshazzar, vision of 475. 645. 

Belshazzar, lines to, 570. 

Benbow, \Villiam, 327. 

Bender, obstinacy of Charles XII. at, 
704. 

Bentley, Dr. Richard, 407. 

Benzoni, Countess, 240. 

Benzoni, Vittor, 240. 

' Beppo, a Venetian Story,' 152. 

Beranger, M., 707. 

Bergami, Princess of Wales's courier 
and chamberlain, 608. 

Berkeley, Bishop, his skepticism con- 
cerning the existence of matter, 721. 

Berlin, 538. 719. 

Bernard, St., monks of, 777. 

Bernese Alps, 46 

Berni. the father of the Beppo style of 
writing, 153. 492. 

Bernis, Abb6 de, 205. 

Bertram. Maturm's tragedy of, 206. 

Betty, William Henry West, (the young 
Roscius,) 439. 

Bigamy, 703. 

Bigotry, 16. 184. 

Bile, energetic, described, 674. 

Biscay, Bay of 15. 

Birds, belief that the souls of the dead 
inhabit the forms of, 99. 

Biren, John Ernest, Duke of Cour- 
land, 719. 

Black Friar of Newstead Abbey, 763, 
764. 

Bladiburji, Archbishop, 117. 

Blackett, Joseph, the poetical cobbler, 
160. 442. 557. 

Blackmore, Sir Richard, 434. 

Blackwood's Magazine, its Remarks on 
Don Juan, 591. 592. ' Some Observa- 
tions upon its Remarks on Don Juan,' 
805. Critical notes from, passim. 

Elair, Dr., his Sermons, 635. 

Blake, fashionable tonsor, 456. 

Bland, Rev. Robert, his ' Collections 
from the Greek Anthology,' 444. 811. 

Blank-verse, excellence of rhyme over, 
in Enghsh poetry, 449. 618. 810. 

Blasphemy, and blasphemers, 677. 744. 

Blatant Beast, 17. 

Blessington, Countess of. Impromptu 
on her taking a villa called ' II Para- 
diso,' 587. Lines written at the re- 
quest of 587. 

Bligh, Captain, his Narrative of the 

Mutiny of the Bounty, 171. 
Blood ' only serves to wash ambition'.s 
hands,' 712. 



Bloomfield, Robert, 442. 460. 

Bloomfield, Nathaniel, 443. 460. 

Blucher, Marshal, 69'J. 

Bltie, instrument for measuring the in- 
tensity of, 661 . 

Blue Devils, 753. 

Blue-Stocking, 159. 517. 

' Blue-Stocking Club,' origin of, 517. 

'Blues, The: a Literary Eclogue,' 517. 

Blues, 159. 161. 517. 661. 725. 

Boabdil, 606. 

' Boatswain,' Lord Byron's favorite dog, 
549. ' Inscription on his monument,' 
549. 

Boccaccio, treatment of his ashes, 55. 
Defence of 786 

Boeotia, 22. 774. ,^ 

Boehm, Jlrs., 159. '/ 

Boileau, his depreciation of Tasso, 56. 
782. 

Bolero, 748. y 

Boleyn, Anne, It- vemtirk on the scaf- 
fold, 110. 

Bolingbroke, Lord, hires Mallet to tra- 
duce Pope, 437. 

Bolivar, Simon, 538. 

Bonn, 719. 

Bonne fortune, 750. 

Bonnivard, Francois de, account of, 
148. 

Booby, Lady, 673. 

Boon, Daniel, the Kentvickian back- 
woodsman, 700. 

Bores, 744. 

' Born in a garret, in the kitchen bred,' 
479. 

Borysthenes, the, 165. 

Boscan, Almogavci, 609. 

Bosphorus, the, 663. 

Bosquet de Julie, 48. 

Bosvvell. James, esq., 462. 

Botany Bay, 648. 

Bourbon, Duke of. Constable of France, 
318. 321, 322. 510. 

Bouts-rim6s, 765. 

Bowles, Rev. William Lisle, 'The 
maudlin prince of mournful sonnet- 
eers,' 436. His ' Spirit of Discove- 
ry,' 436. ' Lines on his edition of 
Pope,' 436. 

Boxing, 459. 

Braemar, 411. 

Braham, John, singer, 473. 

Brandy for heroes ! 172. 

Brasidas, 26. 

Brass, Corinthian, 684. 

Brave, picture of the truly, 703. 

Bread-fruit, 174. 

Brennus, 510. 

Brenta, 55. 

Brewster, Sir David, his ' Natural 
Magic,' 312. His 'Lifa of Newton,' 
687. 714. His description of Bishop 
Berkeley's theory, 721. 

Briareus, 680. 

' Bride of Abydos,' 87. 661. 

Bridge of Sighs, 52. 778. 

' Brig of Balgownie,' 715. 

' Bright be the place cf thy soul !' 547. 

Bnghtoru Pavilion at, 752. 

Brissot de Warville, 601 

Bristol, 437. 

' British Critic,' 590. 804. 

British Review, the 'Old Girl's Re- 
view,' 519. ' My Grandmother's Re- 
view,' 591. 619. Lord Byron's ' Let- 
ter to the Editor of,' 803. 

Brocken, superstition of the, 312. 

Bronze wolf of Rome, 61. 769. 

Brougham, Henry, esq., (now Lord 
Brougham and Vaux.) 429. 43U. 

Broughton, the regicide, his monument 
at Vevay, 48. 

Brown, Dr. Thomas, his Paradise of 
Coquettes, 812. 

Browne, Sir Thomas, his ' Religio Med- 
ici,' 89. His encomium on sleep, 
653. 

Bruce, Abyssinian, his description of a 
simoom, 75. 

Brummell, William, 160. 728. 

Brunck, Professor, 407. 



Brunswick, Duke of, his death at 
Quatre-Bras, 40. 

Brussels, 40. 

Brutus, 757. 

Brvant, Jacob, on the existence of 
troy, 658. 

Brydges, Sir Egerton, fiis ' Letters on 
the Character and Poetical Genius of 
Byron,' 596. Critical notes by, pas- 
sim. 

Bucentaur, 53. 

Budgeil, Eustace, his 'leap into the 
Thames,' 462. 

Bull-fight, description of a, 22, 23. 792. 

Bonaparte, Lucien, his ' Charlemagne,' 
445. 

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 470. '536. 571. 
708. 75C;. ' The Triptolemus of the 
British Farmer,' 542. His exclama- 
tion on the loss of his old guard, 
719. His character, 42. 600. 'Ode 
to,' 470. ' Lines on his escape from 
Elba,' 571. 

Buonaparte, Jacopo, his ' Sacco di Ro- 
ma,' 323. 510. 

Burdett, Sir Francis, his style of elo- 
quence, 531. 

Burgage tenures and tithes, 'discord's 
torches,' 766. 

Burgess, Sir James Bland, his epic of 
' llich ard the First' sold to line trunks, 
459. 809. 

Burgoyne, General, 600 

Burke, Edmund, 12. 172. 

Burlesque, 651. 

Burney, Dr., his character of Jewish 
music, 473. 

Burns, Robert, ' What would he havfi 
been, if a patrician V 442. His youth- 
ful pranks, 648. 

Burun, Ralph de, 388. 

Busby, Thomas, Mus. Doct., his mono- 
logue on the opening of Drury Lane 
Theatre, 467. Parody on his mono- 
logue, 563. 

Bute, Lord, 531. 

Butler, Dr., (head-master at Harrow,) 
393. 415, 416. ' Lines on his being ap- 
points! 'lead-master at Harrow,' 393. 

' By the rivers of Babylon,' 477. 

Byng, Admiral, his court-martial, 17. 

Byron, Sir John, the Little, with the 
great beard, 3S8. 

Byron, two of the family of, at the siege 
of Calais, and battle.of Cressy, 388. 

Byron, Sir John, created (1643) Baron 
Byron of Rochdale ; some account of, 
3S8. 

Byron, Sir Nicholas, his character by 
Lord Clarendon, 388. 

Byron, Sir Richard, tribute to his valor 
and fidelity, 388. 

Byron, Admiral John, (grandfather of 
the Poet,) his proverbial ill-luck at 
sea, 481. His shipwreck and sutFer- 
ings, 627. ' My grand-dad's Narra- 
tive,' 633. 

Byron, William, fifth Lord, (grand- 
uncle of the Poet,) 414. 

Byron, Captain Joim, (father of the 
Poet,) 417. 

Byron, Mrs., (mother of the Poet,) 310. 

Byron, Honorable Augusta, {sister of 
the Poet.) See Leigh, Honorable 
Augusta. 

Byron, Lady, 442. 478. 482.583. 602. 640. 
806. ' Lines on hearing that she was 
ill,' 482. ' Lines on reading in the 
newspapers that she had been patron- 
ess of a charity ball,' 583. 

Byron, Honorable AugustaAda, (daugh- 
'tor of the Poet,) 38. 51. 478. 

Byzantium, 53. 



Cabot, Sebastian, 511. 

Cadiz, 21. 602. 621. 

Cadiz, • The Girl of,' 24. 

Caesar, Augustus, his character, 472. 

C!a;sar, Julius, 62. 317. His character. 



INDEX. 



697. 790. His laurel wreath, 66. 317. 
' The suitor of love,' 177. 63a 

' Cam, a Mystery,' 326. 

Cairn Gorme, 710. 

Calderon, 602. 

* Caledonian Meeting, Address intend- 
ed to be recited at,' 568. 

Calenture, 298. 765. 

Caligula, 132. His wish, 689 

Calm at Sea, 120. 636. 

' Calmar and Oiia, Death of,' 421. 

Calpe, 28. 

Calvin, 454. 

Calypso, isles of, 29. 

Cambridge University, 407. 445. 448. 

Cambyses, 537. 

Camilla, 748. 

Camoens, 434. ' Stanzas to a lady, 
with the poems of,' 392. 

Campbel., Thomas, esq., 443. His 
' Pleasures of Hope,' 443. Inadver- 
tencies in his ' Lives of the Poets,' 
813. His ' Gertrude of Wyoming,' 
458. Critical notes by, passim. 

Can Grande, 540. 

Candia, 53. 630. 

Cannaj, battle of, 45. 

Canning, Right Hon. George, his opin- 
ion of the ' Bride of Abydos,' 96. His 
inscription for Mrs. Brownrigg, the 
' Prenti-cide,' 524. His defence of 
public schools and universities, 006. 
His character, 542. 677. 

Canova, 58. 240. ' Lines on his bust of 
Helen.' 578. 

Cant, ' The crying sin of the times,' 
677. 

Cantemir, Demetrius, his History of 
the Ottoman Empire, 675. 680. 

Canterbury cathedral, 720. 

Capitol, the, 789. 

Capitoline Hill, 57. 

Capo d'Istria, 204. 

Capo d'Istrias, Count, 543. 

Capo di Bove, 62. 

Caracalla, 791. 

Caractacus, 741. 774. 

Caravaggio, 742. 

Carbonari, 541. 

Care, 717. 

Carlile, Richard, 678. 

Carlisle, (P'rederick Howard,) fifth Earl 
of 442. 445. Character of his poems, 
386. Dedication of ' Hours of Idle- 
ness' to, 385. 

Carlisle, (Isabella Byron,) Countess of, 
385. 

Carlo Dolce, 253. 742. 

Carnage, 695. 702. 

Carnival, 155, 579. 

' Caroline, Lines to,' 391, 392. 

Caroline, Queen of England, 584. 668. 
680. 728. 

Carr, Sir John, 24. 400. 446. 

Carrer, Improvvisatore, 240. 

Carthage, 700. 

Cary, Rev. Henry Francis, his transla- 
tion of Dante, 507. 509. 515, 516. 

Carysfort, (John Joshua Proby,) first 
Earl of, his ' Poems and Tragedies,' 
461. 

Cash, potency of, 730. 

Casimir, John, King of Poland, 164. 

Castalian dews, 13. 773. 

Castelnau, his ' Histoire de la Nouvelle 
Russie,' 676. 

Castlereagh, Viscount (Robert Stewart, 
Marquis of Londonderry,) 541. 584. 
599. 711. 719. 'Epigrams on,' 584. 
' Epitaph on,' 584. 

Castri, village of 13. 

Catalani, Madame, 440. 

Catharine I. of Russia, 540. 

Catharine II. of Russia, 685. 711. 717, 
718. 

Cathay, 730. 

Catiline, 686. 

Cato lends his wife to Hortensius, 678. 

CaluUus, the scholar of 'Love,' 638. 
His 'Ad Lesbiam," translated, 389. 
His ' Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque,' 
translated, 389. 



819 



Caucasus, Mount, 446. 

Cavalier Servente, 158. 711. 

Cecilia Metella, tomb of, 62. 

Cecrops. 464. 

Cellini, Benvenuto, 322. 

Centlivre, Mi 3., character of her com- 
edies, 204. Drove Congreve from t^e 
stage, 204. -'"" 

Cephalonia, 30. 

Cephisus, river of. 111. 463. 

Ceres, 730. 

Certosa cemetery, 388. 

Cervantes, 687. Character of hu ' Don 
Quixote,' 737. 

Chajronea, 41. 

Chalons, battle of, 570. 

Chamouni, 46. 

Chandler, Dr., 28. 773 

Change, 728. 

Chantrey, Francis^R. A., 620. 

' Charity Ball, Lines on reading that 
Lady Byron was patroness of a,' 583. 

Charlemagne, 543. 

Charlemont, Mrs., 479. 

;'harles I., 241. 741. 

Charles V. of Spain, 471. 

Charles XII. of Sweden, his obstinacy 
at Bender, 704. 

Charlotte. Princess of Wales, Lines to, 
562. Reflections on her death, 728. 
' Stanzas on her death,' 69. 

Charlotte, Queen, 526. 

Chase, the English, 743. 

Chateaubriand, Viscount, 543. 

Chatham, first Earl of 736. 

Chatterton, Thomas, 736. 

Chaucer, 455. 

Chaworth, Mary Anne, (afterw.ards 
Mrs. Musters,) 394. ' Fragment writ- 
ten shortly after her marriage,' 394. 
' Stanzas to, Oh ! had my fate,' 425. 
' Farewell to,' 547. ' Stanzas to, on 
the author's leaving England,' 552. 

Cheltenham, 176. 

Cheops, King, his pyramid, 620. 

Chesterfield, Earl of, his speech on the 
play-house bill, 454. His remark on 
hunting, 148. 

'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage,' 11. 

Childe Buron, 13. 

' Childish Recollections,' 414 

Children, 343, 344. 644. 

' Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,' 
553. 

' Chillon, Prisoner of,' 148. 

Chillon. Sonnet on, 148. 

Chimari, 60. 

Chimariot Mountains, 31. 

Chioza, war of, 780. • 

Chivalry, 12. 651. 

Christ, ' Pure Creed of, made sanction 
of all ill,' 754. 

Christabel, 136. 478. 

Christianity, 754. 

Chrysostom, St., 606 

Churches, 668. 

' Churchill's Grave,' 574. 

Cicero, a punster, 450. 

Cicesbeo, 158. 

Cid, 538. 540. 

Cigars, 178. 

Cincinnatus, 542. 

C intra, 16. Convention of, 17. 

Circassians, 681. 

Circus at Rome, 66. Maximus, 790. 

Citha;ron, Mount, 773. 

Cities, overthrow of great, 700. 

Civilization, 700. 

Clare, (John Fitzgibbon,) Earl of, 416. 
' Lines on,' 416. ' Stanzas to,' 423. 

Clarke, Dr.Edward Dan;el, 27. 37. 658 

660. 
Clarke, Hewson, 445. 447. 
Classics, too early study of, 60. 
Claudian, his ' Old Man of Verciia, 

540. 
Cleonice and Pausanias, storj' of, iPS. 
Cleopatra, 798. 
Clergy, 746. 
Clitumnus, the river, 59. Temple Gf, 

59. 



./ 



830 



Clootz, Anacharsis, 601. 

Clytemiicslra, 713. 

Cobbett, William, 17.677. 'Epigram 
on his digging up Tom Paine's bones, 
583. 

Coblentz, 44. 

Cocker, 769. 

Cogniac. apostrophized, 655. 

Cohen, Mr. Francis, (now Sl: Francis 
Palgrave.) 793. 

Colchis, 644. 

Coleridge. Samuel Taylor, esq., 435. 
598.601. 609. 018.648.809. 

Coligny, 48. 

Coliseum. 65. 67. 200. 

College education, advantages of a, 606. 
'College E.xamination, Thoughts sug- 
gested by,' 407. 

Collini, Signora, 440. 

Colman, George, jun., 440. 

Cologne, 719. 

Colonna, Cape, 36. 771. 

Cotton, Rev. Caleb, 594. 

Columbia, 62. 

Columbus, 511. 755. 761. 

Comboloio, or Turkish rosary. 93. 112 

Comedy, the day of, gone by, 744. 

Common Lot, answer to a beautiful 
poem, entitled the, 419. 

Commonwealth. 223. 491. 

Condorcet, Marquis de, 601. 

Congreve, 204. 

Congreve rockets, 612. 

' Conquest, the,' a fragment, 584. 

Conscience, 77. 173. 188. 197. 609. 615. 
638. 

Constantinople, 35. Slave market at, 
de'scribed. 6()2. 

Conversationists, 744. 

Cookery, science of, 758. 

Copyright, sums paid by Mr. Blurray to 
Lord Byron for, 434. 

Coquette, 734. 

Coray, 775. 

' Coriniie.' quoted ■317. 

Corinth, 56. 

' Corint i, siege of,' 130. 

Corinthian brass, 682. 

'Cornelian,' the, 408. 

Cornelian hear which was broken, 
' Lines on,' 562. 

Cornwall, Barry, (Bryan Walter Proc- 
tor,) 726. 

Coron, bay of, 106. 

' Corsair, the, a Tale,' 99 

' Cortejo,' 158. 614. 

Cottle, Joseph, his ' Alfred,' and ' Fall 
of Columbia,' 437. His ' E.xpostula- 
tory Epistle to Lord Byron,' 592. 

' Could I remount the river of my 
years,' 575. 

' Could love forever,' 582. 

Coumourgi, All, 132. » 

Country and town, discrepancies be- 
tween, 708. 

Courage, 58. 239. 

Cowiev, his imitation of Claudian's 
'Oia'Manof Verona,' 540. 

Cowper, 443. 

Coxcomb, 658. 

Coxe, Archdeacon, his ' Life of Marl- 
borough,' 648. 665. His ' Life of Sir 
Robert Walpole,' 665. 

Crabbe, Rev. George, ' though Na- 
ture's sternest painter, yet the best,' 
444 ; ' the first in point of power and 
genius,' 444 ; ' the first of livingpoets,' 
809. 

Craning, 748. 

Crashaw, Richard, 646. Cowley's lines 
on, 646. 

Creation, 336. 

Cribb, Tom, pugilist, 465. 

Critic, Sheridan's, too good for a farce, 
484. 

Croker, Crofton, his ' Fairy Legends,' 
764. 

Croker, Right Hon. John Wilson, his 
query concerning the ' Bride of Aby- 
djs,'87. 

( ;roly, Rev. Dr. George, 726. His ' Let- 
ter of Cato to Lord Byron,' 595. 



INDEX. 



Cromwell, Oliver, ' the sagest of usurp- 
ers,' 61.. 

Crowe, Rev. William, his strictures on 
' English Bards, and Scotch Review- 
ers,' 437. 

Cruscan school of poetry, annihilated 
by Gifford, 809. 

CuUoden, battle of, 411. 

Cumberland, Duke of, hero of CuUo- 
den, 600. 

Cumberland, Richard, 440. 

Curran, Right Hon. John Philpot, 728 

Currie, Dr., his Life of Burns 648. 

' Curse of Minerva,' 463. 

Curtis, .Sir William, 543. 721. 

Cuvier, Baron, 328. 710. 

Cyanometer. described, 661. 

Cyclades. 632. 657. 

CjTJress tree, 76. 

Cyrus, 630. 



D. 



Dallaway, Rev. James, his ' Constanti- 
nople' quoted, 73. 

Dalrymple, Sir Hew, his Convention, 17. 

' Damajtas,' a character, 398. 

Damas, Count de, 690. 

Damme, the British, 725. 

Dance, Pyrrhic, 642. 647. 

Dance of Death, Holbein's, 756. Hol- 
lar's, 756. 

Dancing, 40. 658. 756. 

Dandies, Dynasty of the, 160. 

Dandolo, Henry, the octogenarian chief, 
53. 760. 

Dandy, described, 159. 

Dante, 54. 58. 507. 514. 785. 809. His 
Beatrice, 640. Imitation of, 649. His 
' half-way house" of life, 649. ' Pro- 
phecy of,' 506 

Danton, 601. 

Dardanelles, 659. 

' Darkness,' 573. 

Daru, M., his picture of Venetian so- 
c;b,,y and manners, 796. 

Darwin, Erasmus, his ' pompous chime,' 
444. His ' Botanic Garden,' 444. Put 
down by a poem in the Anti-Jacobin, 
809. 

Dates, ' a sort of post-house, where the 
Fates chanue horses,' 610. 

David, King. 615. His harp, 473. His 
hymns characterized, 473. 

Davy, Sir Humphry, 521. 612. 

Dead, features of the, 73. Belief that 
the souls of, inhabit the forms of birds, 
99. 

'Dear Doctor, I have read your play,' 
579. 

' Dear object of defeated care,' 556. 

Death. 37. 48. 65. 63. 338. 491. 575. 649. 
65 1 . 657. 660. 666. 668. 708. 7 i 5. Shuns 
the wretched, 617. Advantages of an 
early, 651. 711. 'The sovereign's 
sovereign,' 71fi. A reformer, 716. 
'Dunnest of all duns,' 754. 'A gaunt 
gourmand,' 754, 

Death and the Lady, 640. 

' Death of Calmar and Orla,' 51. 

Dee. the, 426. 

De Foi.x, Gaston, liis tomb at Ravenna, 
600. 

' Deformed Transformed ; a Drama,' 
310. 

Deformity, an incentive to' distinction, 
314. 

D'Herbelot, 80. 

Dekker, Thomas, his ' Wonder of a 
Kingdom,' 549. 

Delawarr, (George-John West,) fifth 
Earl, 387. ' Verses to,' 387. ' Lines 
on,' 427. 

Delphi, fountain of, 13. 

Deluge, 243. 252. 

Democracy, 472. 

Demetrius Poliorcetes described, 313 

Demosthenes, 540, 541. 

Denham, (Lord Chief Justice,) his 
translation of the Greek ,song on 
Harmodius and Aristogeiton, 40. 



Dennis, John, critic, 453. His tract 

against operas, 4.53. 

De Pauw, his writings characterized. 
774. 

De Quincey, IMr., his Confessions of an 
Opium Eater, 652. 

De Retz, Cardinal, his account of R 
shipwreck in the Gulf of Lyons, 62c 

Dervish Tahiri, Lord Byron's Armcut 
Guide, 83. 131. 

Desaix, General, 601. 

Despair, 39. 85. 113. 026 691 

Despotism. 672. 

Destiny, 61. 

Destruction of Sennacherib, 477. 

De Tott, Baron, his 'History of ilie 
Turks,' 724. 

' Devil's Drive ; an unfinished Rhapso 
dy,' 567. 

Devotion, 329. 649. 680. 

Dibdm, Thomas, success of liis ' Moth- 
er Goose,' 440. 

' Diclionnaire de TrSvoux,' its dfcfini- 
tion of an epic, 618. 

'Difficile est proprie,' &c. of Horace, 
disputes on the meaning of 450. 

Dinner, a man's happiness dependent 
on, 764. 

Dinner-bell, ' the tocsin of the soul,' 
667. 

Diogenes, 759. 764. 

Dirce, fountain of, 773. 

Discontents, progress of popular, 699. 

Disdar Aga, 773. 

D'Israeli, J., esq., ' Dedication to him 
of Observations upon, an Article in 
Blackwood's Magazine,' 805. 

' Dives, Lines to,' 558. 

Dolce. Carlo, 253. 742. 

Don, Brig of 715. 

'Don Juan,' 588. Preface, 588. Tes- 
timonies of Authors, 588. Letter to 
the Editor of ' INIy Grandmother's 
Review,' 803. ' Observations upon an 
Article in Blackwood's IMagazine,' 
805. Dedication of 'Don Juan' to 
Robert Southey, esq. 598. Preface 
to Cantos VI. VII. VIII., 676. 

Don Quixote, ' a too true tale,' 737. 
Delight of reading, in the original, 
753. 

Doomsdav-book. 717. 

Dorotheus of Mitylene, 798. 

Dorset, (Thomas Sackvii'e,) Earl of, 
' called the dr*ma forth,' 394. 

Dorset, (Charles Sackville,) Earl of, 
his character, 394. 

Dorset, (George-John Frederick,) 
fourth Duke of, 394. ' Lines occa- 
sioned by the death of,' 570. 

Doubt, 708. 721. 

Dover, ' dear,' -720. 

Drachenfels, 44. 719. 

Drapery Misses, 725. 

Drawcansir, 450. 

' Dream, The,' 484. Account of a re 
markable one, C53. 

Dreams, 276. 613. 

Dresden, 719. 

Drummond. Sir Wilham, 206. His 
' Academical Questions,' quoted, 65. 

Drury, Rev. Dr. Joseph, 60. ' Lines 
on his retiring from the head-master- 
ship of Harrow,' 393. 

Drury Lane Theatre. ' Address, spoken 
at the opening of 562. 

Dryden, his ' Ode,' 808. His epigram 
under Milton's picture, 809, 810. His 
' Palamon and Arcite,' 810. His ' Ab- 
salom and Achitophel,' 649. His 
' Theodore and Honoria,' 649 

Dubois, Edward, esq., his sail e enti 
tied ' I\Iy Pocket Book,' 446. 

Dubost, M., painter, his ' Benuty and 
the Beast,' 448. 

Duelling, 654. 

' Duet between CampbelUand Bowles, 
584. 

Duff, Miss Mary, (.ifterwards Mrs. 
Robert Cockburn,) Lord Byron's 
boyish attachment lor, 426. 

Dumourier, 600. 



Duppa, Rich.^rd, esq., his 'Life of 

Michael Angelo, 512^ 513. 
Dwarfs, 670. 
' Dying Gladiator, 66. 

E. 

E , Lines to, 387. 

Early death, 651. 715. 

Early hours, 724. 

Early rising, 633. 

Eating. 665. 

Eblis, Oriental Prince of Darkness, 80. 

Eclectic, 645. 

Eclectic Review, 58. Its character of 
' Don Juan,' 5'JO. 

Econoir.y, 717. 

Edc'.; 5i'. :.)., (Cambridge chorister,) 408. 
' Lines on a cornelian given to Lord 
Byron by,' 408. 

Edgeworth, Maria, 602. 

Edinburgh Review, 429. Its Critique 
on ' Hours of Idleness,' 429. Stric- 
tures on its remarks on the literature 
of modern Greece, 775. 

Edward the Black Prince, his tomb, 
720. 

Egeria, 64. 790. Fountain of, 64. Grot- 
to of, 64. 790. 

Egripo, (the Negropont,) 9L 

Ehrenbreitstein,.44. 

Ekenhead, Mr., 139. 555. 630. 

Elba, Isle of, 472. 538 

Eldon, Earl of, his judgment in the 
case of ' Cain,' 327. " His impartiality, 
760. 

' Elegy on Newstead Abbey,' 412. 

Elgin, Lord, 27. 446. 463. 465. 

Elgin marbles, 463. 465. 

' Eliza, Lines to,' 410. 

Elizabeth, Queen, her avarice, 714. 
Ellen, Lines to,' imitated from Catul- 
lus. 3S9. 

Ellis, George, esq., 75. 

Eloisa, 183. 

' Eloisa and Abelard,' Pope's, 810. 

Eloquence, power of, 754. 

■Einu;a, Lines to,' 391. 

Endor, witch of, 193. 475. 

' Eriii.'rsement to Deed of Separation,' 
573. 

' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' 
430. 

English look, 663. 

English women, 735. 

Ennui, ' the best of friends and opiate 
draughts,' 648. ' A growth of English 
root,' 744. 

Enthusiasm, a moral inebriety, 739. 

Envy, 672. 

Epaininondas, his disinterestedness, 
618. 

Epic poem, definition of an, 618. 

Epigram on Moore's Operatic Farce, 
or Farcical Opera, 558. From the 
French of Rulhieres, 562. 582. On 
my Wedding Day, 583. On Cobbett's 
digging up Tom Paine's Dones, 583. 
' The world is a bundle of hay,' 583. 
On my Wedding, 584. On the Bra- 
ziers' Company having resolved to 
present an Address to Queen Caro- 
line, 584. On Lord Casllereagh, 584. 

Epistle, a female, described, 745. 

Epistle to a friend, in answer to some 
Lines exhorting the author to banish 
care, 558. 

' Epistle to Augusta,' 480. 

Epitaph on a friend, 387. On Virgil 
and TibuUus, by Demetrius Marsus, 
translated, 389. On John Adams, of 
Southwell, a carrier, who died of 
drunkenness, 547. Substitute for an, 
556. My own, 556. For Joseph 
Blackett, late poet and shoemaker, 
5i7. For William Pitt, 583. For Lord 
Castle-?agh. 584. 

Erasmus, hi, Naufragium, 624. 

Bratostratus, 465. 

Eros and Anteros, 192. 

Erse language, 697. 



INDEX. 



Erskine, Lord, 744, 

Etiquette, 671. 674. 

Etna, 66. 630. 

Eugene of Savoy, 511. 

Euphues, (Barry Cornwall,) 695. 726. 

Euripides, translation from his Medea, 
' 'EjOojT-cj vircp,' 406. 

Eustace's ' Classical Tour in Italy,' 
strictures on, 793. 

' Euthanasia, When Time, or soon or 
late,' 560. 

Eutropius, the eunuch, and minister of 
Arcadius, character of, 599. 

Euxine, or Black Sea, description of, 
663. 

Evening described, 55, 192. 649. 

Evil, 342. Origin of, 342. 

Exile, 14. 38. 299. 622. 

Expectation, 118. 612. 

Experience, 733. The chief philoso- 
pher, 754. 

Eyes, 607. 759. 



Faintness, sensation of, 631. The last 
mortal birth of pain, 491. 

Fairy, 191. 

Faliero, Marino, Doge of Venice, 203. 

Faliero Family, 200. 793. 

Falkland, (Lucius Gary,) Viscount, 413. 
441. 

Fall ofTerni, 59. 

Fame, 36. 39. 41. 45. 50. 338. 586. 619. 
661, 662. 689, 690. 696. 735. 811. 

Family, a fine, (344. 

Fancy, 651. 

' Fare thee well, and if forever,' 478. 

' Farewell to the muse,' 546. 

' Farewell I if ever fondest prayer,' 547. 

' Farewell to Malta,' ?fS 

Farmers, 710. 

Fashionable world, 725. 746. 

Fate, 42. 664. 737. 

' Father of Light 1 great God of Hea- 
ven,' 423. 

Fauvel, M., French consul at Athens, 
771. 773. 

F;iux pas, in England, 750. 

Fa7zioli, the Venetian, 639. 

Fear, 762. 770. 

Features, 670. 

Feelings, innate, 652. 

Feinagle, Professor, his Mnemonics, 
602. 

Felicaja, his ' O Italia, Italia,' trans- 
lated, 56. 

Female fickleness, 753. 

Female friendship, 752. 

Fenelon, 687. 

Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, COO. 

Ferney, 49. 

Ferrara, Lord Byron's visit to, 55. 

' Few years have pass'd since thou and 
I,' 518. 

Fickleness of woman, 753. 

Fiction less striking than truth, 753. 

Fielding, 660 The prose Homer of 
human nature, 620. 

' Fill the goblet again,' 551. 

' First Kiss of Love,' 393. 

First love, 612. 637. 

Fitzgerald, Lord Edward, ' Sonnet on 
the repeal of his forfeiture,' 582. 

Fitzgerald, William Thomas, poetas- 
ter, 431. 462. 

Fletcher, William, (Lord Byron's faitli- 
ful valet,) 15. 553. 

Florence, 57. 508. 

' Florence,' (Jlrs. Spencer Smith,) 29. 
Stanzas to, 553. 

Foppery, 811. 

Forsyth, Joseph, esq., his ' Italy,' 67. 

Fortitude, 42. 54. 108. 110. 752. 

Fortune, 42. 61. 160. 235. 655. 664. 811. 

Forty-parson power, 717. 

' Foscari, the Two ; an Historical Tra- 
gedy,' 287. 

Foscari family, 796. 

Foscolo, Ugo, 489. His account of Pul- 
ci's ' JMorgante,' 492. 



821 



Fox, Right Hon. Charles James, 483, 

484. 541. 'Lines on the death of,' 

409. Saying of, 536. His grave, 336. 
Fox hunt, an English, 748. 
' Fragment,' 388. 
' Fragment, written shortly after the 

marriage of Miss Chaworth,' 394 
France, 538. 
' Francesca of Rimini ;' from the In 

ferno of Dante, 515. 
Francis, Sir Philip, the probable author 

of ' Junius,' 532. 
Franciscan Convent at Athens, 447 

463. 556. 
Frankfort, 468. 

•Franklin, Benjamin, 532. 538. 540. 633. 
Frascati, 792. 443. 
Frazer, Mrs., 556. 
Frederick the Second. 84. 19. His 

flight from Molwitz, 696. 
' Free to confess,' the phrase, 767. 
Freedom, 62. 719. 
Free will, 342. 
Frere, Right Hon. John Hookham, 443. 

His ' Whistlecraft,' 152. 596. Writes 

half the ' Needy Knife-grinder,' 25. 
Friends, 715. 749. 752. 
Friendship, 752. 
Friuli, 54. 

Frizzi's History of Ferrara, 142. 
Fry, Mrs., 721. 
' Fudge Family,' the humor of. not 

wit, 810. 
Funds, the public 728 
Fusell, 656. 
Future State, 328._ 

G. 

Gail, M., 775. 

Galileo, 785. His tomb in Santa Croce, 
58. 

Galiongee, 93. 

Gait, John, esq., his character of Don 
Juan, 596. 

Gamba, Count Pietro, 649. 

Game of Goose, 734. 

Gamesters, 746. 749. 

Gaming, 729. 746. 

Gandia, Duke of, interesting particu- 
lars of liis death, 128. 

Garcilasso de la Vega, 609. 

Garrick, 440. 562. 

Gay, his Beggar's Opera, 454. 

Gayton, dancer, 440. 

Gazelle, the, 12. 77. 

Gell, Sir William, 446. 

Gemma, the wife of Dante, 509. 

Geneva, Lake of, 45, 46. 141. 148. 777. 

Genevra, Sonnets to, 567. 

Genlis, Madame de, 469. 

Gentlemen fanners, 710. 

George the Third, 467. 525. 728. 

George the Fourth, 568. 570. 585, 586. 
693. 705. 710. 728. 736. ' Sonnet to, 
on the repeal of Lord Edward I'itz 
gerald's forfeiture,' 582. 

Georgia, 6Sl. 

Georgians, beauty of the, 681. 

Geramb, Baron, Campbell's, 523. 

' Gertrude of Wyoming,' Campbell's, 
458. 

Gesner, his ' Death of Abel,' 328. 

Ghibellines, 507. 509. 787. 

Ghost, the Newstead, 763. 

Ghosts, 760, 761. 763. 770. 

Giaffar, Pacha of Argyro-Castro, his 
fate, 94. 

Giant's Grave, visit to, 663. 

' Giaour, The ; a Fragment of a Turk- 
ish Tale ;' 72. 

Gibbon, Edward, esq., his character, 
50. His opinion on the advantages 
of a public education, 606. 

Gibraltar, straits of, 28. 

GiflFard, Lees, esq., LL.D., 589. 

GifTord, William, esq., 432. 413. 4C1 
470. 809. 

Gin, 719. 

Gingo, St., 777, 

Giorgione, 156, 



822 



INDEX. 



' Girl of Cadiz. 24. 

Glaciers, 60. 

Gladiator, the dj-ing, stanzas on, 66. 
656. 

Gladiators, 791. 

Glenbervie, (Sylvester Douglas,) first 
Lord, 511. 

Glory, 648. 683, 720. 

Godoy, Don Manuel, 19. 

Goetlie, his ' Kennsl du das Land,' &c., 
imitated, 87. His ' Fau.st,' 201. His 
remarks on ' Manfred,' 201. Dedica- 
tion of ' Marino Faliero' to, 207. His 
' Werther,' 207. Lord Byron's letter 
to, 207. His tribute to tlie memory 
of Byron, 254. Dedication of ' Sar- 
danapalus' to, 254. His character of 
'Don Juan,' 597. His ' Mephisto- 
nheles,' 737. 

Gold, 729. 

Golden Fleece, 644. 

Goldoni's comedies, 800. 

Goldsmith, his anticipated definition of 
the Lake school of poetry, note, 809. 

Gondola described, 156. 

Gondoliers, songs of the Venetian, 52. 
612. 778. 

Good Night, the, 14. Lord Maxwell's, 
11. 

Goose, royal game of, 734. 

Gordon, Lord George, 467. 

Gordons of Gight, 411. 

Goza, 29 

Gracchus, Tiberius, 716. 

Graftcn, Duke of, 531. 

Graham, Edward, esq., 658 

Grahame, James, his ' Sabbath Walks' 
and 'Biblical Pictures,' 436. 

Granby, Marquis of, 600. 

' Granta; a Medley,' 395. 

Granville, Dr., his recipe to escape sea- 
sickness, 621. 

Grattan, Right Hon. Henry, 541. 585, 
5S6. 677. 728. 

Gray, 649. 809. 

' Greatest living poets,' 726. 

Greece, past and present condition of, 
21. 28. 35, 36. 72, 73. 67. 117. 135. 176. 
457. 539. 647. 

Greek war song, ' Asur^ values,' 556. 
Translation of, 556. 

Greeks, some account of the literature 
of the modern, 775. 

Grenvilles, the, 728. 

Greville, Colonel, 440. 

Grey, Charles, (afterwards Earl Grey,) 
541. 736.. 

Grief, 714. 

GrillparzJr, his tragedy of Sappho, 
254. 

Grindenwald, the, 46. 

Gritti, Count, his sketch of a Venetian 
noble, 240. 

Gropius, the Sieur, 771. 

Grosvenor, Earl, (now Marquis of 
AVestminster,) 453. 

Guadalquiver, 630. 

Guadiana, 18. 

Guariglia, Signor, 658. 

Guelfs, 507 509. 787. 

Guesclin, Du, Constable of France, 
537. 

Guiccioli, (Teresa Gamba,) Countess, 
171. 254. 506. 5S1. 587. 613. 662. Dedi- 
cation of the Prophecy of Dante to, 
506. . 

Guido, his Aurora, 748. 

Gunpowder, 179. 697. 

Gurney, Hudson, esq., his ' Cupid and 
Psyche,' 645. 

Gurney, William Brodie, short-hand 
writer, 617. 

Gustavus A dolphus, his death at Lut- 
zen, 538. 

Gynocracy, 705. 

H. 

Haoesci, Louis, 645. 
Hades, 339 
Hafiz, 33. 



Hall, Captain Basil, his interview with 
Napoleon, 537. 

Hallam, Henrv, esq., his review of 
Payne Knight's ' Taste,' 438. 446. 
His ' Middle Ages,' 732. 

Hamburgh, 408. 

Hands, sfnall, a distinction of birth, 
654. 672. 

Hannibal, 175. 

Happiness, ' was yorn a twin,' 630. 
Horace's art of, t "l. ' An art on 
which the artists greitly vary,' 739. 

Hardinge, George, esq., 743. 

Harley, Lady Charlotte, (the ' lanthe' 
to whom tlie first and second cantos 
of ' Childe Harold' are dedicated,) 
12. 

Ilarmodius, 40. 

Harrnodms and Aristogeiton, song on, 
40. 539. 

Harmony, German colony in America 
so called, 756. 

Harpe, La, 540. 

Harrow, ' Lines on a change of mas- 
ters at,' 393. ' On a distant view of 
the village and school of,' 390. 
' Written beneath an elm in the 
churchyard of,' 428. ' On revisiting,' 
547. 

Hater, an honest, 737. 

Hatred, 737. 

Havard, story of his tragedy, 457. 

Hawke, Admiral Lord, 600. 

Hawke, (Edward Harvey,) third Lord, 
395. 

Hayley, William, esq., advice to, 436. 
765. 809. 

Hazlitt, William, his charge of incon- 
sistency against Lord Byron, 600. 
His character of ' Don Juan,' 594. 

Health, 635. 700. 

Hearer, a good one, 748. 

Hearing, second, superstition of, 63. 

' Heaven and Earth ; a Mystery,' 242. 

Hebe, 765. 

Heber, Reginald, (Bishop of Calcutta,) 
Critical notes by, passiyn. 

' Hebrew Jlelodies,' 473. 

Hecla, 538. 760. 

Hector, 706. 

Helen, 'the Greek Eve,' 751. 'Lines 
on Canova's bust of,' 578. 

Helena, St., 536. 543. 

Hell, 'paved with good intentions,' 
528. 697. 

Hellespont, 94. 555. 630. 658. 

Hells, St. James's, 452. 724. 

Henry, Patrick, ' the forest-born De- 
mosthenes,' 540. 

Herbert, Rev. William, 438. 

Hercules, 405. 

Hero and Leander, 92. 

' Herod's Lament for Mariamne,' 477. 

Herodia!?, 468. 

Hesperus, 409. 

Heterodoxy, 678. 

Highgate, burlesque oath administered 
at, 22. 

Highland welcome, 679. 

Hill, Thomas, esq., the patron of Kirke 
While and Bloomfield, 442. 589. 

' Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren,' 
394. 

' Hints from Horace,' 447. 

History, 43. Q95. 

Historians, 0-18. 

Hoare, Rev. Charles James, 445. 

Hobbes, Thomas, 178. His fear of 
ghosts, 760. 

Hobhouse, Right Hon. Sir John Cam, 
Bart., 26. 30. 32. 453. 463, 464. 468. 
675. His ' Epistle to a young noble- 
man in love,' 551. Dedication to 
him of the fourth canto of ' Childe 
Harold,' 51. His 'Historical Notes 
to the Fourth Canto of Childe Har- 
old,' 778. 

Hoche, General, 44. 

' Hock and soda water,' 600, 601. 623. 

Hodgson, Rev. Francis, 445. 811. 
' Lines to, written on board the Lis- 
bon packet,' 652. 'Epistle to, in 



answer to some lines exhorting Lord 
Byron to "banish care," ' 558. 

Hogg, James, the Eltrick shepheixl, 
812. 

Holbein, his ' Dance of Death,' 756 

Hole, Rev. Richard, 810. * 

Holford, Miss, 811. 

Holland, Lord, 439. Dedication of the 
Bride of Abydos to, 87. His charac- 
ter of Voltaire, 813. 

Holland, Lady, 439. 440. 

Holland, Dr., 33. 

Hollar, his ' Dance of Death,' 756. 

Home, 37. 110. 612. Sight of, after ab- 
sence, 641. 'Without hearts there 
is no,' 644. 

Homer, geography of, 658 660. 694. 
Iliad, 809. Odyssey, 611. His cata- 
logue of ships, 742. 

Honorius, 16. 

Hook, Theodore, esq., 439. 

Hope, Thomas, esq., 27. 448. 

Hoppner, John William Rizzo, ' Lines 
on the birth of,' 581. 

Horace, Lord Byron's early dislike to, 
60. His 'Justum et tena'-em' trans- 
lated, 390 ' The scholai of love,' 
638. His ' Nil admirari,' 608. 671. 
739. 751. Quoted, 668. 743. 747. 751. 

Horlon, Right Hon. Robert Wilmot, 
(now Sir Robert,) 604. 

Horton, Mrs., (now Lady) AVilmot, 
473. 

Hotspur, 698. 

Houris, 21. 78. 704. 

' Hours of Idleness,' 385. Critique of 
the Edinburgh Review upon, 429. 

Howson, Blrs., ' Lines addressed to,' 
298. 

Howard, Hon. Frederick, 41. 442. 

Howe, Admiral Lord, 6(10. 

Hoyle, games of, 445. 648. 

Iloyle, Rev. Charies, 810. 

Iludibras, 455. 

Humane Society, 612. 

Humboldt, 601. 

Hunger, 627. 634. 

Hunt, Leigh, 535. 594. Mr. Moore's 
verses on his 'Byron and his Contem- 
poraries,' 535. 

Hunting, 748. 

Hydra, isle of, 403. 

Hymen, 041. 

Hymettus, 36. 463. 759. 

Hypocrisy, 717. 728. 



I. 



lanthe, (Ladv Charlotte Harley,) dedi- 
cation of 'Childe Harold' to, 12. 

Ibrahim Pacha, 77). 

Ida, mount, 60. 557. 773. 

' I enter thy garden of roses,' 557. 

' If sometimes in the haunts of men,' 
561. 

' If that liigh world,' 473. 

Ilion, 657, 658. 

lllyria, 31. 

Imagination, 65. 651. 

Immortality of the soul, 328. 

Imprisonment, solitary, its effects, 298. 

Improvvisatore, 784. 

Incantation, 188. 

Incledon, Charles, singer, 805. 

Inconstancy, 639. 

Indifference, 739. 

Indigestion, 666. 708. 

' Inez,' Stanzas to, 23. 

Infidelity, female, 640. 735. 

' In law an infant, and in years a boy,' 
399. 

Innocence, 344. 682. 750.^ 

Innovation, progress of, 767. 

' Inscription on the monument of ^ 
Newfoundland dog,' 549. 

Intoxication, 624. 636. 

Ionia, 286. 

Iris, the, 60. 191. 

' Irish Avatar,' 585. 

Irish language, 607. 

Iron mask, 532. 



• I saw thee weep,' 475. 

'Island, the; or, Chnstian and his 

Comrades,' 171. 
' Islands of the blest,' 647. 
Ismail, siege of, 676. 688. 705. 
' I speak not, I trace not,' 508. 
Italian language, 493. 
Italian sky, 55. 
Italy, 54. 163. 509. Present degraded 

condition of, 600. 
Ithaca, 30. 
' I would I were a careless chili,' 425. 



Jackall, 141. 700. 

Jackson, John, professor of pugilism, 
459. 503. 723. 

Jamblicus, story of his raising Eros 
and Anteros, 192. 

Jealousy, 607. 610. 

Jeffrcy,'Francis, esq., 432. 438, 439. 458. 
593. 715. 730. Critical notes by, pas- 
sim. 

Jena, battle of, 538. 

Jenner, Dr., 612. 

' Jephtha's Daughter,' 474. 

Jerdan, William, esq., 589. 

Jeriiingham, Mr., 447. 

Jerome, St., 700. 

Jerreed, 90. 

Jersey, Countess of, 569. ' Consolatory 
Address to, on the Prince Regent re- 
turning her picture,' 569. 

Jerusalem, 508. ' On the day of the 
destruction of, by Titus,' 477. 

Jesus Christ, 0V7. 776. 

Jews, 543. 626. 668. 

Joannina, 32. 773. 

Job, 699. 749. 

John Bull, his ' Letter to Lord Byron,' 
596. 018. 

Johnson, Dr., his 'Vanity of Human 
Wishes,' 650. His opinion of blank 
verse, 449. His ' Irene,' 452. His 
remark on good intentions, 528. A 
good hater, 737. His ' Life of Mil- 
ton,' 648. His belief in ghosts, 761. 

Jonson, Ben, anecdote of, 599. 

Joubert, General, 601. 

'Journal de Trevou.x,' 519. 

Julian the Apostate, COO. 

Julian, Count, 18. 

Juliet's tomb, 540. 

Julius Ccesar, his character, 62. 317. 
697. 700. His laurel wreath, 62 790. 
The suitor of love, 177. 638. 

Jungfrau, the, 60. 189 

Junius's Letters, 532 

Junot, General, 17. 

Jupiter Olympius, temple of, 27. 464. 

Jura mountains, 47. 

Juvenal, his alleged independence, 
605. His pure and sublime morality, 
605. 



K. 



Kaff, 446. 

Kalamas, 3i 

Kaleidoscope, 629. 

Kalkbrenner, his remark on Jewish 

music, 473. 
Kamtschatka, 468. 
Kant, Professor, 779. 
Kean, Edward, tragedian, 206. 440. 
Keats, John, 726. 811. Account of, 811 , 

Elegy on, 584. 
Kemble, John Philip, esq., 206. 440, 
Kenuey, James, dramatist, 440 
Keppel, Admiral, 600. 
Kibitka, 709. 
Kings, 699. 709. 
Kinnaird, Lord, 707. 
Riunaird; Hon. Douglas, 207. 473. 5fi3. 

587. 
' Kiss of Love, First,' 393. 
Kitchener, Dr., his remedy for sea 

iickness, 021. 
Knight-errantry, 737. 



INDEX. 



Knight, Payne, 438. 

Knowledge, 340. 726. 

KnowUes, Richard, his ' History of 

the Turks,' 72. 675. 
Koran, 78. 

Kosciusko, General, 538. 719. 
Kotzebue, 468. 
Koutousow, General, (afterwards 

Prince of Smolensko,) 718. 

L. 

Labedoyere, 571. 

Lacedemon, 36. 

' Lachin-y-gair,' 176. 411. 

Ladies, learned, 603. 

La Fayette, 001. 

Lafitte, 729. 

La Fitte, pirate, 117. 

La Harpe, 540. 

Lake Leinan, 45. 47. 149. 575. 

Lake School of Poetry, 598. 807. Gold- 
smith's anticipated definition of, 800. 

' Lakers,' the, 456. 618. 808. 

Lamb, Hon. Gco-ge, 432. 439. 

Lamb, Lady Caronne, 038. 

Larnbe, Charles, esq., 444. 

Laniberti, Venetian poet, 240. 

Lambro Canzari, Greek patriot; 95 

' Lament of Ta.sso,' 480. 

Lancelot of the Lake, 516. 

' Landed Interest,' 542. 

Landor, Walter Savage, esq., 177. 522. 
524. 726. His 'Gebir,' 524. 

Langeron, Count de, 090. 

Lannes, Duke of IMontebello, 601. 

Lansdowne,( Henry Fitzmaurice Petty,) 
fourth Marquis of, 395. 407. 430. 

Lanskoi, the grande passion of Cathe- 
rine XL, 711. 

Laocoon, the, 09. 656. 

Laos, the river, 32. 

'Lara; a Tale,' 118. 

Lascy, Jlajor-G'eneral, 697. 

Laugier, Abb '■, his character of Marino 
Faliero, 205. 

Laura, 640. 761. 

Lausanne, 49. 

Lawsuits, 766. 

Lawyers, 614. 715. 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, 433. 

Leander and Hero, 92. 

Learned ladies, 003. 

Learned languages, results of the too 
early study of, 00. 

Lee, Harriet, her ' German's Tale,' 
351. 

'Legion of Honor, Lines on the Star 
of,' 572. 

Legitimacy, 673, 707. 

Leigh, Hon. Augusta, (Lord Byron's 
sister,) 44. ' Stanzas to,' 480. 'Epistle 
to,' 480. 

Lely, Sir Peter, drapery of his beauties, 
742. 

Leipsic, 468. 538. 

Leman, Lake, 45. 47. 741. 752. ' Sonnet 
to,' 575. 

L'Eiiclos, Nmon de, 671. 

Lenzoni, Marchioness, her rescue of- 
the bones of Boccaccio, 786. 

Leo X., 513. 

Leoben, 44. 

Leone, Port, 74. 

Leonidas, 658. 

Leonora, Tasso's, 488, 4Sv». 

Leopold, Prince of Saxe Coburg, 
(afterwards King of the Belgians,) 
69. 

Lepanto, Gulf of, 24, 30. 

' Lesbia, lines to,' 397. 

Lethe, 051. 

' Letter to the Editor of " My Grand- 
mother's Review," ' 803. 

Leucadia, 30. 0J8. 

Leuctra, 41. 

Levant, 32. 116. 

Lewis, IMatthew Gregory, esq., 160. 
206. 435. 453. 

Li Ucura, Mount, 36. 

Liberty, 148. 172. 094. 



823 



Licensing act, 454. 

Lies, 724. 

Life, 42. 50. 05, 06. 95. 193. 275. 295. 
021. 637. S51. 678. 708. 728. 701. 

Life of a young noble, 727 

Lightning, superstitions respcct.ir.g. 56. 
7b3. 

Eigne, Prince de, 090. 095. 718. 

' Lines on the Death of a Young Lady,' 
380. To E., 387. To D., 367. On 
leaving Newstead Abbey, 387. Writ- 
ten in Rousseau's ' Letters of an Ital- 
ian Nun,' 389. On a change of mas- 
ters at a great school, 393. On a dis- 
tant view of the village and -school 
of Harrow, 390. To M., 390. To 
M. S. G., 397. To Woman, 397. To 
Mary, on receiving her picture, 397. 
To Lesbia, 397. Addressed to a 
Young Lady, 398. To Marion, 399. To 
a Lady who presented to the author 
a lock of hair, &c., 399. To a beau- 
tiful Quaker, 407. On the death of 
Mr. Fox, 409. To tlx; sighing Stre- 
phon, 410. To Eliza, -iiO. To Ro- 
mance, 411. To a Lady who pre- 
sented the author with the velvet 
band which bound her tresses, 420. 
To the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his 
advising the author to mix more 
with society, 420. To Edward Noel 
Long, esq., 424. To a Lady — ' Oh ! 
had my fate,' &c., 425. To George 
Earl Delawarr, 427. To the Earl of 
Clare, 427. Written beneath an elm 
in the churchyard of Harrow, 428. 
To a vain Lady, 545. To Anne, 
545. To the autlior of a Sonnet, be- 
ginning ' Sad is the verse,' &c., 545. 
On finding a Fan, 545. To an Oak at 
Newstead, 546. On revisiting Har- 
rows 547. To my Son, 547. To a 
faithful Friend, 548. Inscribed upon 
a cup formed from a skull, 549. To 
a Lady on being asked my reason 
for quitting England, 550. To Mr. 
Hodgson, written on board the Lis- 
bon packet, 552. Written in an 
album at Malta, 553. Written after 
swimming from Sestos to Abydos, 

555. Written beneath a picture, 

556. In the Travellers' Book at 
Orchomenus, 555. On parting, 557. 
To Dives, 558. On Moore's operatic 
farce, 558. To Thyrza, 559. On a 
Cornelian heart, which was broken, 
562. To a Lady weeping, 502. 
Written on a blank leaf of the 
' Pleasures of Memory,' 502. To 

. Time, 504. On Lord Thurlow's 
poems, 506. To Lord Thurlow, 566. 
To Thomas Moore, on visiting Leigh 
Hunt in prison, 506. On heariny 
that Lady Byron was ill, 482. To 
Belshazzar, 570. On Napoleon's es 
cape from Elba, 571. To Thomas 
Moore, 578. On the bust of Helen by 
Canova, 578. To Thomas Moore, 
579. To Mr. Murray, 579. From 
Mr. Blurray to Dr. Polidori, 579. 
To Mr. Murray, 580. On the birth- 
day of J. W. R. Hoppner, 561. On 
reading that Lady Byron had been 
patroness of a charity ball, 5S3. On 
my thirty-third birthday, 564. To 
Mr. Murray, 585. To Lady Bles- 
sington, 587. Inscribed, ' On this 
day I complete my thirty-sixth year,' 
567. 

Lisbon, 15. 

Lisbon packet, Lines written on board 
the, 552. 

Liston, John, comedian, 803. 

Literary men, marriage of, 509. 

Little's Poems, 427. 435 

Livadia, 773. 

Liver, 039. 

Livy, 750. 

Lloyd, Charles, esq., 444. 599. 

Loan contractors, 729. 

Locke, his treatise oa educatioD, 457 ' 
754. 



824 



Lockhart, J. O., esq., His 'Ancient 
Spanish Ballads,' 23. His preface to 
'Don Quixote,' 737. Critical Notes 
by, passim. 

Lodi, 313. 

Lofft, Capel. esq., 442. 460. 

London, a Sunday in, 22. The Devil's 
drawing-room, 728. The approaches 
to, 722. Never understood by foreign- 
ers, 731. 'One superb menagerie,' 

Londonderry, (Robert Stewart,) second 
Marquis of, 677. 688 7U See also 
Castlereagh. 
London Review, 451. 
Loneliness, 46. 198. 756. 
Long, Edward Noel, esq., 424. ' Lines 

to,' 424. 
Longinus, 605. 618. 755. 
Longmans, Messrs., 457. 517. 
' Longueurs,' 648. 
Lope de Vega, 502. 602. 
Loredano, family of, 268. 
Lorraine, Claude, 540. 742. 
Love, .best tokens of, 679. First, 612. 
637. ' His own avenger.' 657. Lan- 
guage of 652. Man's, 617. 639. Pla- 
tonic, 308. 611. 713. Woman's, 638 
639. See also, 640. 652, 653. 673. 687' 
712. 729, 730. 752. 
Love, first kiss of, 393. 
Love of gain, 703. 744. 
Love of glory, 660. 
Love of oifspring, 674. 
' Love's last adieu,' 398. 
Lovers, 635. 651. 
Lover's Leap. 30. 618. 
Loves of the Triangles, 809. 
Lowe, Sir Hudson. 537. 726. 
Luc, Jean Andr.(i de, 148. 
Lucca. 759. 
Lucretia, 205. 
Lucretius, 605. 
LucuUus. dishes a la, 758. Chernes 

transplanted into Europe by, 758. 
' Luddites, Song for the,' 579. 
Ludlow, General, the regicide, his 

monument, 48. 
Lugo, 659. 

Lushington, Dr., 603. 
Lusieri, Signer, his devastations at 

Athens. 771. 
Luther, Martin, 687. 
Lutzen, 538. 
Lying, 616. 
Lykanthropy, 709. 
Lyons, Gulf of 624. 
Lyttelton, George Lord, 99. 



INDEX. 



145. 



M. 

M . . . . Lines to, 396. 

M. S. G.. Lines to, 396 

Macassar Oil, 603. 

'Mac Flecknoe,' origin of Dryden & 
449. -^ ' 

Machiavelli, 687. 720. 7S4. His tomb in 
Santa Croce, 58. 

Mackintosh, Sir James, 532. 

Macneil; Hector, esq., his poems, 443. 

Macpherson's Ossian, 422. 

Madness, 60. 656. 

Madrid, 538. 716. 

Mafra, 17. 

Maginn. Dr., his parody on 'Yarrow 
Unvisited,' 598. 

Magnesia, 89. 

Mahomet, 638. 671. 689. 

Maid of Athens, 555. 

' Maid of Athens, ere we part,' 555 

Maid of Saragoza, 20. 

Majorian, his visit to Carthage, 106 

Malice, 607. 

Mallet, David, 437. 

Malta, 29. 

'Malta. Farewell to, 558. 

Malthus, Rev. T., his anti-nuptial sys- 
tem, 730. Does the thing 'gainst 
which he writes, 731. His book the 
eleventh commandment, 756. 

Mulvcni Hills, 176. 



Man, 612. 613. 650.712. 

Mandeville, 434. 

'Manfred; a Dramatic Poem, 

Goethe's remarks on, 201. 
Manfi-ini palace, 156. 
Manicheism, 327, 328. 
Manley, Mrs., her Ataliintis, 728. 
Mann, the engineer, his pumps, 623. 
Mansel, Dr., Bishop of Bristol, 407 
Mansion House, the, 724 
Mantinea, 41. 313. 
Marat, 601. 
Marathon. 36. 41. 45. 313. 647. Plain 

of, offered to Lord Byron for sale, 

Jlarceau, General, 44. 601 

Marehetti, Count, 507. 

Marengo, 313. 

Maria Louisa, Empress, 471. 543 

Mane Antoinette, 12. Effect of grief 

Marine barometer, 189. 661. 

Manner, his account of the Tonga 

Islands, 171. 162. 
Marinet, 707 

Marino, a corrupter of the taste of Eu- 
rope, 608. 
' i\Iarino Faliero, Doge of Venice ; an 
Histoncal Tragedy,' 203. Dedication 
to Goethe, 207. Story of 793 
' Marion,' Lines to, 399. 
Marischalchi Gallery, Bologna, 156 
Marius at Carthage, 508. 735 
Markland, J. H., esq., his character of 

Hours of Idleness,' 755. 
Markovv, General, 696. 
Marlborough, Co.xe's Life of, 205. 648 
JMarlow, his ' Faustus,' 202. 
' Marrnion,' 145. 434. 
Marriage, 640. 730. 
JIarriage of literary men, 509. 
Marriage state. ' the best or worst of 
any,' 752. ' The best for morals,' 755. 
Mars, 692. 
Martial, his epigrams, 605. 755. Lib i 

ep. 1., imitated, 584. 
Marlin, the regicide, 524. 
Marvell, Andrew, his lines on the exe- 
cution of Charles I., 241. 
'Mary,' 394. 599. 663. 'Lines to, on 

receiving her picture,' 397. 
Mary, Queen of Scots, 189. Her per- 
son described, 671. 713. 
Massinger, 440. 
Matapan, Cape, 641. 
]\Iatch-makiiig, 755. 
Matrimony, 730. * 

Matter, 86. Bishop Berkeley's denial 

of the existence of 721. 
Matthias, Thomas James, esq., 37. His 
' Pursuits of Literature,' 611. His 
edition of Gray's works, 811. 
Matthews, Charles Skinner, esq. 25 
Matthews, Henry, esq., 25. His 'Diary 

of an Invalid,' 200. 
IMatunn, Rev. Charles, 206. 
Maurice, Rev. Thomas, his ' Richmond 

Hill,' 437. 
Mauritania, 28. 
' Mazeppa,' 165. 
Mecca, 35. 80. 96. 
Medici, family of the, 787. Mausoleum 

of the, 58. 767. 
Medina, 35. 
Meditation, 28. 
Mediterranean, 71. Anoble subjeu' -.r 

a poem, 71. 
Medwin, Mr., 594. 
Megara, 56. 138. 

Megaspelion, monastery of, 774. 
Meknop, General, 701. 
Meillerie, 777. 
Melancthon, 709. 
Melbourne House, 446. 
Melody, Suwarrovv's polar, 706. 
Melton lAIowbray, head-quarters of the 

English chase, 743. 
Memnon, statue of, 741. 
Memory, 27. 
Mendeli, Mount, 36. 
Mephistopheles, 475. 737. 
UercA, Count, his epilapt, 36. 



Merivale, J. H., esq., 444. His ' Pum- 

cesvalles,' 493. 
Metaphysics, 735. 
Metella, Cecilia, tomb o 63 
Methodism, cause of the prsgress of 



Bletternich, Prince, 543. 

Michelli, Signora, translator of Shal: 

speare, 240. 
Midas, 542. 

'Middle Age' of Man, described, 729. 
Milan, state of society at, 639. 
J.Iilbanke, Sir Ralph, 603. 
Milbanke, Lady, 603. 
Milbanke, Miss, (afterwards Lady By- 
ron,) 442. ■' ^ 
Miller, William, bookseller, 433. 
Milman, Rev. Henry Hart, his ' History 
01 the Jews,' 473, 474, 475. 477. jiig 
'Fall of Jerusalem,' 206. His' char- 
acter of ' Heaven ar, I Earth,' 253. 
Critical notes by, passim. 
Milo, 471. 
Miltiades, 37. 

Milton, 100. 449. 535. 640 648 
Minerva, 36. 464. 
' Minerva. Curse of,' 463. 
Minotaur, fable of the, 634. 
Minturnee, 508. 
Mirabeau, 601. 

Miser, 612. Happy life of the, 729, 730. 
iMissolonghi, 83. 587. 
Mitford, Miss, 811. 

Mitford, William, esq., his abuse of 
Plutarch's Lives, 731. Great merit 
of his History of Greece, 731. 
Mitylene, isle of, 805. 
Mob, 699. 

' Mobility,' 769. Defined, 769. 
Mocha's berry, 643. 
Modesty, 754. 
Molirre, 744. 
Momus, 692. 
Money, power of, 730. Pleasure of 

hoarding, 729, 730. 
Money, love of, ' the only pleasure that 

requites,' 764. 
' Monk,' Lewis's novel of the, 435. 
Monkir and Nekir, 80. 
Monks, 751. 

JMonmouth, Geoffrey of, his Chronicle 
761. ' 

Monsoon, 698. 
Mont Blanc, 45. 60. 
Montague, Lady Mary AVortley, 642. 

657. 663. 671. 
Montaigne, his motto, 708. 
Montecucco, 511. 

Montgomery, James, Answer to his 

poem, entitled ' The Common Lot,' 

419. His ' Wanderer of Switzerland,' 

437. 

Mor t Illy Review, its critique on ' Hours 

cf Idleness,' 430. 
Montmartre, 539. 
Mont St. John, 41. 726. 
Montmorenci Laval, Duke de, 542,513. 
Sloon, 610. 639. ' Of amatory egotism 

the Tuism, 762. 
Moonlight, 200. 227. 610. 
Moore, Thomas, esq.. 427.432.438. 610. 
618. 726. 808. 'Lines on his last 
Operatic Farce, or Farcical Opera,' 
558. ' Lines to, on visiting Leigh 
Hunt in prison,' .566. ' Fragment of 
an epislle to,' 569. ' Lines to,' 578, 
579. His Verses on Leigh Hunt's 
' Lord Byron and his Contempora- 
ries,' 535. His ' Fudge Family.' 810 
His ' Twopenny Post-bag,' 810. Crit- ' 
ical notes by, passim. 
Moore, Dr., his ' Zelucco,' 12. His 
account of Marino Faliero false and 
flippant, 205. 
Morat, field of, 45. 
JMore, Hannah, 517. Her < Ccelete in 

search of a Wife,' 602. 
Morea, 72. 

Moreau, General, 601. 
Morelli, Abbate, 240. 
Morena, 20. * 

Morgan, Lady, 298. 





INDEX. 


325 


1 

' Morgante Maggiore of Pulci,' trans- 


'Nisus and Euryalus,' a paraphrase 


Paradise Lost, 610. 


lation of canto the first. 492. 


from the ^neid, 403. 


Parcas, 663. 


Morning Post, 588. 648. 728. 740. 


Noble, life of a young, described, 727. 


'Parenthetical Address, by Dr Pla 


Morocco, 655. 


North-west passage, 739. 


giary,' 563. 


Morosini, Venetian poet, 240. 


Norton, Hon. Mrs., 440. 


Paris, 538. 


Mosaic chrDnology, 328. 339. 


Novels, 652. 


'Parisina,' 141. 


Moscow, conflagration of, 408. 538. 716. 


Novelties, please less than they im- 


' Parker, Sir Peter, Elegiac Stanzas on 


Moses, 709. Michael Angelo's statue 


press, 734. 


the death of,' 570. 


of, 512 Sonnet on, 512. 


Numa Porapilius, 604. 


' Parker, Margaret, Lines on her death,' 


Mcskwa, 313. 




366. 


Mossop, actor, 396. 




Parks of London, 727. 


Motraye, M., his description of the 


0. 


Parma, 543. 


Grand Seignior's palace, 685. 




Parnassus, 21. 31. 60.457. 


Mountains, 46. 176. ■ 


Oak, ' Lines to an, at Newstead,' 546. 


Parr, Dr., his opinion of ' Sardanapa- 


Mozart, 765. 


Oath, British, 725. 


lus,' 2S6. 


Muezzin, 32. 80. 707. 


Oath, Continental, 725. 


Parthenon, 26, 27. 465, 466 


Munda, 313. 


' Observations upon an article in Black- 


Parting, 622. 091. 


Murat, Joachim, death of, 793. His 


wood's Magazine,' 805. 


' Parting, Lines on,' 557. 


' snow-white plurne,' 571. 


Obstinacy, 752. 


Pasiphae. 634. 


Murray, John, esq., sums paid by him 


Ocean, 71. 


Pasqualigo, Signer, 240. 


to I^ord Byron for copyright, 434. 


' Ocean Stream,' 663. 


Passion, 30. 34.381. 608.810. 


• ' My dear Mr. Murray, you're in a 


Ocellus Lucanus, 775. 


Passions. 650. 601. Effect of violent 


danin'd hurry,' 5S0. ' Strahan, Ton- 


O'Connell, 585. 


and conflicting, 050. 


son, Lintot of the times,' 580. ' To 


Odalisques, 680. 


Paswan Oglou, 94. 


hooit the reader, you, John Murray,' 


' Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte,' 470 


Paternoster-row, the 'bazaar of rook- 


579. ' Epistle from, to Dr. Polidon,' 


' Ode on Venice,' 490. 


sellers,' 517. 


579. ' Lines to,' 584. His notes on 


Odessa, 676. 


Patience, 190. 


Medwin's Conversations, 813. 


Offspring, care of, 674. 


Patroclus, tomb of, 65S 


Murray, John, jun., esq., 207. 


' Oh, Anne I your offences,' 545. 


Pausanias and Cleonice, story of, 193 


Music, 89. 753. 755. 


' Oh ! say not, sweet Anne,' 545. 


Peacock, ' the royal bird, whose tail 's 


Mussulwomen, 161. 


' Oh 1 banish care,' 558. 


a diadem,' 093. 


' Must till 1 go, my glorious chief,' 572. 


' Oh ! had my fate been joined with 


Pelagius, 18. 


Musters, Mrs. See Chaworth. 


thine 1' 425. 


Pelayo, 539. 


Mutiny, 172. 


' Oh lady ! when I left the shore,' 553. 


Pentelicus, (now Mount Mendeli,) 36. 


' My boat is on the shore,' 578. 


' Oh ! my lonely, lonely, lonely pillow,' 


Pericles, 464. 


< My dear Mr. IMujrray,' 580. 


587. 


Peri, 12. 


' My Grandmother's Review,' the Brit- 


' Oh ! never talk to me again,' 24. 


Persians, 761. Their doctrine of the 


ish, 590. 619. ' Letter to the Editor 


' Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom,' 


two principles, 739. 


of,* 803. 


474. 


Pertinacity, 752. 


' My sister ! my sweet sister!' 480. 


' Oh ! talk not to me of a name great in 


Pescara, 511. 


• My Soul is dark,' 474. 


story,' 586. 


Peter Bell, Wordsworth's, 809, 810. 


Mysteries and Sloralities, 453. 


' Oh ! weep for those,' 474. 


Peter the Third, of Russia, 713. 




Old age, 644. 


Peter the Great, 540. 




Olympus, 60. 537. 


Peter Pindar, 533. 


N 


O'Meara, Barry, 537. Causes of liis 


Petersburgh, 710. 




dismissal from the navy, 537. 


Ptition, 601. 


Nadir Shah, 710. 


Omens, 652. 


Petrarch, 27. 55. IIis laureate crown, 


Naldi, singer, 440. 


' On Jordan's banks,' 474. 


58. 541. 782, 7S0. On the conspiracy 


Napier, Colonel, his detection of an 


' One struggle more, and I am free,' 


of Marino Faliero, 795. Crowned in 


error in ' Childe Harold,' 17. 


500. 


the Capitol, 809. 'The Platonic 


Napoleon. See Bonaparte. 


O'Neil, Miss, actress, 206. 


pimp of all posterity,' 662. 


Napoleon's 'Farewell,' 573. 


Opera, 440. 


Petticoat, ' garment of a mystical sub- 


Napoleon, Fran^ois-Charles-Joseph, 


Orator, 541. 


limity,' 747. 


Duke of Reichstadt, 543. 766. 


Orchomenus, 555. ' Lines written in 


Petticoat government, 765. 


' Napoleon the First,' 706. 


the travellers' book at,' 555. 


Petticoat influence, 747. 


Napoli di Romania, 130. 


O'Reilly, General Count, 614. 


Petty, Lord Henry, (now Marquis of 


National debt, 710. 


' Origin of Love,' Lines on being at'ted 


Lansdowne.) 395. 407. 439. 


Native land, sensation on leaving, 621. 


what was tlie, 565. 


Phajdra and Hippolit-us, 673 


Nature, 27. 30. 50. 673. 753. 757. 


Orpheus, 460. 648. 


Pharsalia, 313. 


Nature, ' Prayer, of,' 423. 


Orthodoxy, 678. 


Phidias, 512. ^ 


' Nay, smile not at my su le i brow,' 


' Oscar of Alva ;' a tale, 400. 


Philanthropy, 33. 


23. 


Ossian, Macpherson's, 422. 


Phillips, Ambrose, his pastorals, 455. 


' Needy knife-grinder,' 25 


Otho, his last moments, 197. His mir- 


Phillips, Charles, esq., barrister, 803. 


Nebuchadonoser, 068. 


ror, 271. 


Philo-progenitiveness, 731. 


Negropont. 91. 


Otway, 203. 440. 


Philosophy, 620. 039. 


Neipperg, Count, 471. 54J 


Ouchy, 148. 


Phyle, Fort, 35. 404. 


Nekir, 60. 


' Our goodman came hame at e'en,' 


Physicians, 717. 


Nelson, Lord, 601. 


Scottish ballad, quoted, 616. 


Pibroch, 400. 


Nemesis, Roman, 66. 791 


Ovid, 605. 635. 


Pickersgill, Joshua, his Three Broth- 


Nemi, 70. 


Owenson, Miss, her ' Ida of Athens,' 


ers, 310. 


Neptune, 178. 636. 


773. See Morgan, Lady. 


Picture, a, ' is the past,' 762. 


Nero, 649. 


Oxenstiern, Chancellor, his remark to 


Pictures, 766. 


Nero, consul, 175. 


his son, 750. 


Pigot, Miss, ' Lines to,' 410. 


Nero, emperor. 649. 


Oysters, 036. 751. 


Pigot, Dr., 'Reply to some Verses of, 


Nessus, robe of, 727. 702. 




on the cruelty of his mistress,' 410. 


Newfoundland dog, ' Inscription on 




Pillans, James, 439. 


the monument of a,' 549. 


P. 


Pindar, 22. 646. 


Newstead Abbey, ' Lines written on 




Pindemonte, Ippolito, 540. 


leaving,' 388. ' Elegy on,' 412. 


Pain, 289. 


Pindus, Mount, 31. 


Newton, Sir Isaac, 687. Memorable 


Painting, 491. ' Of all arts the most 


Piraeus, 56. 


sentiment of, 687. Anecdote of the 


superficial and unnatural,' 57. 


Pirates, 101. 


falling apple, 714. 


Palafox, General, his heroic conduct 


Pisse-vache, 59. 


Ney, Marshal, 707. 


at Saragossa, 24. 


Pistol, 654. 


Nicopolis, ruins of, 31. 


Palamon and Arcite, 810. 


Pitt, Right Hon. WilUam, his addi- 


Night, 227. 617. 


Palatine, mount, 63. 510. 


tions to our parliamentary tongue, ' 


Nightingale, its attachment to the rose. 


Palgra-.-e, Sir Francis, 793. 


449. His grave next that of Fox, 


73.90. Its 376 of solitude, 653. 


Pqjmerston, Viscount, 395. 


5.36. His disinterestedness, 708. 


'Nil adm ran, happiness of the, 671 


Pan, 636. 


' Epitapli for,' 583. 


739. 


Pantheon, at Rome, 67 


Pitti Palace, 57. 


Nile, 537. 


Pantisocracy, 648. 808 


Pizarro, 25 539. 


Nimrod, 668. 


Paper, 648. 


Plagiarism, 144. 298. 622, 623. 


Niobe, bO 


Paper-money, 729. 


Plato, his lines on the tomb of Themis 



104 



820 



tocles, 72 Ills system of loTe, 611. 
His Dialogues, 760. His reply to 
Diogenes, 704. 

Platonic love. 608. 611 713. 

Playhouse bill, origin of, 454. Pro- 
priety of repealing it, 454. 

Pleasure, 611, 612. 620. A stern moral 
!5t. 645. 

Pleasures of HoRe, 443. 

Pleasures of IVIemory, 443. 'Lines 
written oil a blank leaf of,' 562. 

Plimley, Peter, (Rev. Sidney Smith,) 
his ''Letters,' 767. 

Plutarcli's ' Lives,' 697. Mitford's 
abuse of, 731. 

' Po, Stanzas lo the,' 581. 

Poetry, present state of English, 808. 
Nothing in, so difficult as a begin- 
ning, 650. ' Is a passion,' 661. 

Poets, 512. 660. Amatory, 602. Duties 
of, 702. The greatest living, 726. 

Poggio, his exclamation on looking 
down on Rome, 57. 

Poland, 533. 719. 

Polenta, Guido da, St-I. 

Polenta, Francesca da, 515. 

Polidori, Dr., 809. ' Epistle from Mr. 
Murray to,' 579. 

Polycrates, 647. 

Polygamy, 675. 679. 703. 

Pompey, a hero, conqueror, and cuck- 
old, 638. His statue, 61. 788. 

Pope, 432. His Pastorals, 455. His 
Rape of the Lock, 810. Harmony of 
his versification, 810. His imagina- 
tion, 810. His character of Sporus, 
810. List of his disciples, 811. Sys- 
tematic depreciation of, 609. 

Popular applause, 646. . 

Popular discontents, progress of, 699. 

Popularity, 672. 

Porphyry, 24. 

Porson, 'Professor, 407. 567. 

Portland, (William Henry Cavendisl ,) 
third Duke of, 446. 

Portugal, 11. 19. 

Portuguese, the, characterized, 18. 

Possession, 652. 

Posterity, 602. 731. 

Potemkin, Prince, 690. His charac- 
ter, 690. His instructions to Su- 
warrow before the siege of Ismail, 
691. 

Potiphar's wife, 673. 

Pouqueville, M. de, 31. 665 Charac- 
ter of hie writings, 31. 

Poussin, his picture of the da nga, 
252. 

PratT, Samuel, 436. His 'Sympathy,' 
436. 

Prayer, 329. 

' Prayer of Nature,' 433 

Presle, dancer, 440. 

Pretension, absence of, 754. 

Previsa, 34. 

Priam, 313 

Pride, 630. 738. 

Prince Regent, ' A finished gentle- 
man from top to toe,' 736. ' Smnet 
to, on the repeal of Lord Edwvird 
Fitzgerald's Forfeiture,' 582. ' Lmes 
to, on his standing between the 
cofiins of Henry VIII. and Charles 
I.,' 568. 

Principles, the two, 342. 

' Prisoner of Chillon,' 148. 

' Prologue delivered previously to the 
performance of the Wheel of For- 
tune, at a private theatre,' 408. 

' Prometheus,' 575. 

Prometheus of ^schylus, 612. 

' Prophecy of Dante,' 505. Dedication 

to Countess Guiccioli, 506. 
Prophets, 749. 
Protesilaus, (>t6. 
Pruth, the river, 540. 
Psyche, 711. 

Public schools, 606. 620. Advant.iges 

cf, 606. Best adapted to the genius 

and constitution of the Englisli, 606. 

Piuci, his ' Jlorgante Maggiore,' 492. 

8irn jf the half-serious rhyme, 651. 



INDEX. 



Pultowa, battle of, 164. 171. 

Puns, 450. 

Pye, Henry James, esq., 432. 533 

Pygmalion, statue of, 681. 711. 

Pyramus and Tliisbe, 668. 

Pyrrhic dance, 642. 647. 

Pyrrho, the doubting philosopher, 708. 

Pyrrhus, 543. 

Q. 

' Quaker, Lines to a beautiful,' 407. 
Quaker, tenets of the, 26. 
Quarrels of Authors, D'Israeli's, 805. 
Quarterly Review, 619. Critical notes 

from, passim. 
Queens, generally prosperous in their 

reigns, 718. 
Quirini, Alvise, 240. 
' Quite refreshing,' 702. 



R. 

Rage, woman's, 674. 

Rainbow, 612 Description of a, 629. 

' Ram Alley,' Barrey's comedy of, 468. 

Ramazan, feast of, 32. 75. 

Ranz des Vaches, 298. 

Rape of the Lock, 810. 

Raphael, his death, 159. His Trans- 
figuration, 754. 

Rapp, American harmonist, 756. 

Ravenna, 58. Its pine forest, 649. 
Battle of, 660. Dante's tomb at, 
660. 

Ravenstone, 197. 

Ready money, ' is Aladdin's lamp,' 
730. 

Reason, 343. ' Ne'er was hand in 
glove with rhyme,' 713. 

Red Sea, 633. 

Reformadoes, 715. 

Refreshing, origin of the phrase, 518. 

ReichstadtjCNapoleonFrancois Charles 
Joseph,) Duke of, 543. 706. 

Reinagle, R. R., his chained eagle, 40 

' Rejected Addresses,' its happy imi- 
tation of Fitzgerald, the small-beer 
poet, 431. 

Religious opinions, folly of prosecu- 
tions for, 677. 

' Remarks on the Romaic, or modern 
Greek language, with Specimens and 
Translations,' 798. 

Rembrandt, 742. 

' Remember him, whom passion's pow- 
er,' 5G5. 

' Remembrance,' 420. 

' Remind me not, remind me not,' 550. 

Remorse, 77. 376. 

Renown, 690. 

Rents, 542. 

Repletion, 665. 

Revenge, 508. 604. 

Revolution, 699. 

Reynolds, Frederick, dramatist, 440. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, his sensations on 
visiting the Vatican, 68. His charac- 
ter of Michael Angelo, 512. 

Rhine, 43, 44. 719. 

Rhodes, 630. 

Rhone, ' the arrowy,' 46. Its color, 
146. 752. 

Rhyme, its excellence over blank 
verse, 449. 810. 

Rialto, 156. 

Ribas, Russian admiral, 690. 

Ribanpierre, General, 701. 

Rich, Claudius, esq., his Memoirs on 
the Ruins of Babylon, 668. 

Richards, Rev. Dr., his ' Aboriginal 
Britons,' 445. 

Richardson, ' the vainest and luckiest 
of authors,' 620. 

Riclielieu, Duke of, his humanity at 
the siege of Ismail, f 76. 696. 702. 

Richmond Hill, 22. 

Ridotto, description of, 160 

Rienzi, 64. 

Riga, the Greek patriot, 95. His Greek 



war song, ' Atirt Taii5«f,' and trane- 
lation, 556. 

Ring, the matrimonial, 713. 

'River that rollest by the ancient 
walls,' 581. 

Roberts, Mr., (editor of the British Re- 
view,) 591. 618. 803. 

Rocheloucault, 50. 087. 

Rogers, Samuel, esq., his ' Pleasures 
of Memory,' 72. 98. 443. His ' Colum- 
bus,' 72. Dedication of the ' Giaour' 
to, 72. His ' Italy,' 290, 291 302. 
306, 307. 309. 809. His translation of 
Zappi's sonnet on the statue of Moses, 
513. 

' Romaic, or modern Greek language, 
remarks on, with specimens and 
translations,' 798. 

Romaic war song, 556. 

Romaic love song, 556. 

' Romance muy doloroso del Sitio y 
Toma de Alhaina,' translated, 576. 

' Romance,' Lines to, 411. 

Roman Daughter, story of the, 67. 

Romanelli, physician, 556. 772. 

Rome described, 57. ' The city of the 
soul,' 60. The ' Niobe of Nations,' 
60. Sackage of, 510. 

Romilly, Sir Samuel, 602. 728. 807 

Romulus, temple of, 789. 

Roncesvalles, 495. 721. 

Rooms, large ones comfortless, 667, 

Rosa Matilda, 442. 

Roscoe's ' Leo the Tenth,' 128. 

Rose, William Stewart, esq., his ' Son 
net to Constantinople,' 35. His ' Es- 
say on Whistlecraft,' 154 Hischarac 
ter of Pindemonte, 540. 

Rossini, 765. 

Rothschild, Baron, 543. 729. 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques, his ' H61oise,' 
46. 49. 687. 751. His ' Confessions,' 
46. 49. 

Rubicon, 537. 

Rumor, ' a live gazette,' 754. 

Rushton, Robert, (the ' little page' in 
Childe Harold,) 14 

Russia, 539. 



S. 



Sabbath in London, 22. 

Sabellicus, his description of Venice, 

52. 
Sadness, 37. 
Safety lamp. Sir Humphry Da^-y's, 

612. 
St. Angelo, castle of, 68. 323. 
St. Bartholomew, flayed alive, 666 
St. Francis, his recipe for chastity, 679. 
St. Helena, 537. 
St. Peter's at Rome, 68. 512. 
St. Sophia at Constantinople, not to be 

compared with St. Paul's Cathedral, 

663. 
Sainte Palayc, M. de, 12. 
Salamis, 74. 539. 647 
Sallust, 686. 
Salvator Rosa, 742. 
Santa Croce, 58. 
Santa Maura, 30. 
Sappho. 30. 605. 63S. 
Saragoza, sieges of, 20. 
Saragoza, Maid of. 20. 539. 
' Sardanapalus, a Tragedy,' 254. 
Satanic school, 522, 523. 
' Saul, Song of, before his last Battle,' 

475. 
Scaligers, tomb of the, 540, 
SchalThausen, fall of. 59. 
Scamander, 658. 
Scandal, 607, 617. 
Schiller's Wallenstein, 601. 
Schroepfer, 770. 

Scimitars, "Turkish, characters on, 01. 
Scipio Africanu-s-, 320. 
Scipios, tomb of the, CO. 785. 
Scorpion, 77. 
Scotland, 715. 
Scott, Sir Walter, 326, 327. 433. 441. 

455. 536. 715. 730. His 'Lay of the 



Last Minstrel,' 433. 444. 730. 758. 

His ' Marmion,' H5. His opinion of 

' Don Juan,' 507. His ' Demonology,' 

739. Critical notes by, passim 
Scriptures, 744. 
Sea-attorney, 640. 
Sea-coal fires, 742. 
Sea-sickness, remedies for, 621. 
Seale, Dr. John, his 'Greek Metres,' 

395. 
Sea-wall's between the Adriatic and 

Venice, inscription on, 7C6. 
Seasons, Thomson's, would have been 

better in rhyme, 810. Inferior to his 

' Castle of Indolence,' 810. 
StguT, Count, his character of Prince 

Potemkin, 690. 
Self love, 679. 712. 
Serairamis, 258. 668. 
> Sennacherib, Destruction of,' 477. 
Senses, duty of not trusting the, 745. 
Seraglio, interior of, 685. 
Serassi, his ' Life of Tasso,' 487. 
Sesostris, 536. 
Sestos, ' Lines after swimming from,' 

555. 
Seven Towers, prison of the, 676. 
Seville, 19. 21. 602. 
Sforza, Francesco, 291. 
Sforza, Ludovico, 148. 
Sgricci, Count, 784. 
Shadwell, Sir Lancelot, 327. 
Shadwell, Thomas, 419. 
Shakspeare, his obligations to Nortn's 

Plutarch, 623. His infelicitous mar- 
riage, 640. 
Shaving, miseries of,* 747. 
■ She walks in Beauty,' 473. 
She-epistle described, 745. 
Shee, Sir Martin, (president of the 

Royal Academy,) his 'Rhymes on 

Art,' 444. 
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, esq., 310. 523. 
Shelley, Mrs., 310. 
Sheridan, Right Hon. Richard Brins- 

ley, 483, 484. 728. His ' Critir,' 804. 

' Monody on the Death of,' 483 His 

Lines on Waltzing, 469. 
Sheridan, Thomas, esq., 440. 
Sheridan, Mrs. Thomas, her ' Carwell,' 

440. 
Shipwreck, description of a, 622-630. 
Shooter's Hill, 721. 
Shreckhorn, 46. 
Siddons, Mrs., 206. 440. 563 
' Siege of Corinth,' 130. 
Sierra Morena, 20. 
Sigeum, Cape, 657. 
Silenus, 316. 

Simeon, Rev. Charles, 454 
Simond, M., 531. 
Simoom, 75. 656. 
Simplon, the, 712. 
Sinecures, 767. 
Singing, merit of simplicity in, 659. 

764. 
Sinking fund, 769. 
Sisyphus, 752. 

SketKngton, Sir Lumley, 440. 
' Sketch, A,' 479. 
' Skull, Lines inscribed upon a cup 

formed from a,' 549. 
Slaughter, 43. 
Slave market at Constantinople, 662, 

603. 
Slavery of the great, 664, 665. 
Sleep, 633. 633. 766. Sir T. Browne's 

encomium on, 653. 
Smedley, Rev. Jlr., his ' History of the 

Tvvo Foscari,' 796. 
Smith, Horace, esq., his ' Horace in 

London.' 
Smith, Il«v. Sidney, the reputed author 

of 'Peter Plimley's Letters,' 438. 

His ' twelve-parson power,' 717. See 

' Peter Pith,''767. 
Smith, Mrs. Spencer, 553. See ' Flor- 
ence.' 
Smoking, 178. 

' So we'll go no more a roving,' 579. 
Society, 664. 734. 735. 743. 747. 752. 
Socrates, 463 313. 677. 687. 760. 



INDEX. 



Soienies, wood of, (remnant of the 
forest of Ardennes.) 41. 

Solano, governor of Calais, his treach- 
ery, 24. 

Solitary confinement, effects of, 298. 

Solitude, 29. 48. 55. 70. 298. 609. 667. 
700. 

Solitudes, social, 653. 

Solomon, 687. 739. 

Solyman, Sultan, 675. 

' Song for the Luddites,' 579. 

' Song of Saul before his last battle,' 
475. 

Songs of the Venetian gondoliers, 52 
778. 

' Sons of the Greeks, arise !' 556. 

Sonnet to Genevra, 567. On Chillon, 
148. To Lake Leman, 575. From 
Vittorell^STS. To George the Fourth, 
on the repeal of Lord Edward Fitz- 
gerald's forfeiture, 5S2. 

Sonnets, ' the most puling, petrifying, 
stupidly platonic compositions,' 567. 

Soracte, 60. 

Sorrow, 24. 37. 304. 308. 

Sotheby, William, esq., 443. 519, 520. 
804. 

Soul, 328. 751. 

South, Dr., his sermons, 635. 

Southcote, Joanna, 527. 648. 

Southey, Robert, esq., LIj. D., his 
person and manners, 434. His prose 
and poetry, 434. His ' Roderick,' 433. 
His ' Thalaba,' 433. His ' Old Woman 
of Berkley,' 434. His ' Curse of Ke- 
hama,' 459. His 'Joan of .Arc,' 459. 
His ' Inscription for Henry Martin the 
regicide,' 524. His ' Pantisocracy,' 
048. Dedication of Don Juan to, 598. 

Spagnoletti, 742. 

Spartan's epitaph, 53. 

Spencer, William, esq., 519. 

Spenser, his measure, 11. 100. 

Spinola, 511. 

Sporus, Pope's character of, 810. 

Stael, M.idame de, 88. 646. 807. Trib- 
ute to her memory, 764. Her ' Co- 
rinne,' quoted, 617. 

Stamboul, (Constantinople,) 35. 

' Stanzas to a lady on leaving England,' 
550. To a lady with the poems of 
Camoens, 392. To Florence, 553. 
Composed during a thunder-storm, 
553. Written on passing the Ambra- 
cian Gulf, 554. To Inez, 23. ' Tam- 
bourgi I Tambourgi ! thy 'larum 
afar,' 34. ' Away, away, ye notes of 
wo,' 5G0. ' One struggle more, and 
I am free,' 560. ' And thou art dead,' 
&c., 561. ' If sometimes in the haunts 
of men,' 561. ' Thou art not false, but 
thou art fickle,' 565. On being asked 
what was the origin of love, 565. 
' Remember him,' &c., 565. ' To Au- 
gusta,' 480. ' Elegiac, on the death of 
Sir Peter Parker,' 576. ' When a 
man hath no freedom,' 583. To the 
Po, 561. Written on the road be- 
tween Florence and Pisa, 586. 
' Could love forever,' 582. On com- 
pleting my thirty-sixth year, 587. To 
a Hindoo 'air, 587. 

' Star of the Legion of Honor, On the/ 
572. 

Statesmen, 767. 

Steam-engines, 714. 

Stoddart, Sir John, 589. 

Stoics, 664. 

Stonehenge, 724. 

Stott, (Hafez of the ' Morning Post,') 
433. 

' Strahan, Tonson, Lintotof the times,' 
580. 

Strangford, Lord, his ' Camoens,' 392. 
435. 

Styles, Rev. Dr.,' his sermon against 
Lord Byron, 595. 

Styx, 651. 

Suetonius, 649. 

Suicide, 677. 746. 

Suli, 30. 33. 647. 

Suliotes, their hospitality, 33. 



827 



Sulpicius, Servius, his letter to Cicero 
on the death of his daughter, 56. 

Sunium, 647. 

' Sun of the Sleepless,' 476 

Sunday in London, 22. 

Sunday School, 621. 

Sunrise, 633. 

Sunset, (,i~. 652. 

Superstition, 31. 

Suspense, 42. 

Suspicion, 47. 

Suwarrow, Field Marshal, 687, 688. 691, 
692, 693. His ' polar melody' on the 
capture of Ismail, 706. His charac- 
ter, 706. Brevity of his style, 712. 

Swift, Dr. Jonathan, 455. 609. 687. 

Swoon, 631. 

Sylla, 61. 160. 471. 700. 

Sympathy, 035. 081. 

Symplegades, 70. 562. 663. 

Syracuse, 54. 



Tact, 616. 

Tagus, 16. 

Tahiri, Dervis 72. 

Talavera, 19. 

Talleyrand, Pri.-.ce de, 543. 

' Tambourgi ! Tambourgi !' 34. 

Tarpeian rock, 64. 

Tasso, 55, 56. 487, 488, 489. 511. 778. 

782. 809. ' Lament of,' 486. 
Tassoni, note, 808. 
Tattersall, Rev. John Cecil, 417. 
Tavell, Rev. G. F., (Lord Byron's col- 
lege tutor.) 452. 
Tea, prophetic powers of, 655. 
' Tear,' The, 409. 
Tears, 672, 714. 
Tempe, 31. 
Teniers, 742. 
Tepaleen, 32. 
Terni, Falls of, 59. 
Terrot, Rev. Mr., his ' Common Sense' 

quoted, 592. 
Thames, 22. 723. 
' The castled crag of Drachenfels,' 

44. 
' The chain I gave was fair to view,' 

562. 
'The harp the monarch minstrel swept,' 

473. 
' The Isles of Greece, the Isles of 

Greece,' 646. 
' The world is a bundle of hay,' 583. 
' The spell is broke, the charm is 

flown,' 554. 

The Wild Gazelle,' 474. 
Themistocles, Tomb of, 72. Lines by 

Plato upon, 72. 
' There be none of Beauty's daughters,' 

571. 
'There was a time, I need not name,' 

550. 
' There's not a joy the world can give,' 

570. 
Thermopyte, 74. 510. 647. 
Theseus, temple of, 463. 
' They say that Hope is happiness,' 

578. 
' This day, of all our days,' 564. 
Thomson, his ' Seasons' would have 

been better in rhyme, 810. 
Thornton, Thomas, esq., character of 

his ' State of the Ottoman Empire,' 

774. 
' Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,' 

565. 
' Though the day of my destiny 's o'er !' 

4S0. 
' Thoughts suggested by a college ex- 
amination,' 407. 
Thrasimene, lake of, 60. 313. Battle 

of, 60. 
'Through cloudless skies, in silvery 

sheen,' 554. 
' Through life's dull road, so dim and 

dirty,' 584. 
' Through thy battlements, Newstead/ 

388. 



828 



Thurlow, (Thomas Hovelt Thurlow,) 
second Lord, Lines on his ' Poems,' 
506. Verses to, 506. 
Thunder-storm on the Lake of Geneva 

described, 48. 
T'hunder-storm near Zitza, Stanzas 
composed during, 55S. 

' Thy days are done,' 475. 
Thyrza, ' Stanzas to,' 559, 560, 56L 

Tibeiius, 757. 

Tibullus, his ' Sulpicia ad Cerinthum' 
translated, 389. 

Tillotson, Archbishop, 035. 087. 

Tirabuctoo, women of, 735. 

Time, 38. 54. 048. 650, 051. 749 ' Lines 
to,' 564. 

Timoleon, 131. 

Timon, 12. 

Timour, 314. 706 

Tiresias, 751. 

' 'Tis done ; and shivering in the gale,' 
552. 

"Tis time this heart should be un- 
moved,' 587 

Titans, 710. 

Tithes, 766. 

Titian, 742. 

Tittle-tattle, 732. 

Titus, 638. ' The master of love,' 638. 

' Titus, on the day of the destruction of 
Jerusalem by,' 477. 

Tobacco, 178. 

Tomb, 756. 

Tombs, folly of erecting large ones 
668. 

Tomerit, Jlount, 32. 

Tom Jones, ' an accomplished black- 
guard,' 745. 

Tonson, Jacob, bookseller, 756. 

Tooke, John Home, 532. 763. 

Torture, 54. 

Tournefort, 662. 067. 

Tower of Babel, 668. 

Town and country, 768. 

Town life, 727. 

Townshend, Rev. George, 451. His 
Armacteddon,' 451. 

Trafalgar, 30. 

Trajan, 64. His column, 64. 

Translation from Catullus, 'ad Les- 
biam,' 3S9 Of the Epitaph on Virgil 
and Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus, 
389. Of Tibullus, ' Sulpicia ad Cerin- 
thum,' 386. From Catullus, ' Lugete, 
Veneres, Cupidinesqne,' 389. Of 
Horace's 'Justum et tenacem,' 390. 
Of Anacreon's MiaovvKTiaig ttoO' 
iipais. 390. Of Anacreon's GtAo) Atytiv 
Arpeiias, 390. From the Prometheus 
Vil.otus of iEschylus, 399. From the 
Medea of Euripides, 'Epoircs vircp, 
406 Of the Greek war song, Atiirs 
7ra(^£j, 556. Of the Romaic song, 
' Mirtvu jutj,' 557. Of a Romaic love 
song, 504. From the Portuguese, 
' Tu mi chamas,' 567. Of the ' Ro- 
mance muy doloroso del Sifio y 
Toma de Alhama,' 576. From Vit- 
torelli, ' Di due vaghe donzeile,' 578. 

Trebea, 313. 

Trecentisti, the, 646. 

Tree of knowledge, 612. 

Tree of life, 331. 

Trenck, Baron, 298. 

Trimmer, Mrs., 602. 

Tripoli, 641. 

Triptolemus, 545;. 

Troad, the, 658. 

Troy, 648. 658. 660. 

Truth, stranger than fiction, 753. 760. 

TtiUy's ' Tripoli,' 644. 

' Tu mi ciiamas,' translated, 507. 

Turkey, state of manners in, 776. 

Turkey, women of, 676. Their life in 
the harems, 161. 

Turnpike-ro-id, 720. 

Turpin, 761 

Tweddell, John, his account of Suwar- 
row, 706. 

Twilight, 649. 

Twiss, Horace, esq., 160. 



INDEX. 



Tyranny, 401 
Tyre, 53. 700. 
Tyrian purple, 762. 



U. 

Ugolino, 510. 628. 

Ulissipont, 15. 

Ulysses' dog Argus, 641. 

Ulysses' whistle, 745. 

Uncertainty, 694. 

Unities, 254, 255. 611. 

University education, advantages of, 

600. 
Usurers, 626. 
Utraikey, 34. 

V. 

V.acancy, 53. 

Vaccination, 612. , 

Valentia, Lord, (now Earl of Mount- 

norris,) 446. 
' Vampire ; a Fragment,' 80. 
' Vanity of Human Wishes,' Johnson's, 

050. 
' Vathek,' 86. 137. 
Vatican, 68. 
Vauban, 688. 
Velino, 59. 
Venality, 735. 
Venetian dialect, 621. 
Venetian fazzioli, 621. 
Venetian society and manners, 340. 

796. 
Venetian noble, sketchti by Gritti, 

240. 
Venice, 52. 778. St. Mark's, 53. 779. 

Carnival, 155. Rialto, 156. Man- 

frini palace, 150. B.-idge of Sighs, 

52. 778. State dungeons of, 160. 778. 

Ridoiio, 160. Prophecy -especting, 

241. 
' Venice, Ode on,' 490. 
Venus, 635. 76S 

Venus of iVIedicis, 57. 155. 784. 
Vernet, 656. 
Vernon, General, 742. 
Verona, amphitheatie of, 000. Juliet's 

tomb at, 540. Tombs of the Scali- 

gers, 540. Claudian's Old Man of, 

540. Congress at, 543 728. 
Versatility, 709. 
' Versicles,' 579. 
Vespasius, Americus, 511. 
Vesuvius, 538. 
Vicar of Wakefield, 765. 
Vice, 662. 
Victory, 39. 703. 
Vineyards, the best, 742. 
Vintage, 612. 
Virgil, 005. 

Virgin Mary, portraits of, 034. 649. 
Virtues, the, 602. 
Vision of Belshazzar, ' The King was 

on his Throne,' 476. 
' Vision of Judgment,' 522. 
Vittorelli, Sonetto di, 578. 
Voice, fascination of a sweet, 634. 754. 
Voltaire, his character by Lord Byron, 

49. By Dr. Warton, 813. And by 

Lord Holland, 813. His ' Vous pleu- 

rez,' 613. His defence of the Calas 

family, 813. 

W. 

Wagrara, 313. 

Walpole, Sir Robert, tijs political ax- 
iom, 605. 

Walsh, Rev. Dr. R., his account of 
Ali Pacha's assassination, 33. 

Walton, Izaak, ' >i quaint old cruel 
coxcomb,' 745. Defence of, 745. 

' Waltz, The . an Apostrophir. Hymn,' 
460. 

Waltzing, Sheridan's linos orij 46'Ji 

War, 691. 695. 705. 707 

Warriors, 660. 



Warton, Dr. Thomas, his character of 
Voltaire, 813. 

Washington, George, 522. 532. 695. 708 

Wat Tyler, Southey's, 522. 809. 

Watch-dog, 612. 

Waterloo, battle of, 40. 45. 538 541 
699. 707. 728. 

Watson, Bishop, his reply to the mode- 
rator in the schools of Cambridge, 

Watts, Alaric A., esq., 589. 
Way, William, esq., 440. 
Weber, (German hack writer,) 499 
' Weep, daughter of a royal line,' 562. 
' Well, thou art happy and I feel,' 549. 
Wellesley, Marquis, 467. 
Wellesley, Sir Arthur, 17 See Wel- 
lington. 
Wellesley, Hon. William Long Pole, 

728. ' 

Wellington, Duke of, 18. 40 467 699 

705. 707. 728. 731. 
Wengen Alps, 40. 
' Were my bosom as false as thou 

deem'st it to be,' 477. 
' Werner ; or. The Inheritance , a 

Tragedy,' 351. 
Werther, Goethe's, 207. 
Wesley, Rev. John, 687. 
West, Mr., American artist, his con- 
versations with Lord Byron, 595. 
West, Benjamin, esq., ' Europe's worst 

dauber,' 465. 
Westminster Abbey, 723. 
' What matter the pangs of a husband 

and father,' 5S3. 
' When a man hath no f'-eedom to fight 

for at home,' 583. 
' When all around grew drear and 

dark,' 460. 
' Wlien coldness wraps this suffering 

clay,' 470.. 
' When from the heart where sorrow 

sits,' 507. 
' When I roved a young Highlander,' 

426. 
' When man, expell'd from Edei's 

bowers,' 550. 
' When some proud son of man returns 

to earth 1' 549. 
' When Time, or soon or late, shall 

bring,' 560. 
' When to their airy hall,' 386. 
' When Tliurlow this daran'd nonsense 

sent,' 500. 
' When we two parted,' 548. 
Whigs, 728. 
Whisl, 648. 

' Whist ecraft,' 153, 154. 492. 810. 
Whitbread, Sarnuel, esq., 728. ' Tne 

Demosthenes of bad taste,' 541. 
White, Henry Kirke, 443. 
White, Lydia, 521. 
White, Rev. Blanco, 23. 
' Who killed John Keats V 584. 
' Why, how now, saucy Tom ?' 584. 
Widden, 564. 
Wilberforce, William. 662. 'The 

Washington of Africa,' 751. 
Wilkes, John, esq., 530. 
Wdliam the Conqueror, 717. 
Williams, H. W., esa., his ' Travels in 

Greece,' 21. 59. 465. 555. 
Willis, Dr., anecdote of, 454. 
Will o' the wisp, 691. 
Wilson, Professor, 206. 812 Critical 

notes by, passim. 
' Windsor Poetics,' 568. 
Wine, 635. 652. 

Wingfield, Hon. John, 25. 117. 
Wisdom, 43. 683. 
Witch of Endor, 193. 475. 
' Without a stone to mark the 3]'ot,' 

559. 
Wives, 041. 
Wolfe, General, 600. 
WoUstoncraft, Mary, 808. 
Woman, 29. 638. 052. 674. 712. 
Woman's love, 638. 652. 674. 
Women, their unnatural situation, 638 
English, described, 735. Thei" ove 
of match-maiiing, 755. 



INDEX. 



829 



Wooden spoons, 650. 

Words, 648. 

Wordsworth, William, esq., 520. 661. 
His ' Excursion,' 177 281. 598. 648. 
His early poems, 435. His ' Lyrical 
Ballads,' 608. His 'Yarrow Unvis- 
ited,' 598. His ' Peter Bell,' 451. 618. 
649.810. His 'Wagoners,' 649. His 
sneer at Dryden, 649. His ' Lao- 
mia,' 653. His description of car- 
nage, 695. 

World, the fashionable, 727. 746. Its 
vicissitudes, 655. Relics of a former, 
710. » A glorious blunder,' 722. ' The 
great,' described, 725. 727. 746. 

Wrigkt, Ichabod, esq., his translation 
of Dante, 628. 



Wright, Walter Rodwell, esq., 

' Horse lonicae,' 444. 
Wrinkles, 716. 
Writer, life of a, 805. 
Writing, 810. 

X. 

Xantippe, 509. 

Xeres, 541. 

Xerxes, 510. 611. 636. 647. 



Yanina, 32. 

' Yarrow unvisited,' 598. 



his 



Young, Dr. E., 727. 
Youth, 227. 620. 651. 



Zanga, 396. 419. 
Zappi, Giov. Battista, 512. 
Zara, 195. 206. 223. 
Zegri, 539. 
Zeluco, 12. 
Zinghis Khan, 706. 
Ziska, John, 359. 537. 
Zitza, 31. 
Zoroaster, 739. 



; 



O- y. O. ^^r., '85. 



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